1- Snail, Sorry and OCD
The first time I realized that I might be crazy, I was five.
The neighbors boy, Lance Triton and his gang of bugger eaters, had caught a snail on their way home from soccer training.
(It still to this day amazes me, how some people can just be so imune to such common disgusting behavior.)
Me and a few other girls were at the playground playing as Triton and his boys marched in, and proudly called for us to come and see.
Most of the girls were astonished by the found, especially Polly Buggy were interested and even asked if she could hold it. It was still very much alive as it slimed it’s way through Buggy’s small chubby fingers. thank fully some sense must have been dawned upon her, that or the slime just became to much even for her, as she threw it on the ground, slammed her foot over it a couple of times and then asked if anyone wanted to play tag.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. And as the others ran after Buggy, my eyes were like sewn to the trace of slime the snail had left, as it desperately tried to escape (in a very slow paste) to somewhere safer.
The thought of the wet, sticky substance, dripping down through ones fingers, was what eventually let me to black out, right there. In the middle of a playground.
It was almost as if that event were the key to starting, many following chain reactions.
Some of my obsessions weren’t so easy to recognize as such—in kindergarten, I would spend story time straightening my socks, unable to get them in the exact position I wanted. I had to change my underwear multiple times a day because I was constantly convinced that it was wet.
I remember going to Disney World a few months before I was diagnosed—my father walked around the amusement park with a bag full of little girls’ panties. (That would have been fun to explain to security: “No officer, I’m not a pervert; my daughter’s just crazy.“)
In middle school, as I hit puberty and my body chemistry changed, the medication I had been given stopped working. Entirely. My symptoms skyrocketed, but still I tried with everything I had to hide them.
Some of my compulsions were easy to cover up. When I had to spin the dial of my combination lock four times before I could open my locker, I could pretend that I’d gotten my code wrong and had to try again.
But it’s pretty noticeable when the girl sitting beside you in math class has to bang her chair against the ground eight times before she can sit down. (Particularly if she came in halfway through class because she was busy spinning her combination lock.) And there was no good excuse I could think of to cover that up.
So I stopped trying.
I did my best to explain my disorder to my peers in simple terms that even a ten-year-old could understand. But at that age, my peers still lacked the emotional if not the general intelligence to understand my condition. (Tweens and sociopaths have that in common.)
They rudely demanded to know why I freaked out whenever I smudged ink across my paper or why I sometimes shook my head like a wet dog.
Who would have thought that such a small word, only consisting of three letters, could be so impossible to explain to people who haven’t experienced it themselves.
OCD.
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, an anxiety disorder in which time people have recurring, unwanted thoughts, ideas or sensations (obsessions) that make them feel driven to do something repetitively (compulsions).
Translation: You want to do weird shit, at weird places, at weird times.
Take right now for an example, school has just ended and I’m on my way toward my yellow volkswagen who’s parked at the very end of the crowded parking lot. I know that the second I place my ass on that cold leather seat, and pull out the seatbelt, I’ll have to pluck and un-pluck it 4 times before I’m able to move on to starting the car.
How do I know this? Well I’ve been doing it every day for the past 2 and a half years now. I also know that I won’t be able to stop it. That the urge to do it, will eventually be so distracting that if I try to ignore it I, ultimately wouldn’t be in the right mindset to drive responsible, at all.
Personally my condition only worsens, when I try to defy it. So I usually just avoid trying to.
Though I must admit that sometimes I wonder if---
“Watch were you’re walking, loser”.
My thoughts are interrupted, and I’m forced to leave the safe world of my own head, as Leah Gammon collides her shoulder with mine. The force of the hit knocking me back over, and soon I find myself laying on the cold hard asphalt.
She just laughs. Laughs as I frantically scramble around trying to collect all of my stuff, which had fallen out of my baby blue backpack.
“I-I-I’m, sorry”,
I don’t look her, or her hyaena like air headed friends, in the eyes as I stumble over my words. Not because I’m afraid of her, or her cheerleaders.
No, it’s because I’m afraid that the second I’ll look into those dead green fields of eyes, plastered on that layer panted face, surrounded by fake crispy brown locks.
I was afraid that I was going to ask THE question.
“You better be.... LOOK AT ME, when I’m talking to you!”
She suddenly screamed at me, which let her hyenas to start choking on their laughter. By now I’m sure a couple of students has turned their attention our way, but it wouldn’t be too many, after all this isn’t a rare situation what so ever.
This isn’t the first time Holloway-High’s- Cheer-Queen had been caught taunting, some lower ranked student.
Actually she was almost expected to act this way, I mean she was the school’s No. Bitch. And that says something. She was the mean girl, but not the schools queen, much to her dismay. That role had been filed out by a very special girl.
She starts tripping her stilletos on the ground, and I know that I’ll eventually have to look her in the eyes anyways, I just pray that I won’t let the question surpass my will and slip through my lips.
But as I feared. When I finally got my shit together and slowly lifted my head to look into those dreading green eyes. I couldn’t hold it back.
"If today’d be the end of the world, what’d you do?"
My mouth spits out, but my reflexes are fast and quickly slams a hand over my mouth. But not quick enough apparently.
I told you I was crazy.
It's a stupid question, I know. But my father taught me that depending of the answer you'll be able to determine a persons character.
You'll never be able to see what's inside of a persons mind, but this questions gives you the opportunity to get a climes into another persons head, his or hers mind progress.
I was always taught to never judge a book by it's cover. Not even crazy cheerleaders like Gammon.
She just looks down at me confused, and very disturbed almost as if she finds me complete and utter disturbing, as she turns to her group of now just as quiet hyenas.
Completely dismissing my question.
"Come girls, we're leaving, this loser is just way too weird."
She demands and don't even turn to give me one last glance, as her and her girls march over to the jocks, and their awaiting sport cars. The short cheer skirts blowing in the wind and as they do so, if you looked close enough I'm sure you'll be able to see their underwear.
I'm still on the ground looking towards the retreating girls, as a the sweetest voice suddenly breaks my trance.
"Are you OK?"
I frantically turn my head in disbelieve, mouth hanging open, and eyes about to pop out of their socks.
Cause there she sits, squatting with her pale delicate hand reached forward towards me. A worried look plasteret on her perfectly goddess like face, but a caring one shining in her deep blue eyes.
There she is. Queen of Holloway High.
Diana
Diana Collins.
