Monday, April 18, 2011

The OCD shoreline

This is a more detailed adaption of a cheesy metaphor I came up with and used in my interview today with Hungry Beast about OCD. I think the episode’s due to screen on 27 April, we’ll see if it makes the cut…

I’m a child. Standing on the shoreline - staring out at an endless ocean - infinite abyss - the depths of my consciousness. Concepts not yet fully understood. I was placed here by biochemistry or something.

Small ripples wash up over my feet and retreat, wash up and retreat, daily anxiety; impossible to ignore, I give in to it and seek relief and understanding. Rituals, checking, self-assurance, rumination, repetition, doing things over and over, repeating acts.

Before I know it I’m in deeper. Waves of anxiety become more regular, hitting me with greater force. In too far and alone.

The waves begin to knock me down and pull me under. The more I struggle the worse my situation gets. Everyone knows not to fight against a rip, right? I don’t know anything.

I’m in over my head now and struggling to keep my head above water. I can’t see the shoreline I left so many years ago. I’m desperate I don’t know what to do I must do something but nothing helps I can’t keep up the fight but if I stop I will die.

Walls of water slam down on me still, incessantly. Gasping for breath, all energy goes into a final attempt, a meek cry for help.

A hand grasps mine, pulls me up, points me back to shore. They’ll teach me to swim but I have to make it back alone, otherwise I could easy end up back in the deep water. I let go of the tension and gradually find my footing. I look around, there are many people out here with me.

I wade through the water, waves continue to break against my back but the water has calmed and I can endure. And I can see the shoreline. It’s getting closer.

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