I’m going Crazy. Bat shit, over the top, drown in myself, looking at myself from the outside – not recognizing myself anymore – crazy.

My days only consists of laying in my bed panicked and scared that I might die. This is the day I truly die of my disorder.

I still remember not remembering his hands on me, and not remembering how it felt, what I thought. All I remember is a blurry vision from that Friday night when I opened my eyes and felt him on top of me. It was like looking through tears, only I wasn’t crying. Or at least I don’t think I was crying. And then I just blacked out again.

Fast forward to lying in my bed thinking everything around me is contaminated with him. I’ve tried a thousand times to wash him off of me, wash him off my walls, my clothes, my memory, but he just won’t disappear. Why? Because it’s all in my head. It’s my OCD. I know this. The insight of knowing the problem doesn’t make the problem go away though.

So I stagger myself up from the bed, take a deep breath and look around my room. Trying to decide where to start so I can wash him off once again without having to re-contaminate the places I already cleaned. I feel helpless, I feel alone. I feel like an alien.

1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3
1, 2, 3

Finally.

I feel Safe for a second. My thoughts made a square. I feel relief and my pulse goes down. But then Mr. Satan comes along again and tells me that it isn’t good enough. I have to do it one more time.

I try to resist and say that it’s no use. It’s all in my head and it won’t really hurt me, but who am I kidding? The thought of feeling dirty for the rest of my life, and not contaminated, mind you, just dirty, just plain old not existing dirt. It scares the hell out of me.

So I lie down on my bed again and pull the duvet close around me again, because my bed is the only clean space in the world. The only place I feel safe.

I disappear into my safe bubble again, and I go off-grid for a couple of days, until the day I space out completely and find myself bloody in the ER and transported to a psychiatric clinic.

But that’s a story for another time.

Because that day I only cursed the world, him, for breaking me apart, and leaving me alone to pick up the pieces. For leaving me alone and developing OCD. For feeling so damn alone that the only thought I had was that maybe, maybe the sweet relief of death would actually benefit me.

It wouldn’t though. I tried.