OCD I hate you

OCD I hate you. I do today. I’m tired of it. Tired of thinking about every little detail of everything I do in order to keep myself safe.

My OCD is going downhill these last few weeks, months really, I guess I get the odd days reprieve, when I feel strong and yeah, I can take my OCD on and beat it, but for the rest of the time, I’m running up hill, through muddy water.

I went to the supermarket today, nothing odd about that of course. They have mince pies for sale, my favourite thing. Its like someone bringing me Christmas early. I stared at them and stared at them and a million things went thought my head because they didn’t feel ‘right’ to buy. Not right as in its too early, but right for me, the one with OCD, where everything is controlled by what feels right and what doesn’t. So I left them. Went off into the supermarket to get what I wanted, but those damn mince pies played on my mind because I really wanted them. They really, really are one of my favourite things. I could taste them. I could imagine them. And god the thought just made me want to eat one in that moment, but then I thought, I can do this.

So I walked back to the front of the supermarket where they are and thought, it’s just my OCD talking. There’s no real danger. It’s just this thing I have. I can get them and I can eat them and I will be fine.

I Look at them, pick them up, imagine eating them and then it starts again, that stupid voice that’s plagued me all week long. What if it’s this packet. What if it’s this box. What if they make you sick. You don’t know who’s touched them, you didn’t see them get made. What if you’re sick at university tomorrow and you can’t get away?

I put the mince pies down and walked away. I wish this illness would go away. I wish I could just be like other people and buy something and eat it and not think what if.

It’s been a week like this. In a way I guess its good I can go a while without eating and it doesn’t bother me so much, because while I am at university at the moment, I can’t eat. I find my old fears coming up. Fears of a child, what if I get sick? What if I am sick in the wrong place?

I know my mother isn’t here and no one is going to beat me for getting ill on the rare chance it did happen, but still, when I go to take food, I am, just too afraid.

A Waste of Time

I’m sorry for the swearing and any typos in this. I don’t have it in me right now to go over it and correct them.

A waste of time.

That’s what I am. that’s what I feel. I had an friend just recently tell me that our friendship for almost for the last few years had been a waste of time. A waste of her time. For years she used to tell me i was worth something and that i meant something to her. She encouraged me and helped me, but in the end, it was a waste she said. I guess it’s true. I look back at our friendship, then i look back at my parents too and everyone that has followed them. I was a waste of their time too. I seem to be a waste of everyone’s time. They knew, right from the start. They saw it. They knew I wasn’t worth loving. They knew all along, they were right. I should have listened to them. Parents are always right.

I keep asking myself why i am still here. I don’t want to be and it is clear throughout my life, that aside from my children, it would probably be better if I wasn’t. People try to be my friend, but i hide away. I don’t want them to see the badness that is there. Its always been there. People who read my books just don’t want to see it, they see an innocent child. But its a lie. He’s a lie. I’d hand him over to all those people again myself if i could go back in time. He deserved it. He deserved everything.

I hear his cries in my head and i want to scream at him to shut the fuck up. This is what he deserves. It all is. Because, as people say or prove. He is just a waste of time and so am I.

Originally i was going to blog about something that felt like a victory to me this weekend. I had bought fresh chicken, touched it and cooked it. Having OCD, that was a huge challenge for me. But today I think why. What kind of idiot cant even buy a chicken without standing for 10 minutes in the supermarket and trying to hide the upset and turmoil inside about which one feels right. Which is the one that wont cause something bad to happen. And i look at myself and wonder why people don’t see how pathetic i am. I see it.

This morning at 4am, i woke up from a bad dream and the first thing i see is the bad man from my childhood, stood opposite me, on the other side of the room. Of course he wasn’t there, i was just having a flashback. I closed my eyes, unable to move, told myself i was safe. That he isn’t there anymore. He isn’t real. Isn’t that stupid? I’m a grown up. An adult, and still i get afraid of the monsters in the dark. Why cant I just be normal? Instead of this god damn stupid freak that i am, who is a waste of time. To everyone.

