OCD

Yesterday, I was walking home, hands full of groceries
And as I walked across the street a car didn’t notice me

I had the right of way, and it was pure light of day
But something surely took the driver’s eyes away

Because she stepped on the gas right as I passed
And thought it wasn’t too fast, my body tumbled and crashed

I can’t say that my life flashed before my eyes
I was hardly injured, frankly I was just surprised

After the collision, my day carried on as planned
But as the memory stirred, I came to understand

The cliche of near-death making one rethink life
And live with purpose before the Reaper sinks a knife

So in the interest of no longer delaying what matters
I want to share a fragile truth before it shatters

I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, OCD
With an accompanying case of anxiety

The official diagnosis came just last year
But the symptoms have always been here

I’ve made allusions in my art, spoken in cryptic tongue
About the voice that’s been in me since I was young

This strange condition comes in countless forms
So each case is unique, there’s no standard or norm

I can only speak to emotions I myself have felt
And the brutal blows my own OCD has dealt

Let’s address how it latches onto each word I say
Deconstructing conversations, taking joy away

There’s unbelievable pressure on my interactions
I’m so anxious, I often retain just a fraction

Of the valuable ideas that were truly exchanged
Because my brain would rather me needlessly hang

On what I said in jest that may have come across wrong
Or times I may have held the floor for too long

So if you’ve ever spoken to me for even a minute
And you think I forgot what I said, I didn’t

I can’t shake conversations from years ago
In which I was too loud, quiet, high, or low 

I’ve spent years obsessed with how I come across
And stressed when my desired voice is lost

But OCD extends beyond interactions
This condition is notorious for its distractions

And by that I mean, if blessed with a beautiful scene
Something so pure and clean, and sweet as a dream

My OCD’s favorite pastime is saying that’s not fine
And instead filling my mind with thoughts that are not mine

So when there’s beauty for me to absorb, and I ought to
My OCD finds some way for me not to

At its core, when there’s good, it locates the bad
When there’s glee, it tells me be hopelessly sad

When the energy is high, I’m needlessly mad
When I’m calm, it asks what angst can it add

These tendencies are annoying and often discrediting
To the brain of a writer, used to the power of editing

Forced to come to grips with what I cannot change
My life story is not one that can be rearranged

I cannot edit out my mistakes or my errors
I cannot trim down depression or terror

And for years I felt a pain, a gnawing feeling
Of a deep mental wound far from healing

I had to accept that my flaws and disgraces
My least favorite memories, people, and places

Are part of my foundation, they are part of me
So now what power do you have, OCD?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.