That’s the truth. I let OCD walk all over me. I’m kind of tired of hearing me whine about it myself.
I have just finished walking. After I drive, I go on walks. I don’t want to go on them, but it’s the compulsion to retrace part of the route I just drove because OCD is telling me I might have hit someone with my car and not realized it. So when I have exhausted the driving in circles bit of the ritual, I decide to walk it. That’s a lot of time, but I tell myself to turn it into something good. Exercise! Right?
Today I walked further than I have ever walked before. Along the main street, I walked until OCD was satisfied, but then I wondered if I had dropped something. No idea what that could have been. I know I did not drop anything. But OCD thinks it might have been my birth certificate or something ridiculous. I let OCD do it again, chisel away at my life again, hour by hour each day. And as I was walking home, I reflected on the sheer size that OCD has scooped out of my daily life. It’s huge. OCD is centerstage. And then I reflected on what I actually do about it. Nothing.
I have great OCD workbooks, unread and scattered about my room. I have a voicemail from the psychiatrist’s office, the second one they’ve left for my follow-up appointment to get started on my treatment plan. I guess it’s just time. I have to face the music. I have to give things up. I might have to give up straight A’s. I will have to give up money. I can’t keep worshiping at the altar of school and work. They don’t deserve my limitless devotion. Instead, I think I do. I think I deserve my time. I think my family deserves to have me be myself again. I think money spent on meds and therapy will be a great investment. I will do anything my boss or my professors demand, and my OCD, but I won’t do anything for me? Hmm…