I gave in and self-harmed this morning. Isn’t that as pathetic as everything else? It didn’t even help. I can’t do it properly, like I need to. I wish I could cut through my own skin. I wish i could cut so damn deep that i wouldn’t be able to feel anything else. I wish i could do it until i was totally gone and then i wouldn’t need to waste any time for anyone else.

I wish i could go away. I wish that child had of died.

 

Smile and Pretend to be Normal

Sometimes I feel like I’m always fighting something, like there’s no peace in my head. I’m sure often I give people the idea that maybe I am never happy, which I am of course, just like anyone else. I can find joy in the little things like walking my granddaughter along the stream not far from us, through all the trees and things she has yet to discover and name. It’s so wonderful to watch her sometimes with the innocence she has of a two year old.

 She points to the water and looks up at me with that face, she smiles and says “wet” and I nod and say yes it is wet. Then she points to her feet and says “shoes” and I know she wants to go paddling, so I take her hand and we do. These are the little things I can find my peace in.

 Inside though, it’s different. My mind is panicking about everything. When did I last eat? Is it going to come back out, every mouthful I take has the potential to make me sick, and as I’m eating I remember, what if this time? So I put my food down, throw it away and try to decide if the rumble in my stomach is hunger or illness. The more I think about it the worse I feel. What if I get sick?

 I’ve washed my hands so much thy feel sore and dry, the skin on them feels tight. I stand trying to think, are they clean enough? Did I touch something bad? Did I wash them properly? As I stand I don’t even notice I’m clawing at my scalp or my arms and I don’t realise that I’m bleeding, scratch marks run down my arms, my scalp feels like it burns from where I’ve grazed the top of the skin off in my absent minded scratching frenzy. funny-quote-pretend-to-be-normal

 I try to hide the noises I make in my throat, feeling each sound and when I can’t I do it again, making me sound like I’m clicking. Numbers fight with symmetry and I’m breathing through my nose just to feel the scratch.

 1 – time, it’s not enough.

2 – it’s a division of four

3 – Yes I like three, that’s my number, but it’s not even.

4 – I can’t even think about resting there. Four is bad. Four is terrible. Something bad will happen if I leave it at four. Four makes him come. Bu he can’t and I’m big. He’s gone.

5 – No, not right, like three it’s not even.

6 – Six is good. No link to four, divided by three and it’s even. But Six is divided by three  to get two, two is part of four.

Stop it!!! I try to tell myself.

 Stop it.

Stop it.

Breathe.

 I look down at the water and try to focus on my granddaughter, but I see my reflection. My reflection. No it isn’t, it’s someone vaguely familiar, not my face, just something the same. I see the badness there. There reasons for the bad things.

 No wonder people do bad things to you, I say in my head. You’re pathetic and stupid. How can anyone care? Look at you, look how stupid you are.

 I wish you would die. I wish I could kill you. I wish I could die. Just to make the madness go away. I hate how I feel.

 I look away, back at my granddaughter. She smiles at me and stamps her feet making splashes. She reminds me why I can’t end it.

 I smile at her. Smile and pretend that I’m normal.

Living with someone.

Living with someone.

When is the right time? Is there a right time? It’s a hard decision to make whoever you are, but what about when you suffer from various forms of mental illness?moving

I try to hide my struggles as best I can from my partner, of course that is hard at the best of times. It’s different though when living with someone. Not only do I have to try all the time to keep my issues hidden, not because my partner is cold or judgmental, quite the opposite actually, but more for my own shame. I know I am ill, but I don’t like to show it to the people in my everdays. I don’t want them to see that I am struggling. So I have tactics to hide things. Ways that I have adapted myself to cope with my illness and hiding it.

When my I have to wash my hands more times than normal, I do it out of sight, when my partner has to go somewhere unexpectedly rather than crumble into a mess of abandonment I seek an extra hug, another kiss or just a touch and allow myself to know that this is okay. That my partner is coming back.

My partner of course doesn’t know of my books. I have not talked of my abuse. It is very hard for me to be able to share the events of my childhood with those that I have to look at. So I don’t, but for me this means that I have to watch my issues, because my partner does not know why they are there or where they came from.

