It’s not about the scribbles, it’s not really about anything at all. It’s not about being okay, it’s not about being… anything. It’s not about being OCD. It’s not about being petrified. Not tonight. Just blew up at Mom, which is always an inevitability with this. It’s not about that, it’s not about the themes of OCD, it’s not about thinking I need to track all that it does to my brain and mind, it’s not even about how my mind is maybe even… ninety percent imbalanced. It’s not about anything but for my watching telly this evening and for as long as I like. Even if I know that won’t work-out the way it should either. It’s not about trying to… do anything with my mind. I’m tired, I’m… torn to pieces with this thing. I’m… not almost cured? Why not? Because it’s not possible for me. It’s not about thinking. It’s not about titles for my scribbles, it’s not about how capable my mind can be, even with all this shit happening for my brain and mind. It’s not about absolutely EVERYTHING that I miss out on feeling and doing properly. It’s not about the fact I only ever smoked become of this and that breaks my heart in itself. It’s not even about the miraculous nature of my merely surviving with this illness. It’s not about anyone else having any right to try and understand what has happened to my brain. It’s not about… having an absolutely ****** ** brain all my life, and it’s not about trying to live with it. Not right now. It’s about… trying to shut my whole mind off for the time being. God bless OCD-heads because this is.. the most effed up game of mental resilience imaginable. I’ve jaded as many angles of thought as I possibly can do with this whole thing over the past… thirty years while watching my world fall paralysingly apart at the seams and I do realise just how negative this is… but you’re pissing in the wind when it comes to OCD anyway, it seems. We’ve been given a life-sentence and the only way really is… to… just… let yourself and your mind the hell alone as best that you can 🤷‍♂️