Dear OCD

By Khushi Seth

Dear OCD,

I have so much I want to say to you yet somehow I am at a loss for words, which is interesting because I usually know exactly what to say. Even as I am writing this, I can feel your presence, 4 hyphens after every comma and period, backspace, and repeat. 

Are you listening? I think you are. Now that I am inherently cognizant of your presence, maybe it's made you a little weaker. But it makes it all the more paralyzing for me to know you're here and know that you're just telling me some random rules you made up, and despite being aware of that I am a slave to your command.

You're like that one friend I can't and will never get rid of. No matter how much you drain me, you're a part of my head now. The space you took up inside of me forced me to evict some part of me that will never come back because you'll always be here.

You tell me the meanest things sometimes, don't you? You force me to hurt myself in more ways than one. You tell me hugging people who love me is going to hurt me. You speak of "purity" in numbers.

Day in day out, from the moment I wake up and go to... sorry 

I accidentally typed a "g" instead of a "d" so I think I should type "a" and "r" and then backspace. 

All done.

Anyways, as I was saying, from the moment I wake up and go to the washroom, switch on the geyser first and wash my brush 47 times to the temperature of the AC- which by the way, can't ever be 21 or 24 or I am going to lose something inside, you just can't leave me alone can you? 

You love me this much. Your paranoia hurts. Words and sounds that make me scream (literally scream) because you tell me they will somehow pierce me in an unspeakable way. And you know what? I know you're lying. I know you're just a morphed up form of anxiety and I still can't stop you. I can't. I am so used to living with you now, sometimes I get tired and try to numb the pain. And you tell me to etch scars upon my arms; you win. 

And everyone is so frustrated with me because I can't stop you and I can't imagine how helpless they must feel too seeing me in this endless battle that will end only when I am no longer here. I am in no hurry though, not right now. I have much I want to do- or are those things also just obsessions you're convincing me I can't live without? I honestly can't tell anymore. I can't tell whether it's you speaking sometimes or me. 

Every word I write, I check, re-check, re-re check, because what if I wrote something seemingly dumb, the embarrassment.

How do you feel when people use you as a mere adjective? How do you feel when people think you're just something that keeps "nerds" organized? Do you like the fallacy? Does it make you laugh? 

Or do you feel underestimated and angry? If you do, besides my head, that is one thing we share in common. Because that hurts us both, doesn't it?

You make me see things I don't want to... I open a door and god help me those random pictures of things I probably haven't even seen in reality before, so take a step back, cross your fingers to negate the effect of those pictures and only then enter the room. It's only safe for me to enter if I do this.

Otherwise I will be stuck living like those lowlifes, right? Aren't I right? 

I'm a good student, you know, because I pay heed to everything you teach me. And you, in turn, protect me from this anxiety, don't you? 

I wonder where you learned those rules you preach. Even when I lie in bed alone, in the dead of night, I hear you and I feel you, and when I look in the mirror everyday, I see you.

Oh pardon me. It's 4am, I should probably sleep now and play that song on loop.

Goodbye, see you in the morning.

By Khushi Seth