At night I sleep with the light on, I have to admit that I do not like the dark. I have to have the door shut tight and things in certain places to ensure that I can feel safe enough or as safe as can be to go to sleep. Living with someone, it interferes with all of my coping devices. It pushes the boundaries I have set in place for myself so that I can feel okay. I have to adjust, not just my problems, but to the needs of my partner too.

However, it is the right decision and maybe after opening my home I will be able to open the door to the inside of myself too and let my partner fully in.

It’s like a new adventure in my life. 🙂

Why did you do that?

Why did you do that?

Have you ever been on a diet and tried to resist a bar of chocolate? Been in a shop and wanted to buy something, but know you can’t? Smoked that cigarette when trying to quit? Have you ever tried to resist something that your mind wants but you know you can’t?

It plays on you right? The want gets bigger and bigger and it becomes all you can think about until you give in. Of course there is a little guilt after, feelings of slight shame that you gave in?

Imagine that want or desire for something so much stronger inside. That is what it is like for someone that suffers OCD. It is no secret that I was diagnosed with it. Probably not really a surprise either. Right now I have a really bad spell of it, my hands look like I have ran them along a cheese grater a few times they are that sore and because as a child I developed the need to be able to feel and hear letters pronounced properly and the fact that I am slightly deaf is driving me crazy, because I have to try and block out the outside noise from that ear in order to receive the satisfaction from hearing letters and sounds.

It’ll pass I’m sure, right now I just have things to deal with that come out this way for me.

One thing I wanted to talk about in this post was family members, not mine necessarily, but in general. Family and friends. Why when they know someone suffers this terrible illness do they think it is funny to tease? Stupid things like moving something out of place on purpose, removing soap, putting dirty hand prints on something and various other ways that people like to tease. man-eyes-120227

I was at Uni not so long ago when someone made a passing comment about their house being so messy due to studying and perhaps they should advertise for someone with OCD to come and clean it for them, of course a lot of the class found this to be a funny comment.  Would they say something like that about a person with a physical illness? Would people mock a person in a wheelchair because they can’t run? Put something up high and laugh because the person can’t stand to get it? No, I don’t think they would. So why is it funny to mock the mentally ill?

Perhaps these people don’t realise with these laughs and jokes, and teasing’s they do don’t just make the sufferer feel ashamed to be ill, but they also make the illness worse in that moment.

***Contains Swearing***

Freak!

That’s the word. I say it to myself so many times. Over and over until the tears are rolling down my cheeks and I can’t stop them. I try, but I can’t breathe, my chest feels so tight as I force my tears not to become heaving sobs. I stare down at what I’m doing.

Why do I have to do this? I don’t understand.

Please stop.

Stop.

 I can’t do it anymore.  I can’t. I can’t breathe.

I don’t want anyone to look at me. I’m a freak. I know I am. I can’t help it. I say it loud to myself. “Freak, freak, freak. Fucking stop it. You stupid fucking freak. Stop it. Stop it right now.”

I can’t. I can’t make it go away. Nothing makes it go away.  I wish I could die. Maybe it would stop then. I wish I could be normal, but I’m not. I don’t want anyone to see me. I don’t want them to look. They will hate me. They will know I am a freak too.

“Stop it, step away.” I take a deep breath.

Another minute more is another minute my chest aches inside. I try not to cry, bite my lip, hold my breath, anything to keep it all away, but I cant. The pounding in my head, I open my mouth to let out a sob, quietly so that no one can hear me. I don’t want them to see this. I don’t want them to see me.

What would they think? What would they say?

Freak!

I take another deep breath, glance out of the window. The sun shines outside and for a moment I close my eyes and try to imagine the feel of the sun on my skin, the way the warmth seeps inside and makes everything right again. Just for a second I can pretend that I am normal and I am okay, but then the sting brings me back to reality and I remember. I am not like everyone else.

The niggling feeling inside beckons. I look at my hand, the blood that comes from them, like tiny bubbles from each and every cut, but still I pump the stuff into my hands, try not to wince as the antiseptic sting feels like a million needle bites. I rub It in, all around and try to fight the pain. Like someone is peeling the skin from my hands. I want them to stop, but I can’t, because it’s me.

