– So I have obsessive compulsive disorder, which means, sometimes,
I get stuck on things. I get stuck on things like
thoughts, moments, memories, shit that would never happen. Some mornings I struggle to get out of bed for my fear of triggering the
next breaking news headline. And my head, it turns
haunted movie theater daily and the film’s plot line
never fails to explain why the destruction was my fault. But ever since I met her, whenever I get stuck on
that fast moving slide show, it slows down when she runs
her hands through her hair. Slows down on the times where
she was slipping her hand into mine, and these moments are always accompanied to
the soundtrack of her laugh. And her laugh always sounded
like she was singing. And it always ends with her leaving. When I was with her, the promising hope of getting a new memory that I could watch slowly play back was always reason enough for me to want to want to get out of bed. My therapist, she said once, my head was wired to focus on whatever the most dangerous thing is. Falling in someone too good for me may as well be a cocked
gun closed between my teeth and the distance of the difference between falling into happily ever after or falling apart to be measured by the same dead space between
my finger and a trigger. We were always so close. I’m bombarded with endless reminders that maybe if I hadn’t
incorrectly got into my car that one time or, you know, actually maybe if I just
started rewashing my hands after I mess up that one ritual. Or, no, maybe if I just wiped my hand off against my thigh after
I touched that door, then maybe she wouldn’t
have walked out of it and maybe, if I had just been
late to work that morning so that I could make sure that my shoe had been tied correctly, then, then I wouldn’t have come
home to a house full of empty. I know that it’s stupid. I know that it doesn’t make any sense, but these compulsions,
they are what my head has decided means safety. My illness has decided
that these small actions are what protect me and everything that I love. They are my means of survival, so tell me what the fuck is
survival supposed to look like? How many times am I
supposed to tap my thumb against the table before
she’d love me again? What volume am I supposed
to leave the radio on so that I can hear her voice
reverberate inside of the car instead of that deafening
loudness of lonely. And how long am I supposed to sit with her name in the bottom of my throat before she stops spilling
from behind my eyes. OCD is the cruelest form of heartbreak. I’m always fighting the idea that some stupid compulsion
would have saved us. You know, I coulda done more. I am shown the photographic evidence of where and why I was not good enough and it always ends with her leaving. You know, maybe it’s always
gonna leave with her leaving, but for the first time, because of her, there’s finally something
beautiful to be seen inside this illness. Her sunlight is pouring
into this dark auditorium and I’m not so afraid of my thoughts now. I always have to live inside this place, but she gave me hope that it doesn’t always have to be so dark. Thank you. (cheering)


Debo 52 · September 30, 2019 at 3:53 pm


dra · September 30, 2019 at 6:09 pm


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