What would I do if I had a son with OCD and as bad as mine? I’d firstly marvel at their mind, how they have managed to merely survive in a world amidst a mental struggle so outlandishly upside-down and distorted and life-stealing that not even I can bring myself to truly understand the utter fallout, let alone he. I would hold him close and tell him “we will get help, and you will be okay. I promise you that.” But I also wouldn’t be too sure how honest I was being at the end of that spoken sentence to him because my parents have said and done the very same things for me since I was a child. They want their son to be better. As I would do mine. But neither can they guarantee it entirely. I am that son, of course. One of many, I’m sure, who battles with this particular mental illness every day of the week, as my time disappears into a world of utter mental rumination and anguish. That’s an almighty onslaught, a hugely crucifying level of mental penetration, when all that the sufferer gets to do, at best, is sit there and let the medications work as best they can, let their exposures every single day eventually not be interrupted by an imbalance that is the most powerful and mind-pummelling imaginable. There isn’t much more an OCD sufferer can do about explaining their OCD other than to perhaps get out the other side and to then maybe tell a story about it. A story of horrendous mental penetration which we are living through as the OCD happens. But getting out the other side is truly like looking at a miracle happening for us. Certainly in my instance anyhow. Don’t get me wrong, I am utterly up for making that particular miracle happen for myself. Really, I have to. What more can we say? What more can we do, as our mind gets dragged through a whole other world of thought atop thought atop never-chosen and only ever automatic and utterly imbalanced thought? Strap ourselves in, it seems. Wonder where we are in all of it. Watch the world occur around us as we wake up petrified and at the very, very worst glued to our beds for a number of years on end. This isn’t just a mental illness. This is a catastrophic mental illness which seems to have no off-button at all. And I’m sick to death at trying to push it. There’s really nothing to push, just much more so something to work with. Sick to death of pissing my mind and time away between scribbling incoherent to a large extent shit and writing these posts, which, by the by, feel like fucking goodbye notes in many ways, or rather notes to read so people know how I tried. How I try all the time. I gave up a long tome ago trying to fix this thing. Just that my imbalanced brain never got to give up. And I’ll never not keep trying to be me. That I can guarantee 😊