I can acknowledge that I am not my thoughts. I am not my obsessions. I am not my compulsions. I am NOT my OCD.
I’m *so* OCD.
No, really, I am. Not like that Target sweater. Not like Monica from Friends. I mean, have you seen my room? It’s a war zone. I hardly have the mental fortitude to organize items by type, let alone by color and alphabetical order. Not like Billy or Suzie who claim they’re *so OCD* about X, Y, or Z when what they really mean—and lack the eloquence to articulate–is they’re human. Because as humans, well, we have quirks.
OCD has been my beast of burden, my shameful monster, since childhood. Back then, I had absolutely no language to pinpoint what these weird obsessions or compulsions were that dictated the real estate of my brain. Swallowing a certain number of times. Knocking on my head as a substitute for wood when I felt superstitious about something; that act would in and of itself become a new compulsion. Checking my heartbeat to make sure I hadn’t been scared to death (after reading a ghost story aptly called, “Scared to Death.”) Playing the same piano chord after every piece I practiced. Just to feel right. Looking behind me at my, um, rear end, to make sure I hadn’t sat on any mud lest classmates think I’d pooped my pants. LAUGH all you want! Ha. I do in retrospect, too! But these were real, very real, compulsions and obsessions that I couldn’t break away from. And, twenty + years later, I still get locked in my brain.