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I Want a Sign
I want a sign that says
“Here’s what I don’t do.
I don’t wash my hands,
I don’t touch doorknobs.
I just have OCD.”
I’d carry that sign around with me everywhere I went, maybe I’d have it glued to me so that when people see me hiding underneath a chair like a dog during a
thunderstorm,
they’d know.
They’d know that when I’m gripping a card like it’s my last possession, that panic signals are flooding through my body.
They’d know that when I’m rubbing my hands on my desk that there’s an /urge/, that’s it’s a desperate
action designed to decrease the impossibly high anxiety levels in my body.
They’d know that when I’m sitting against a wall, hands on my stomach, breathing in carefully measured breaths,
that I’m trying to regain some sense of control over myself.
But I don’t have a sign.
So they just guess,
and ask stupid questions like if I wash my hands.
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