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.



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