Camera One.. Closes In…

The soundtrack starts… The scene begins.

There are days when I get up, go through the motions, and forget about anything outside of my little island.  I take my medicine and begin to do my thing and ignore the world.  I do things for other people that I’ve promised to do, and I do the tasks that are required of me.  Beyond that, I sometimes wonder why I attend the real world.  I miss being a shut in.

The sandy haired son of Hollywood lost his faith in all that’s good. Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock.  Hung his clothes on the shower rod.  But he never got undressed, and no he never made a mess.

I miss shoving my nose so deep in a book that I forget what reality is.  If reality is relative, what does that say about my immersion in literary fantasy worlds?  Does that mean that they can be my real world?  What about the stories I tell myself to sleep.  Oh, you didn’t know about that?  I don’t sleep much. That’s not new information.  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned my silly technique to actually be able to get to sleep.  I tell myself stories.  Honest.  I think up and tell myself bedtime stories at night to fall asleep.  My bedtime stories are insanely impossible, and yet my brain clings to them as though they are real.

On the corner, by his street, he sits in his lawn chair in the heat.  Sightseers see what they want, they’re selling star maps to the sun.

The more stress I’m under, the more tired I become.  The more I have to deal with stupid shit, the more tired I become.  I guess it’s a damned and damneder situation.  I know that If I’m more tired, I’ll actually, eventually, get to sleep.  Hard.  But if I’m stressed that much, it makes me irritable and dangerous.  Don’t worry chicken nuggets.  I’m not dangerous to others.  I’m not even really dangerous to myself.  I’m just dangerous in that I make very poor decisions.

It’s funny how life turns out.  

My poor decisions rarely affect anyone other than me.  I suppose that’s good enough.


Cause You Know We’re Not the Same.

It’s a circle. A mean cycle.

I’ve had so much on my mind for the past few weeks that I’ve been going through the steps of pattern and routine like it’s gospel.  Okay, let’s be honest here.  I always go through my routine.  Wake up.  Shower: Wash hair, scrub armpits, wash hair, brush teeth, wash hair, wash face.  Dry off, get dressed.  Get coffee. Sit at the computer and do my thing.

Where’s your gavel? Your jury? What’s my offense this time?

My brain doesn’t stop the entire time.  Why am I thinking these things, why did I do these things?  Who am I going to piss off today? Who am I going to hurt today? What am I going to fuck up today? What are the chances that I’ll give up today?  Hm. Give up.  That sounds good today.  Maybe I should–no, not today.  But maybe today–no, I just told you brain, not today.  Well, fine, not today. Maybe I should just play video games, oh wait, I have work to do, but I don’t want to work. Damn, I need to work. I’m behind in work. Well. Fuck.

And this is the best thing that could have happened. Any longer and I wouldn’t have made it.  It’s not a war, no. It’s not a rapture.

The things I’ve been thinking involve decisions that have me waking up in a cold sweat at night, panicking and near tears.  I’ve had a few nights that I’ve slept through, but mostly I wake up in the middle of the night crying.  There are so many different outcomes and chances for failure that I don’t know that I can do it.  But there are so many chances for success that I want to.  I guess the question comes down to happiness. Is it worth the potential change to my routine and probable breakdown and destruction of my world for happiness?  It’s not that I’m completely miserable, I’m not.  Things in my head are not horrible.  They’re just too… wonky for words.  I can’t control everything in there. I’ve had a lot of texture days lately.  I can’t stand the rough texture of my shirts, my pants, even my underwear and bras.  Everything is wrong. Even the music isn’t helping, and I’ve had it blaring in my ears as loud as I can take.

I’m just a person, but you can’t take it.

Well, you treat me just like another stranger.  Well, it’s nice to meet you, sir, I guess I’ll go.

So many people over the last few months only seem to accept part of who I am.  They ignore the rest of me. They only view part of me as my whole.  Holding me on a pedestal, imagining me as a wonderful person is never healthy. It never ends well.  Once people find out who I am and how broken I truly am, it never ends well.  I guess it makes me feel so much more alone when people don’t see all of me, than when they don’t see me at all.  I need people to accept the good AND the bad.  Not the “Oh I see you’re broken, and that’s fine,”  line.  It’s not true.  That line is never true.  I AM broken, and it’s not an easy thing to see. I can’t fix my broken.  No one can. Stop trying, folks.

Don’t wanna hear your sad songs.  I don’t wanna feel your pain. When you swear it’s all my fault.

