I’m much more obsessive than I am compulsive.

I’ve written about my first diagnosis before and how my parents were so concerned about my strange behavior that they decided I needed professional help.

I was afraid of clouds, a silly record album that gave me the willies, separation issues, generalized anxiety, keeping each note that my mom put in my lunch bag, plus I was afraid of vampires after watching Ripley’s Believe It Or Not hosted by that spooky old Jack Palance.

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The stuff of nightmares, my friends.

Trying to understand what OCD was at such a young age wasn’t an easy task. Hiding my obsessive nature from my childhood friends was also a fucked up challenge. I can’t remember how many times I got homesick at a sleepover and had to come home because I couldn’t stop myself from throwing up or how I had to hide my fear of a thunderstorm coming our way during math class.

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This is my “I can’t even..” face.

As an adult, my obsessions change like the seasons. Sometimes, I can recognize the start of one and knock it the fuck off. Often though, I get sucked into this vortex of bizarre thought patterns that a crowbar could barely remove from my chemically imbalanced brain.

Impulsivity happens when my obsessions get the better of me. I just picture myself beating them off with a stick or better yet, a guitar.

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I was born a bit wonky and there it is I shall remain.

Obsessive thoughts can range from minor things like “remember to change your vape thingy battery the next time that you’re up” to big things like, “I don’t have any control over much of fucking nothing, being alive truly befuddles me.”

I prefer the minor obsessive thoughts instead of the major ones and I’m pretty sure that you can understand why this is.

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