If I just did everything right, took it slowly. I stand, not moving for a moment and then I rinse the solution from my hands, the warm water offers some comfort for a moment as it eases the pain a little, enough that I can think and gather my thoughts. So that I can calm myself down. “Just do it slowly, get it right this time. Don’t fuck it up.”

I start again, reach over, pump the stuff into my hand one more time. It hurts again, makes me lose my breath for a second because the pain is sharp, but it is good. Slowly, slowly. Do it right. I rub my hands, the tears still roll down my cheeks, it hurts so badly, but I have to do it right. It’s the only way out. The only way to stop this.

Happy now? I rinse the solution off again, slowly, watching that its right this time. I did it correctly.

“But what if?” that voice again, I hate it. What if I did it wrong? What if its still there? What if they are not clean enough?

I sigh. Begin again. Do it right this time.

Freak.

If you saw this would you laugh at me then? Would you think it funny to make jokes? I wish people could see these moments, so in the times they chose to laugh, they see this is what they are laughing at.

Strangers with Familiar Faces

Sometimes I think of things to write about on here and then I don’t, I think I don’t want to sound as though I am depressed or only write dark kind of posts. I am not after pity, mostly support, and sharing my journey. I think sometimes I lose track of that. I post here to help me, but also to help those that might come across my words with the same issues. I know, realising  I am not alone and that one person understands means more to me than any form of sympathy.

So I think I lost sight of what I started this for and so have not posted many thoughts.

A few weeks ago, when the weather was great I had a barbeque at my house, it didn’t actually start that way, but it’s what it turned into. In many ways I am glad, what started to be something for one of my children became a day where lots of things happened for me.BBQ

For starters, I ate barbequed food. That’s huge for me. I love food cooked on a barbeque, but my OCD had stolen that from me and really it had been a good ten years since I have dared to enjoy food like that. I ate crisps with my hands (potato chips to my American readers).

I had people in my house and I didn’t watch what they touched, didn’t freak out internally every time someone wanted to use my bathroom. I didn’t freak out later that many people had used it and now I had to clean it.

I didn’t panic at my children eating food with their fingers. I didn’t panic when the children and friends took their empty plates and things into the kitchen or when someone other than me opened bread rolls or salad.

Maybe these are little things, but to me, these are things that would have sent me on some odd kind of anxiety day until I couldn’t breathe.

Perhaps though, the most important realisation was my father. I hadn’t seen him for the best part of a year, my choice really. He came with my brother and they sat away from everyone else. I talked to them and I was pleasant enough, but really, I didn’t fit there anymore. I didn’t want to. I realised that I didn’t belong with them. They were just strangers with familiar faces.

When he asked me how I was doing with my schooling I wasn’t afraid to tell him, maybe it was because there were a lot of people around and I knew that he wouldn’t belittle me then or maybe it was just because I’m happy and I wasn’t letting him spoil it.

Afterwards when he left and I saw him out, we stood around the front of my house and for the first time I looked at him, really looked at him. I thought to myself, I know what you did to me. That kind of thing has never crossed my mind before, I don’t know where it came from, but maybe that in itself was another achievement for me that day.

I’d rather break my leg

Sometimes I wish that I was missing a limb rather than suffering with various mental illnesses. At least if I had no legs or no arms, or something that disabled my physically, people would see it and understand my difficulties, but mental illness is much worse. Even to myself when I try to snap myself out of it and understand that it is just my mind. It doesn’t matter though, no amount of pep talks seem to work.

Yesterday my OCD was at a high point, I am not even sure why, something usually triggers it. I think perhaps if anything it was the fear of something going wrong and the only way to cope was for my OCD to come out.

I’d been about to cook dinner as I do every day, but something felt wrong with it. Perhaps it was that I was making something that wasn’t planned, I don’t really know, but that feeling inside that tells me something is wrong with the food wouldn’t go away. I cooked it though, cooked it for longer than it needed. But as I tried to eat it, I found myself analysing every mouthful. In the end I decided I couldn’t eat it, that bad feeling was too much for me and there had to be something wrong with the food. I gave my excuses and said I wasn’t hungry today and then put it in the trash.

I dislike the days like this, when I can’t do something just because, even though I could do it yesterday.