I know I’ve said it before, but I want to say it again.  It’s been worrying me recently.  I can’t control the directions my brain goes.  It takes seemingly innocent things and warps them into end-of-the-world situations, and I shut down.  I can’t take it.  I can’t function, I can’t listen to reason, I can’t turn it off.  I feel like I’m being sucked into a black hole while covered in spiders and under water. I’m afraid of the dark and terrified of both spiders and water.  The best I can do is close my eyes and beg for it to stop.  And yet. It never does. Does this excuse what my brain does? The terror? Not really.  It makes me hate myself even more.  What happens when I do this? I need left alone with time to process. I just need to shut down and figure out what really happened versus what my brain tells me.  Sometimes it’s right. Sometimes it’s not.  But it NEEDS to happen.  If I don’t have the ability to do that, I go into panic mode and can’t control myself. I might as well stop taking my meds.  Hell, sometimes I do.  Okay, normally I do.  The more I freak out the less likely I am to take my meds.

If I’m a bad person, you don’t like me.  Well I guess I’ll make my own way.

Yesterday, someone decided to play with me.  He started poking my OCD.  I told him to stop. I BEGGED him to stop.  Other people told him to stop, and he wouldn’t.  I started to itch. I started to scratch. I couldn’t stop. I scratched until I bled.  My brain told me I needed to scrub myself in bleach to make the itching stop.  Bleach. BLEACH. I stopped myself before scrubbing down.  But when I went to wash off the blood, I pulled the bleach out, the feeling was still there.  Hell, today it’s still there. It’s swollen and gross.  It hurts to move my arm, because of where it is.  I wrapped it up, and that’s driving me bonkers.  I want to scratch it. I want to touch it. I want to rub it. I want to wash it.  I need to.  But I wrapped it.  So I can’t.  I need to. But I can’t.  I wrapped it specifically so I can’t.

You’re not a judge, but if you’re gonna judge me.

Fuck me.  I’m just so… broken.

She says she’s ashamed…

All that shimmers in this world is sure to fade… away… again…

One of the downsides of being OCD is that I count everything.  I read the labels on the shampoo bottle while I shower. If I don’t, I know exactly how many times I scrub my hair.  Scritch, scritch, scritch, 1, 2, 3… Odd numbers, uneven doses.  I can’t stand things to be even. No symmetry. It makes things quite difficult. Sometimes I have to take one GIANT step into a door to make sure I have that odd number, or skip a step to make the count right.  The funniest is when I double step the top stair.  I always get looks.

We’ll forget the past.. Maybe I’m not able…

I count my heartbeats, my breaths, I count the number of keystrokes. I listen to music to distract myself. The heavier the bass, the deeper the relaxation and distraction. I count my words.  It makes me lose concentration of what I’m saying.  I love songs where the singer holds words and puts extra syllables in them to make it odd instead of even.

All that she intends, and all she keeps inside… Isn’t on the label…

I’m not the stereotypical “TV-OCD” person. I am not obsessive about cleanliness. Kind of.  I have to shower every day. EVERY. DAY.  I have to wash my hair every single day. Also, every time I shower.  Which, for the record, is sometimes more than once a day.  If I don’t, I feel like I have bugs crawling under my skin. Ants crawling under my skin.  I itch, my skin burns, it just gets worse and worse. I start to scratch, and I’ll make my skin bleed before I realize what I’m doing.  That said, when it comes to my desk, or my room, or my car, I can’t stand it being organized or clean.  It makes my brain work overtime. It makes things too… uncontrollable, believe it or not.  Everything has a place, but it shouldn’t be there.  A cluttered room helps keep my brain focused on the clutter and not inward.

She says that love is for fools who fall behind…

When I can’t focus on things that aren’t inward my brain goes to dark places. I think of things I’ve done wrong. I play them over and over and over and over and over and over and over. I keep seeing different angles. I see things I could have said or done differently. I see how I wish they could have gone. I see myself how I think others see me. I see things the way I see me.  None of them are pretty.  But then, neither am I.

I never really know a killer from a savior… ‘Til I break at the bend…

Atlas. Atlas carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. So why do I feel like Atlas doesn’t hold a candle to my brain?  Obviously, I have nothing on his strength. Not the brightest crayon in the box, he was, but stronger than the sky. He took the burden and never dropped his responsibility and here we are. Gives some new meaning to moving heaven and earth. Well, technically, old meaning.