Monday, November 06, 2006
An idiot recently told me that I was a moron - and, if I'm correct, insulted my religion. While I'm staying by the fact that the person was a moron, they did have a fair point: I don't post much insight into anything on here. So here you go.
I have OCD. Some of you don't know what that means. Some of you are probably thinking, "I wonder if that's contagious?" Some of you might know what it means, and some of you might have a fleeting thought of a show called, "Monk," but only others who have OCD - Obsessive Compulsive Disorder - can really know what it's like.
For those of you - and it's probably only a few - who have seen only the stereotypical version of OCD - yes, there is one - let me clear some things up.
First off, I'm not a germaphobe. I don't have numerous irrational phobias. I don't touch lampposts as I walk by them. Well, honestly, I have done that before, but it's not a major problem. I'd just like to point out one quick thing, here: No offense to germaphobes, or people with irrational phobias or anything is intended.
Anyway...
I don't have any of that.
I count things.
Some of you are going to reread that sentence.
Some of you are going to think, "That's it?"
Some of you are going to roll your eyes, label me as melodramatic, and go do something else.
Some of you are going to shrug and keep reading.
Some of you might do something totally different; I don't know; I'm not a psychic.
But let me tell you, that anyone who thinks I got off easy, you're not really getting the impact of what I said - er, typed. To understand, at least in part, you'd need to do this:
Look at the sky. Think, "Those clouds are so pretty."
Now count the syllables in the thought you just had.
What do they add up to? Six? Too bad. Edit the thought until the syllables come out to a multiple of seven. Multiple of eight? Nope. Eight is evil and sacreligous. (No offense, eight.) Keep editing. Tired of it? Too bad. That's how it is for me. My thoughts, my words, my sentences; they all have to come out a multiple of seven. If it's eight, I frantically recount, and then, 'edit,' whatever I just thought, or said, in my mind, so that it makes seven. Some of you are going to say, "Pff. Yeah, right." some of you are going to say, "Not my problem." Some of you might feel a small bit of sympathy. Please, don't. I don't want sympathy. I want someone else to understand. To know what it's like. Going through each day, counting how many steps you take to get from your bedroom to the kitchen, and then adding another step or two if it isn't a seven. Being about half-focused on what people are saying to you as you count on your hand or in your head. They say, "I really like that sweater," and you get, "123 4567."
I look at all the people around me who are, 'normal,' and I think, 'they don't know how lucky they are...' Then I grab my hand to stop from ticking away the syllables, and force myself to the next thought. All the people areound me; they have no idea. They're friendly to me, they show concern when I act strange, and the people who know why I do, they try to help me.
But most of them just don't get it.
I don't hold it against them; why would I? It's not their falut, and I'm grateful to those who try and help.
There's more to it than just the OCD, just the counting, but if I went into to detail with anyone - even my phsycologist; even a professional, paid-by-the-hour/minute psychiatrist - they'd think me to be a loon.
Sometimes I'm not so sure myself.
I'll type it anyway.
When I look at people around me, I get a mixed feeling of happiness and jealousy.
You see, I talk to things. Things that I know aren't there; people that I know don't exist. I write stories, and one of them, "New Dimensions," seems to have taken over my life.
I know the people I talk to aren't real. But I talk to them anyway. I make up both sides of the conversation; by now I'm so used to it that I don't notice it.
I didn't used to think I was crazy, but now I'm not sure. I know they aren't real. They're fictional. So why do I feel guilt as I type that; why do I feel as though that by doing so, I have betrayed a best friend?
Happiness... Because not everyone has friends that they can talk to, any minute of any day. Not everyone has imagination enough to have a conversation with someone who isn't there and still come out of it knowing something that they didn't before.
Jealousy... Because believe it or not, there's more. Other people don't feel the need to apoligize to the word, 'it,' every time they say, "dangit!"
I do.
Other people generally don't get into arguements with bathroom stalls, or bowling balls.
I have.
Stange, to say the least, even though - and maybe because - I was once again in complete control of the whole thing, of both sides of it.
Other people people throw stuffed animals at walls, or punch pillows to vent their anger; I can't. Because I don't want to hurt them.
I know that most of it isn't real; but sometimes it seems so hard to remember that...
When I compare this to my, 'normal,' OCD, it's like comparing the Empire State Building to a monster truck. Both things seem rather large when looked at separately, but when compared the former is much larger than the latter.
Once I've gotten a prescription for my OCD, I can start taking medicine for it; hopefully it will help. But the... I don't even know what to call it. The other thing - I don't know if it's a part of the OCD, or something else entirely. And either way, I have no clue if they make a medicne for it.
And if they do, I don't know that I would take it.
Because I don't know if I really want to be rid of it.
I like it, in some ways. I have someone to talk to when no one's around. (Seems simple, right? Not right. Because to me, they all have personalities; they're just like real people, and I can't just pour out my soul to them.)
A part of me wants desperately to be normal, but that's a very small part.
Most of me wants to keep this, even though I worry what it means for my mental health.
I've learned to just take these things in stride - mostly - and get on with life.
There.
There's an example of how I feel the majority of the time.
