Do you want to know why I am writing this article? There are a variety of reasons, and content is barely one of them. For starters, I have a spreadsheet of all of my blog posts in my queue to be published every four days. I decided on four days because that allowed me to write four articles to give myself a potential two weeks of time spent without the energy to write because of my disorder. Writing these articles is exponentially more difficult for someone with OCD, as the voice in my head that dictates the words I write is going at such a hyper speed, that throttling it down in order to form said words into a readable structure is… a challenge. Sentences come out like the one just before this one.
I am looking at my spreadsheet calendar and I see that if I post all of the articles I have in the queue, and add the three days after the last—I have fourteen days worth of content. However, at this point in time in my life, I am not sure how I will be able to write anything else. This won’t happen, I’m far too verbose and frenetic, I will write. A lot. But I am obsessed with every eventuality, and right now life looks like it is going to get a bit… dark… for a while.
Oh, indeed I could write about that. But I strive to write articles that have meaning beyond just how I feel. Ok, this article doesn’t count. Or maybe it does. What I can say is I hate living in this universe and a lot of needless crap in this world gets in the way of my creativity. There are actors out there who seem to be agents solely of not-letting-this-guy-breathe. Figuratively, no one is actually choking me.
I also am obsessed with structure. You see, I am going to write anyway. If I am not writing structured articles for my blog, I am putting words on paper (well, digitally) all day long. I ramble to myself. I write letters I’ll never send. I chart out my entire being in many dimensions. I have notes. I have files and files and files of notes. On life. Those will go nowhere other than for the potential of someone reading them after I die. Which is a long ways off, I hope.
Am I merely filling space right now? Am I merely notching up my number of days I don’t absolutely have to write by four? Quite possibly. Although at times I want to step back from very specific subjects and just spill myself with OCD—just what is going through my mind during an exercise that could be defined in its architecture many ways—doing something as live and in-person as I can get. I don’t do public speaking. No one has asked me to.
I am trapped. I am trapped by the pressures of the real world—a foreboding sense of the near-term future. And these pressures seem like eventually, they will create a world—temporary—where I cannot write. So I am writing now. About that. Because of that.
What is going to happen? What am I talking about? Well, it is complicated. Everything seems to be failing, and regardless of anyone’s opinion on my own influence upon activity in my world, when things fail—they all fail. My life is like waves. Very high, very low. Oh, it technically evens out in the end—always. But only through very high highs and very low lows. Those low lows involve everything.
So I walked to the store today, and that went swimmingly. A few things went swimmingly today. And it is only 10.30 am (I do get up at 2 am on weekends.) So I felt the compulsion, through obsession, to write about my OCD.
And I am! You’re reading it. This is it. Now is about the time of day that real people creep in. And they ruin the creative spirit (hence the waking up at 2 am.)
But hey, I wrote an article. This counts.
I accomplished… something… and directly with and about my OCD!
That may not be a good thing.
But, well, these words aren’t going away and you’ve read them now.
This was an article about my obsessive-compulsive disorder.