Young Writers Society

This is a splice poetry program about OCD. I did this for Speech early in the year and it includes "OCD" by Neil Hilborn, "I'm Not Crazy" by Cherry Pedrick, Lady MacBeth's Monologue from Act V Scene I of "MacBeth" by William Shakespeare, "One Time, Two Times, Three Times" by Susan Smith, and a small portion of the program by me.

So I have this thing called “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I wake up every morning like any ordinary person,

but when I do I HAVE to get up

and step off with my left foot

I have to turn the light off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on,

and I also have this obsession with even numbers

Like having to take an even amount of steps in a room

Or having to chew my food an even amount of times.

I even force my family to put the volume on the TV or radio at an even number.

I mean, I even hate the fact that my age is an odd number, odd number, odd number!

But honestly, it can be ugly.

The first time I saw her...

Everything in my head went quiet.

All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.

Even in bed, I’m thinking:

Did I lock the doors? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

Did I lock the doors? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..

Or the eyelash on her cheek—

the eyelash on her cheek—

the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.

I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.

She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or even talking to her...

But she loved it.

But then,

I’m not crazy, not really.

I know I act strange at times.

I know I ask too many questions.

I know the door was locked, and you watched me turn the car around . . . again . . . to check the lock . . . again.

But I’m not crazy.

Her hands are red and raw.

She hides them in her lap or behind her back.

But still, she wonders if they’re really clean.

"I did touch the door knob, not with my hands, of course, with my sleeve.

But now I’ve touched my sleeve."

She needs to wash her hands again.

But she’s not crazy.

"Don’t come in. Well, okay, come in.

But don’t look around. Don’t judge my house."

He knows he has boxes of paper, magazines,

And newspapers cluttering the rooms.

But he knows where his taxes from 1962 are . . . and the utility bills . . . and the canceled checks.

But he’s not crazy.

She walked through the door, but she didn’t do it right.

She knows it was the eighth time.

"One more time, I’ve got to get it right."

If she doesn’t do it right, something may happen to her mother.

But she’s not crazy.

My mind wanders when you’re talking to me.

When you look at me strangely,

I pull my thoughts together and try to concentrate on your words.

But I can’t quite give you my full attention.

My mind is filled with worries and fears I can’t seem to release.

But I’m not crazy!

I have this thing called “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”

I wake up every morning like any ordinary person person person person person,

I remember that

She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was

just making her late for work...

When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...

When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.

She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.

Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.

She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...

How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?

Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.

I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.

I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...

And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..

How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.

How she blows out candles—

blows out candles—

blows out candles—

blows out candles—

blows out candles—

blows out…

Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One–two—

why then ’tis time to do't. Yet who would

have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

What, will these hands ne'er be clean?

Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes

of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!

I want her back so bad...

I leave the door unlocked.

I leave the lights on.

I have this thing called “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”

One time in a row

putting on my favorite

mismatched orange and purple socks

Two times in a row

changing which foot the orange sock

is on and off

and on and off

Three times in a row

walking back up two flights of steps to my apartment

to check

to check

to check

That the iron was unplugged

Four times in a row

unzipping my wallet

to see

to see

to see

If my credit card is there

Five times in a row

checking my bag

for

The first most critical, the second most critical, and the third most critical bottle of pills

Six times in a row

checking my shift schedule posted on the wall at work.

And one additional time calling from home to have someone at work read it to me over the phone

Seven times in a row

checking my alarm clock

To be sure

To be sure

To be absolutely, positively sure

That I set it

For 11 am and not 11 pm

And so—

Eight anxiety books, nine blogs, ten prescriptions, eleven Youtube videos, and twelve Yoga postures later

I am saying good-night to all of you

And wishing you a peaceful sleep.