when i was four years old, i was very obsessive about having my socks at the same length.
if they didnāt align to the t, iād throw fits. and for the first few months, my parents saw this as a cute little quirk - something that made their darling daughter a tiny bit more interesting.
but what whatĀ was interesting was how my mind would refuse to let me step a foot out of the door if i dared to mismatch my socks, or god forbid, have them anything but at the same length. doctors wouldāve jumped at getting the chance to examine me, and why i was so fucking obsessive. thatās interesting. thatās different.
when i was eight years old, i was teased for the way i ate. small, precise nibbles or else your family will die in a car crash in exactly ten minutes. oh, and you have to eat in twos or fours or tens otherwise youāll get food poisoning. but my quirk made me different, right? and how could any of these people eat the way they did? werenāt they concerned about their loved ones burning to death because they forgot to take a fourth bite?
when i was nine years old, i was shouted at for using all the hot water. but i had to. i had to scrub and scrub and scrub at my flesh until it burned bloody and raw, otherwise the water would transform into acid when the next person used it. i had to, otherwise the bugs would squirm under my skin and lay babies there. i could feel them brewing, and so i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed-
when i was ten years old, i was grounded for changing the volume on the tv remote to an even number. my hand was quickly slapped away, and i was reprimanded immediately. but why? why were they so ungrateful? i was just trying to save them. thirteen is a bad number, you know; unlucky. do you want to be unlucky? do you love my quirk now?
when i was twelve years old, i convinced myself i was a murderer. i convinced myself that my favourite celebrities had hurt me and i wasnāt allowed to like them anymore. i became so sick with guilt that i was either throwing up or hiding in my bedroom. how did my friends do their homework when their minds were focused unwillingly on knives? why was my āquirkā keeping me hostage in my own mind?
when i was still twelve years old, i ended up confessing everything to my mother through a flood of tears after an extreme panic attack. and she didnāt really understand, but our doctor insisted i had something called obsessive compulsive disorder. and finally i could breathe, i could loosen the chains on my wrist and stop worrying. my quirk wasnāt so interesting as it was daunting, after all. my prison door was still locked shut, but at least i had the courage now to attempt to open it.
when i was fourteen years old, i would constantly be reminded ofĀ embarrassingĀ situations. theyād play in my mind like a jukebox or a tape recorder, and i wouldnāt have the heart nor the wits to press pause. iād be haunted by visions of my dead family, their graves a mock gift from one side of my head to another. and yet,why couldnāt i unlock the door? ocd had stepped into my mind without even shutting the door or wiping itās feet, so why couldnāt i return the favour?
when i was fifteen years old, everybody would be staring at me constantly. they had to be, didnāt they? they could see the intrusive thoughts blaring in my brain and the neon sign above my head reading āFREAKā and the note stuck to my back saying āKILL MEā. the prison door still wonāt open.
when i was still fifteen years old, ocd had swamped my life like it wanted to consume me. and i let it; guiding it around like a shadow on a leash. the door is still locked, and whenever i try to open it, the shadow looms. iām itās prisoner, after all, and this quirk has booked me in for a life sentence.
i stop going to school. i stop posting stories online. i stop eating. i stop showering. the dishes pile up in the sink and my dog whines for a walk. i start crying.
i start dying.
when i was still fifteen years old, i began seeing aĀ counsellor. for real, this time, and despite her and everyone else around me being tainted by my intrusive thoughts, i saw the glimmer in her eyes andĀ recognisedĀ it as hope.Ā i stopped trying to open the door. instead, i saw the hand poking through the slot in it, beckoning me to takeĀ a holdĀ andĀ trust. trust.
and so i did, and boy did i grip tight, holding onto her like she was my only hope from a next stop to insanity.
i stopped trying to open the door. and instead, i started looking for the key.
pixelskylines
2087
germansingergirl
amandla
snowghoul