There's my freaking insight, whoever the idiot was that posted this:
no one reads your blog except spammers...plus your blog is boring and pointless it has no insight inot anything and your a moron...who worships some carpenter who lived 2000 years ago.....
I have OCD. Some of you don't know what that means. Some of you are probably thinking, "I wonder if that's contagious?" Some of you might know what it means, and some of you might have a fleeting thought of a show called, "Monk," but only others who have OCD - Obsessive Compulsive Disorder - can really know what it's like.
For those of you - and it's probably only a few - who have seen only the stereotypical version of OCD - yes, there is one - let me clear some things up.
First off, I'm not a germaphobe. I don't have numerous irrational phobias. I don't touch lampposts as I walk by them. Well, honestly, I have done that before, but it's not a major problem. I'd just like to point out one quick thing, here: No offense to germaphobes, or people with irrational phobias or anything is intended.
Anyway...
I don't have any of that.
I count things.
Some of you are going to reread that sentence.
Some of you are going to think, "That's it?"
Some of you are going to roll your eyes, label me as melodramatic, and go do something else.
Some of you are going to shrug and keep reading.
Some of you might do something totally different; I don't know; I'm not a psychic.
But let me tell you, that anyone who thinks I got off easy, you're not really getting the impact of what I said - er, typed. To understand, at least in part, you'd need to do this:
Look at the sky. Think, "Those clouds are so pretty."
Now count the syllables in the thought you just had.
What do they add up to? Six? Too bad. Edit the thought until the syllables come out to a multiple of seven. Multiple of eight? Nope. Eight is evil and sacreligous. (No offense, eight.) Keep editing. Tired of it? Too bad. That's how it is for me. My thoughts, my words, my sentences; they all have to come out a multiple of seven. If it's eight, I frantically recount, and then, 'edit,' whatever I just thought, or said, in my mind, so that it makes seven. Some of you are going to say, "Pff. Yeah, right." some of you are going to say, "Not my problem." Some of you might feel a small bit of sympathy. Please, don't. I don't want sympathy. I want someone else to understand. To know what it's like. Going through each day, counting how many steps you take to get from your bedroom to the kitchen, and then adding another step or two if it isn't a seven. Being about half-focused on what people are saying to you as you count on your hand or in your head. They say, "I really like that sweater," and you get, "123 4567."
I look at all the people around me who are, 'normal,' and I think, 'they don't know how lucky they are...' Then I grab my hand to stop from ticking away the syllables, and force myself to the next thought. All the people areound me; they have no idea. They're friendly to me, they show concern when I act strange, and the people who know why I do, they try to help me.
But most of them just don't get it.
I don't hold it against them; why would I? It's not their falut, and I'm grateful to those who try and help.
There's more to it than just the OCD, just the counting, but if I went into to detail with anyone - even my phsycologist; even a professional, paid-by-the-hour/minute psychiatrist - they'd think me to be a loon.
Sometimes I'm not so sure myself.
I'll type it anyway.
When I look at people around me, I get a mixed feeling of happiness and jealousy.
You see, I talk to things. Things that I know aren't there; people that I know don't exist. I write stories, and one of them, "New Dimensions," seems to have taken over my life.
I know the people I talk to aren't real. But I talk to them anyway. I make up both sides of the conversation; by now I'm so used to it that I don't notice it.
I didn't used to think I was crazy, but now I'm not sure. I know they aren't real. They're fictional. So why do I feel guilt as I type that; why do I feel as though that by doing so, I have betrayed a best friend?
Happiness... Because not everyone has friends that they can talk to, any minute of any day. Not everyone has imagination enough to have a conversation with someone who isn't there and still come out of it knowing something that they didn't before.
Jealousy... Because believe it or not, there's more. Other people don't feel the need to apoligize to the word, 'it,' every time they say, "dangit!"
I do.
Other people generally don't get into arguements with bathroom stalls, or bowling balls.
I have.
Stange, to say the least, even though - and maybe because - I was once again in complete control of the whole thing, of both sides of it.
Other people people throw stuffed animals at walls, or punch pillows to vent their anger; I can't. Because I don't want to hurt them.
I know that most of it isn't real; but sometimes it seems so hard to remember that...
When I compare this to my, 'normal,' OCD, it's like comparing the Empire State Building to a monster truck. Both things seem rather large when looked at separately, but when compared the former is much larger than the latter.
Once I've gotten a prescription for my OCD, I can start taking medicine for it; hopefully it will help. But the... I don't even know what to call it. The other thing - I don't know if it's a part of the OCD, or something else entirely. And either way, I have no clue if they make a medicne for it.
And if they do, I don't know that I would take it.
Because I don't know if I really want to be rid of it.
I like it, in some ways. I have someone to talk to when no one's around. (Seems simple, right? Not right. Because to me, they all have personalities; they're just like real people, and I can't just pour out my soul to them.)
A part of me wants desperately to be normal, but that's a very small part.
Most of me wants to keep this, even though I worry what it means for my mental health.
I've learned to just take these things in stride - mostly - and get on with life.
There.
There's an example of how I feel the majority of the time.
There's my freaking insight, whoever the idiot was that posted this:
no one reads your blog except spammers...plus your blog is boring and pointless it has no insight inot anything and your a moron...who worships some carpenter who lived 2000 years ago.....
