Even though I’d die several times over for Adrien Monk, I resent his character something fierce. Obsessiveness and observational genius don’t go together for me, and they never have. When I am preoccupied with a thought, which I most always am, I am distracted.
I struggled with OCD as a kid. I have never spoken about this because it did not—and still doesn’t—show up in me in the ways that people have come to expect. I did not have many physical compulsions–they were mental. I’ll try to explain.
If I was not reminded of my relative safety incredibly frequently, I lost track of it. It was just, gone. I would then need to find things–compulsions–that make the worry drop to a survivable level.
And I always did. Even at great detriment to myself.
These “things” evolved into adolescence and then adulthood in a way that looked like self preoccupation: weighing myself, and body-checking mostly. Observing myself in the mirror from various angles to assess the fat or lack thereof somehow made me feel safe. Safer at least. For a very brief time.
These were the only ways I could get away from a scary thought. In this case, the thought was that I’d gained weight. This thought meant that I was ruined. That I was unlovable. That all had been lost.
That I was wholly and assuredly not okay.
A crock of shit, I know. But for some reason this was the fear that made sense at the time. It filled the hole that was left by years of compulsive worry. It was a deep hole, see. And not a fun one.
For years and years I followed this pattern. Have the scary thought–feel afraid–body check—brief relief.
I was profoundly unhappy.
I am so afraid of the person who believed in this fear so deeply. I am terrified that these thoughts were real to her–that they were the controlling force in her life. This person genuinely frightens me.
It was me, though. It was me the whole time. Somehow somehow somehow.
Dear reader, you know those moments when our minds just kinda leave us?
Does it feel like paralysis to you too?
I don’t know when we won’t be afraid anymore, sweet reader. But I do think we’ll find something steady. And I do know that there’s another side somewhere. I see it, and I feel it. I think I do. My hope is that paralysis is somehow replaced by a Herculean act of decision making.
That I will keep going. That we all will.
And I am. I really am. I am eating and working and cooking and studying. I am spending time with my roommates (I am still not fully vaxxed) and I have a fucking incredible guy in my life and all of this is care.
The thought that I deserve none of this is terrifying. But the possibility that I will be okay–that I’ll be safe no matter what–is there too
That I’m okay, really. At the end of the day. Even if I was paralyzed by fear and got nothing done and my body feels messy or I have acne scars that other girls don’t have. That we are okay.
We’re safe.
Dear reader. Here’s your reminder. We’re just fine.
I love you.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 