This message was not brought to you by the letter H and the number 10
Just like it isn't brought to you by my ocd.
I don't think that I like the idea of when I am in a bad mood it is because of the ocd and nothing else and I also don't think that I like my ocd being used as an excuse for something not so nice that I have said to someone. It is almost as if it is an excuse and the other person should apologize, not for their actions but for my illness. No! I don't want that but what I do want is some understanding. Never give me a birthday or Christmas present again and don't even worry about giving me another card for those occasions again in our lifetime but just give me the free gift of your understanding and that will give me a lifetime of relief, happiness and the ability to speak my mind without the fear of crazy being an excuse.
I still have my mind, it is intact .. If my head was like a pillow case I could unzip it and show you the stuffing and you would see that it is still held together by the glue that I bought from the dollar store all of those years ago.
I suppose that this subject is on my mind because of recent events, recent things that I have said to someone or well, wrote to them in an e-mail. I wasn't at a low point when I wrote it. Well, not any lower than I have been for the last 3 months and my ocd didn't tell me what to write. Like I said, I have a full functioning mind equipped with voices that like to boss me around and the only problem is the switch to turn those voices down a few notches and the mute button is busted and part of my brain needs to be rewired in order to fix the entire problem and at the moment it is just the cheap fix of blue tack to keep it from falling apart because I can't afford the repair. All that I am saying is that just because I feel emotion doesn't mean I am completely insane. Where is our human form when we lack the ability to not only feel but to also speak up on the injustice!
I am saddened that my mother apologized for my state of mind regrading the letter. It had nothing to do with the state of my mind other than the state of anger and frustration followed by so many years of hurt.
Yes. I have ocd and yes it is a burden. I am robbed everyday of my most personal thoughts and feelings. I am humiliated like the years that I spent in school and I am tortured to the point of my nails being ripped out would feel painless in comparison. Well, in my mind they would feel painless and yes I know that it would be very painful and now because of my worst enemy I believe that it will be something else that my abductors will do to me. Thanks ocd, thanks a lot.
When my thoughts aren't being twisted into sick screen plays I have the ability to feel normal for a few seconds some days. When I can say words without a counter word to keep the first word from causing unnecessary harm then I can carry on a conversation and it is enjoyable, like it should be. What I am trying to say because I can never seem to say what I want to say without writing a whole sitcom to say what I initially wanted to say in the first place is, I don't want my illness to be some reason to make it excusable for my own actions and words. I get annoyed and upset like any other person and if I can't tell someone how they made me feel then I wonder what actions out there away from my ocd are actually human?
I may exclude people from my life often but only because I would rather reject them first than face another rejection from someone that I care about. Family is a real sore spot because I have only a few that I can consider to be just that and maybe because of my paranoia I have few that I can trust. Or maybe it isn't because of my paranoia? Like I said, a sore spot. Wait, no.. not just a sore spot. The girl who died of paper cuts and who only felt her death when a bucket of rubbing alcohol was splashed over her body as she was slipping away into darkness. Have I turned into that girl? Every rejection is every cut and the splash of alcohol is what I feel with each loss. It really is a never ending death.
An apology to my dear friend Kelly for stealing her subject on the girl who died of paper cuts. I wish that she would rewrite that paper at some point because I never did get a chance to read it.