Walking in the Shoes of OCD

OCD is not a meme. It's 3 letters that should be seen, for the reality of what can feel like tragedy. "I'm so OCD." Self-proclamations knock me to my knees. An injustice to the torment, the terrorizing dread. You don’t recognize its breadth. "I'm so OCD." Said with such glee, thrown on like an accessory. While there's me, an uninterrupted factory, custom orders of fear and guilt, stitched together like a quilt. That's my accessory. Let’s make a trade. Maybe then you’ll be swayed, and realize the adjective needs to be slayed. Try it on for size, think of all that dies. Try on being a pawn, think of everything that could go wrong. Wrap my quilt around you, let it concoct its brew. Breathe in the suffocation, exhale the damnation. The castration of hope. A slippery slope. Am I out of your scope? “I’m so OCD.” Is it still your choice accessory?

A brief tutorial before the fictional short story that follows: Harm OCD takes various forms. An example is a person with OCD who feels it is their responsibility to protect people from items they think might cause others harm.  No, I'm not talking about seeing a used syringe and taking the appropriate safety precautions to dispose of it. I'm talking about something like a small rock. Seeing a small rock on the pavement could lead to catastrophic thinking for someone with this form of OCD. Their mind might race to thoughts like, "Is that rock sharp? What if it has jagged edges? What if someone kicks it and it hits them in the eye? What if they go blind? I have to move the rock. It will be my fault if I don't move the rock." OCD doesn't care about logic. It wants you to worry and take action to keep it satisfied.  Waves and the stereotypical surfer are home to Venice Beach. Before you hit the boardwalk, I promise you'll spot the blonde locks and accompa...

I was recently triggered by my hit-and-run OCD. No. That doesn't begin to describe it. OCD recently crushed my soul. It's incredibly isolating and depressing. I feel like a murderer who got away with a heinous crime. I have the urge to turn myself in but over what? A "feeling" of hitting someone, a "sense" that I ran someone over. Cop: where did it happen? It didn't. Cop: what did you do? I didn't do anything. Arrest me just in case? The feelings are so intense that they make me doubt myself. Maybe the feelings are right. Maybe they're on to something. Maybe something did happen. Maybe I don't remember. Then the urge to figure it out saunters in: Just think, Melanie. Just replay the situation over in your mind so you can know for sure that you're not a murderer. Then logic pipes in its two cents: Don't do it. It's a compulsion. You know it. Don't give in. So I surrender to feelings of indescribable heartache...

Her emotions riot as her words run scared, recoiling at the weight of her fear. Emotions, like thieves of her native tongue, dotting I's and crossing T's with gasoline. Emotions, her matchstick. Taunting, ready to strike. Emotions ignite the blaze that renders words useless, absent. Language burning in the flames. Emotions, her exhibition.

Today I decided to document my stream of consciousness for the morning (from 6:30am-8:30am), with a brief snippet from last night. Here's all the fun : Laying in bed before falling asleep: I'm not tired.  I'm never going to sleep again. My body has its own rhythm but gotta do the 9 to 5 thing. Why does my mind keep flashing to scary images? Why do I feel so out of it? Why does it feel like my mind is controlling me? Am I developing schizophrenia? Laying in bed before waking up: Gotta relax my tense legs. I should get up and exercise. I eat enough junk that exercise will balance it out. But I'm so tired. I'll only have enough energy to get through the work day and then I'll be exhausted all evening. *thinking back to last nights debate* I'm glad Rob Ford isn't the laughing stock of Canada anymore. It's good Canada is maintaining a perfect image. What is perfect? There's probably many awful things I don't know about. How am I going to have ...

She will nourish them, but do not nourish her. The trend of invalidation engulfs the masses. It's a blowout sale and all emotions must go. So she became an alchemist, Cultivating empathy to heal the epidemic. Offering sips of silence to honour experiences. Leaving problems unsolved. Letting feelings simmer. For them. Not when she needs a sip. Not when empathy's a blowout sale. Not when everything must go. The deal of the day is time limited support, Running low on validation, Albeit an inventory of good intentions. So she will nourish them, but do not nourish her.

Almost a year ago, when I texted my mom that my husband and I chose Mexico as our second Caribbean destination, she replied: where in Mexico? Me: Mayan Riviera. No response. I waited. And waited. I wasn't even dot watching. Then in came her reply: you're 1200 miles away from the drug lords. Wait. Was 1200 miles an acceptable barrier when it came to drug lords? I checked the Canadian Travel Advisory website which greeted me with a "high degree of caution" warning for the overall country. Our destination was less bold as it had not been "significantly affected by violence or insecurity." So, moderately affected? And then there was El Chapo. But he wasn't spring break bound. Or was he? Regardless, I was willing to take the risk. I wasn't travelling to the Middle East. Sure, Mexico might have felt scarier than our first love, Saint Lucia, but, unless the advisory changed to "avoid all non-essential travel," I was going. My yo...