It is no kind of undercurrent whatsoever for me. For myself it is this kind of outrageous and terrifically unkind mind-fuck. There really can be no other way to describe it – I mean, I don’t get to explain any particular ruminations because, well, they never really make any sense, even if in my mind they do at the time. Absolutely they do, and to the a point of resembling a twenty-four-hour marathon of said mind.
Scratch that, actually. Perhaps resembling the very same insane feeling someone might be feeling when they are standing at the very peak of a cliff… with no real foothold, and an ocean of lava below. Honestly, that doesn’t quite tell the whole story for its slaughtering worth. It is a miracle that I am still standing upright and, I guess, it is a story of strange, strange resilience, you could call it.
Surely that level of onslaught of the anxious and answer-finding mind and over that course and period of lengthy time has to have taken its toll? And it has. Because I appear to never be able to fully relax, often wondering how other people can go about their days and just take a breather and sit still and have a chat. Trying to hold a chat with someone? You’re depleted and a lot of your intelligence and humour is whitewashed. Almost entirely. So, really, I don’t have a clue what anyone actually makes of me, besides probably being the weird fella who writes ‘poetry’. I’m okay with the ‘poetry’ writing part, or whatever you wanna call it. I can’t complain because it came from the same place as the OCD comes from – deep the fuck down. However, the only thing that made me weird in the first place was the OCD.
It is an avalanche for me – not right this minute because I have had to fight through it yet again. Over the weekend, at my brother’s birthday party. Holy. Shit!!! My brain felt as though it was on fire, all awhile my family went about drinking and talking and laughing and having the craic. But my truest fear is this though. Just how severe is my particular OCD disorder. And how simple, in fact, is it for me to slip from that metaphorical cliff time again? I don’t get to choose, I’m afraid. It has seemingly refurbished the make-up of my whole entire mind. But Christ do I try.
The people I know and love don’t deserve it, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it one little bit. I deserve a medal. But who wants a medal for merely surviving a day at a time.