My OCD hits me like a whisper in a crowded room, with each new habit speaking so quietly I have to keep asking “What?” until I realize it’s screaming and I’ve just gone deaf from all the noise.

My esteem is an overflowing trash bag that sticks in the can, and every time I try to lift it, the bag tears at the seams.

My heart is an empty wine bottle that I keep tipping into my glass, hoping there might be a drop left to soothe my racing pulse.

My stress comforts me like a razor, carving “I am alive” into my arm along with a happy face because I’m nothing if not positive.

My concentration wanders the horizon, collecting vague shapes, unsure if they’re rocks or gems but not needing much of either.

My motivation is an endless supply of potatoes and a thousand recipes, but I don’t have any other ingredients and I’ve lost my taste for french fries.

My anger is a roller coaster, but it’s not the ride itself. It’s the bent rails and rusted tracks, the loose screws and rickety support beams.

My happiness waits in traffic, hitting every red light on the way home, while my self-doubt tailgates so closely I’m constantly bracing myself for impact.

My hope is ice melting in a glass, waiting to cool a drink that never gets poured.

On the bright side, if I wait long enough, my glass will be half-full of water.


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