OCD lives in my head,

like it’s its own entity,

pervading my thoughts,

controlling my actions.

Frustrating reminders playing on repeat, an intrusive bully puppeteer-ing my body to do exactly what it wants.

A robot.

Washing my hands until my skin turns raw,

peeling, aching, hurting, never feeling clean.

Never feeling good enough, always trying.

Trying, failing.

Checking things,

doors, switches, ovens,

over and over,

and over,

worrying it’s still open, unlocked, or on,

staring at the object until I know it’s okay, and then some more.

Turning around and checking it again, because it needs that one more time.


“One more”, like eating from a bag of chips,

my OCD fools me, saying it’s just this one last time,

but I can’t believe that lie. I know it’s not the end.

I wish so much that it was, but I know better.


Spritzing chemicals, sanitizing, making things “clean” again.

Every day.


and over,

and over,

and over.

I could repeat the word ‘over’ again, but that might annoy you…

that is my life with OCD.

Fatigued, defeated, run down, broken.

A wasteful disorder – wasted time, wasted life, wasted resources.

I just want to live.

Hoping tomorrow will be different, that I can do better.

Small improvements, maybe.

Then there are the relapses, depression, different compulsions.

Stigma, phrases thrown around. They’re hurtful.

Believe me, it’s a plague that haunts your every thought – not a quirk or trait you’d want.

Cleanliness doesn’t equal OCD; I beg you to appreciate if you don’t have this. If your life isn’t ruled by anxious thoughts, your days dependent on this disease.

OCD has simply ruined me.

This poem probably hasn’t done it justice.

I don’t want this anymore… I just want to break free.


Photo from Pixabay.com, by MMckein


Author: tiredmindtypingfingers

Writing about writing and chronic illness, and trying to make something out of it.

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