Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for mature content.
OCD is not a guy who keeps his room neat, or a girl with organized binders. OCD is not washing the dishes, or that weirdo who always carries Germ-X. OCD is a girl with dermatillomania, something most people have never even heard of. OCD is getting strange looks when you repeatedly wipe your hands together. OCD is sitting in your car because you put your wallet away only to get it back out and make sure your debit card is still where you put it. OCD is endless paranoia, like when you were a child and you knew that tree shadow outside your window was really a monster coming to eat you. OCD is the rape victim who says nothing, because this is a perfect world and rape does not happen in a perfect world. OCD is looking in the mirror every chance you get, avoiding the task at hand because you have to make sure you look perfect even though someone will see and think you’re super vain. OCD is typing notes in class instead of writing because everyone comments on your sloppy handwriting. OCD is picking your nails off because they feel strange, because one is longer, because one is chipped. OCD is not some joke that only affects weirdos who are magically cured by pills in a bottle. OCD affects that person you see every day but never actually think of, and those pills don’t cure they make us the living dead. Sleepy, dizzy, lightheaded, fatigued. OCD is not a thing I have ever spoken of to my family, because they would only roll their eyes and make a joke. Even though I’m the weirdo who always carries Germ-X, the girl with dermatillomania, the freak who won’t stop rubbing her hands together. I’m just being dramatic, because you don’t see me in my car, or blinded by fear when I am in the dark. You don’t see the paranoia, I didn’t tell you about the rape or the burn marks or how his eyes looking down on me haunt me every damn day. How I can no longer watch certain movies or listen to certain songs or go certain places. You see a dramatic teenager. You don’t see the OCD.