Why didn’t anyone help me when I was young. Why was it overlooked. They made fun of me, but no one ever took me to a doctor. Before the obsessions started there were only compulsions, didn’t mean anything, but touching things a few times before I could move on. Years later, the touching had meaning, colors had meaning, numbers had meaning, moving things became tramatic, but no one took me to the doctors. No one knew what it was, just that I was different, not even a thought. Had I been diagnosed at a young age, would my ocd have escalated as horible as it did, would the symptoms have never increased, would I have been aware of the suffering that was to come . . . . .
I had more fun than most, I make people laugh, I proceede with my day withough anyone knowing the rush of thought that are included in our conversation that are never spoken. I wait until no one is looking to move an object that someone bumped. I make a joke when someone sees me pick my fingers and wait until I continue in silence. I’ve laughed until I’ve cried, and I’ve travelled and loved. I’ve been blessed with family and find good in people . . . .
I’ve cried and pleaded when I would go home, I begged God to let me stop and go sleep, I didn’t want to get up and complete rituals, only to be driven from my bed to check whatever needed to be checked, to move whatever needed to be moved, and to destroy whatever I could not stopped obsessing over. The emptiness that showed on my face hid the anxiety that went on behind my eyes, I ran up and down the steps becuase the clock I needed to check was on the first floor, but I had to run a certain number of times . . . .
It’s amazing to watch someone do something that would have take you hours of repositioning to complete. Do they relize the riches they posses. I am very broken, but nothing that shows up on a blood test, nothing that shows up on an x-ray. So I will continue to be me, there is no other choice.