You are literally removing yourself from a mentally impossible situation. That’s it with the OCD, or at least that’s how it appears to be with my OCD. And of course that is an absolute crying shame on a day to day basis. That your brain has taken itself over by utterly inexplicable levels of provoked by a chemical imbalance anxiety. People don’t need to get it. Maybe I don’t even need to get it. I think it’s the most miraculous thing for anyone to live through what OCD at its very worst can do to you. The nature of it is utterly atrocious in all of its guises. And you will fall into it without even thinking of anything else. And you will try and be okay with it as well as you humanly can. It’s made a lot of things about yourself, and to a highly inappropriate extent, even. And I don’t much like that either. You’ll have been mentally challenged in a way which really is… the most difficult mental flow of automatic lie of the century. You write because often it really is all that you can do. You’re petrified by pretty much anything that’s happening around you, it just seemingly falling into utterly inappropriate line with the OCD. Of course it isn’t you. At least not in any truly natural instance. But, then, your natural thought-process has been hi-jacked like no other, surely.  The miracle has already been happening, every second a sufferer exists with this illness. It’s… moronic for its utter worth. Even if it isn’t worth a shit. It’s debilitating in a manner which really does leave absolutely no wriggle room. The imagination, perhaps, has been taken to places no mind should have to go towards. You could really give it all up but then what about the part wherein you’ve worked your absolute fucking socks off times a billion… just to… maybe stay… mentally paralysed minus getting caught-up in another theme yet again at best. You see things extremely differently. Of course you do. At snail-pace, or at least what fucking feels like snail-pace. How could you not when maybe about, hmm, ninety-percent of your working mind isn’t actually working the way you would hope for it to do. It builds an outlandish backstory. A backstory which will never be matched for utter fucking mental catastrophe. You nurture yourself and your mind, though. You bring all of you that you can manage with all your might to the table. It’s a good and caring table, and you do know this. Mainly because the people in your life have gone way, way, way above the beyond to try and be there and to help you with your situation as well as they can manage. And they’ll be scared for you, too. And especially your mother, perhaps. Why? Because she has never stopped in trying like wildfire to see what is the actual matter with her beloved son. I know it makes her scared for me. But then she’s also got two other amazing kids to look out for and love. As do I have two amazing siblings and two amazing parents who I, too, want to look out for and love. And love them I utterly do and I do hope they know that. It may always be alarmingly hard for my mind but I will always give it one-hundred-and-ten percent because I do love this life. Love all that it entails, even with the debacle that is OCD playing to its very own fucking beat. It’s a harrowing story, but it’s also my story and that means that I have to see it as a blessing in disguise. The scribbles. The good, good friendships. Even the smart and humorous mind that I hope I’ve still somehow managed to be able to express. To keep it utterly in the game. That isn’t easy, of course not. But this is… heartbreaking and an awful waste of time, no doubt about that part too. But it is also… it is also… the best of me in terms of my strength of fight to be okay as I can be with it ❤️