On an ocd fueled day there is no escape as of yet. I am sitting here behind bars in the ocd jail and my only escape is the trusty file that was baked into a cake and despite the ocd having the habits to check check and re check it failed to spot my chance of escape. Now I am sitting here with the means to escape from this mental torture. I need to start using that file to saw my way out through the bars at the moment that the ocd isn't keeping a close watch on me. Maybe I should have been sent a spoon to tunnel my way out of here, also I need ambition, support and hope to get far enough so maybe someone can bake those 3 things into a cake and send it to my cell along with that spoon? Also, can you make that cake dairy free. You see, I have an intolerance to dairy like I have an intolerance to my ocd. I can't enjoy either so I don't want them. They make me unwell and that is no way to live.
I had cleaned my cell today not like every other daily cleaning spree. I am fighting to not clean everything.
It was a hard task to hoover and not dust and cleaning the bathrooms but not giving the toilets a heavy dose of bleach, well actually I didn't bleach the toilets at all. It bothers me to an extent that I am ready to rush into the cupboard and get the bottle of bleach and clean both of those toilets all over again along with every millimetre of both bathrooms whilst apologizing for my actions. I refuse, I am refusing the best that I can and I don't know where to place these thoughts. Supposedly I can't ignore them and if I am left sitting here listening to them surely I will strangle them, mentally, of course. Although the thoughts are real and they exist the thing that is 'going to happen' Isn't really. I mean, it would be beyond dreadful if it did happen but it isn't going to. I hope.
Despite not having any treatment until I get a new therapist I am not going to just let everyday be an ocd day. If I allow everything that I worked towards achieving to slip underneath the floor boards then I am going to be defeated. I will need to be picked back up for the hundredth time, dusted off and my tears wiped away and inevitably I will have another panic attack. I just don't want to do any of it. Not that I wanted to do any of it before but I suppose that 18 years of mental torture is more than enough and I have found that there is no happiness or indulgence into these compulsions, the rituals and the few seconds of relief after performing endless cleaning and tasks that mean nothing at the end of another wasted day.