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OCD

A mental hell from my eyes.

By Cory DeAn CowleyPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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I had a conversation today about my OCD. It’s kind of weird, you know? Most people think that it’s rearranging, and shuffling shit around till it’s the perfect shape or size. I really can’t blame them for their perception of what it is, but I wish it was as simple as fidgeting.

I’m sitting in my car right now looking at the skin around my fingernails and they’re chewed Raw. When you taste blood on your tongue, man, there isn’t shit like it. It’s like, you know when you take that first bite of food after being famished and it’s so fucking good? It’s like that. And we say we aren’t going to do it again, but we do. We always do. I can look at my fingers all day and wish things weren’t the way they were, but, all of my kind know that we are addicted to a certain type of feeling.

I remember one time I was eating at Burger-Fi and I stared at a fork for over five minutes straight. I really don’t know why I did, but I recall my thoughts spinning to the point they were out of control and I just wanted them to stop. I said to myself, “pick it up, shove it in your eye.” Naturally, it freaked me out, but the thought was like bliss. It feels good sometimes knowing the only source of relief is hurting yourself, and to punish away all those impure thoughts? Well, that’s even sweeter.

I always find myself having to explain to people that it’s not that we want to really hurt ourselves, but we do want to kill the pain inside. I’ve always fancied myself a woman who takes pleasure in pain—sexually, emotionally, and physically—so it’s not really something I think twice about. After awhile, you realize that needle poking you is your best friend, and like any good friend, it consoles you when you need them most.

But then, sweet turns to sour and those thoughts about suicide start wrapping around your head like a boa. The thinking spirals out, the compulsions cause twitches, and you find yourself tired without even realizing it. I’m tired. I’m always tired. So tired that I think my name should be Cory Tired Cowley, but I don’t know..it’s like I can’t give up. People talk about OCD and it’s something that was given to us to destroy and create. It’s late in the afternoon and I’m writing this poem now, talking about the very thing that’s causing this poem.

All the thoughts and memories of biting into my arm, like that time I drove out to the park and wanted to literally eat myself alive. Because what better way to destroy yourself than masticating your flesh between your teeth? I think that’s the same day I was called a lying, little whore—and I remember it was so goddamn hot that if I did manage to die, atleast my corpse would rot and smell. I always wanted people to feel the pain I felt and it just seemed fair.

The truth is, it’s not fair, but life isn’t fair either, and we all are victims to its clutches. Maybe that’s why I don’t give up. I know no matter how much I suffer my pity is not privy to only myself, and mercy has no sole-propriety. We all deserve it, and I guess, that’s why I can live with this monster that lays under my bed.

It makes me so tired sometimes standing there listening to it knock on the door at all hours of the day, but I gotta keep going. If I don’t, someone else won’t, and that’s a shame. It’s okay if I quit, but I won’t let you. And if you’re here and you’re listening to these words, you gotta know that the devil you deal with the most is the reflection looking back at you, but the beauty of evil is it has no limits to the amount of power it holds. And even if the devil has your soul, you gotta have your heart, and a heart doesn’t stop beating till you let it.

disorder
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About the Creator

Cory DeAn Cowley

Founder/Owner of C.D.C. Works

Making disgusting, horrific, raw art and books is what I do.

www.linktr.ee/foliumdiscognitum2

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