Miscellany

obsessions and compulsions.

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OCD;

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is characterized by unreasonable thoughts and fears (obsessions) that lead you to do repetitive behaviors (compulsions).

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Neverland is home to lost boys like me, 

And lost boys like me are free.

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Crinkling the paper and smoothing it out again. And again. And again. Three more times.

Looking for the pen, find the blue one, the blue one, the blue one. Aah, there it is. Clicked it open, once, twice, thrice. All set.

Now, now I can write.

The words, where are the words....? Ah, there is one, must put it down right away. Oh, frustration! I let the second one go. It zoomed past too fast. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Here is another one, and another and there's a big one coming up ahead. The pen is not smooth. It's bumpy, so bumpy, so bumpy.

Mrs. Hess from school always told me to take a deep breath when my hands start shaking. They're shaking, shaking, shaking. Can't write now. Ugh!

Inhale, Exhale.
Inhale, Exhale.
Inhale, Exhale.
Inhale, Exhale.

Four breaths. Now I can work again. Good! I hate having to count my way through life. But that's how it is for me, for me, for me.

An itch, on my left hand's little finger. Oh no.

One scratch,
Two scratch,
Three scratch,
Four scratch,
Five scratch,
Six scratch.

Ah! All done. What's the time right now? Oh no no no! It's 3:30! Must drink water. Five steps forward, two steps to the left. Go back again, walk forward again. Reached the dispenser.

Filled the glass once, took a sip.

Filled the glass again, took a sip.

And again,
And again,
And again.

Done. Now must put the glass back. Put it on the counter, pick it up once more, put it back down. Three times to follow.

Walking back to the table. Pulling the chair back and pushing it forward twice. Finally being seated and.... where's my pen?

The blue pen, the blue pen, the blue pen. Found it. Must click it thrice.

Wrote down another word. Can't write anymore. Wish I could be good at something. Wish I could write like the others. Wishful thinking. Why am i not good at anything?

They said not to think like that. I'm good at something, something, something. I'm good at making paper planes. I will make one right now. Paper, I need paper. I'll just tear out the page I was using. Tear it out in three quarters. And one more, and another.

Fold it here, and fold it there, a flap here and a flap there. Done. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Must fly it.

Walk to the window, nine steps forward, five steps right. Open the latch, close it again.

Click,
Click,
Click,
Click.

Finally openes it. Look down at the empty street. Silence. One, two, three. Yay! It's flying.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. It's falling to the ground. Fast, fast, fast. It fell. Agh! Closing the window.
Click,
Click,
Click,
Click.

Time to sleep. Switched the lights off, and the on, again, and again, and again. G'night.

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The teenager was passing by, enroute to her home. Suddenly, she heard someone chant "oh no, oh no,oh no." Alarmed, she looked up, just in time to catch a glimpse of a man closing the window on the third floor of "The Hope Rehabilitation Center" she kept walking when she came across a paper plane on the asphalt. She halted in her steps and crouched down. Picking it up, she unfolded the paper. A simple line was written on it.

'Someday, I'll be fine like everybody else and that day, I won't be lost anymore.'

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