“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.” -Thich Nhat Hanh

Man… it’s like, if I get over one obsession, another comes, and when I run out of new obsessions, old ones come back. Do I… not know how to be content? It reminds me of when Ru Paul told Katya, “You’re addicted to the anxiety.” I don’t know how to change this, but I’m glad I’m recognizing it. It’s awful — I can’t let myself be happy without punishing myself for my past mistakes, and honestly, I just have to just let myself be human. Gonna try meditating and reading more. Any other tips greatly appreciated.

Recently, since completing my year long therapy program and being connected with NOCD (and now in the transitionary period and waiting for the green light from insurance to work with an OCD specialist), I've been trying to convince myself to go out more and go to public places--to go shopping again, order food in-person, maybe to meet someone, get extra work, something! But...many days, basically EVERY day, my OCD bullies me into thinking my intrusive thoughts are the ONLY certain thing that WILL happen that day, even though they haven't. I worry I can't be around people, or that I pose some risk to others, and that it'd be better for the world, if I stayed in my family home. Unless I've been explicitly given a task by an immediate family (drive someone to an appointment/work/a commitment that they can't get to themselves, or the 1 part-time job I have), I'm to remain in the house, mostly my room. It's this paralyzing time-vampire, that just saps you of your will to do ANYTHING or break out of familiarity. Not even comfortable familiarity, just familiar. You know it's not good for you, and your over it, and that new better opportunities exist just outside of those doors, but so do the narratives your intrusive thoughts write. And why would you go out and risk turning an unpleasant page, when the familiar story you know all to well, and read every day has as serviceable. Not a good end, not a bad one. Just a temporary end. You revel in being able to put your head down on your pillow, at the end of the day, and close your eyes, simply because you made it through the day. You didn't accomplish much, due to satiating your obsessions with your compulsions for hours on end, but your pillow still feels so rewarding...your reward for surviving, even though you'll be deploy to that hellish battlefield in your mind again tomorrow.

I have a 56 year old brother who struggles with substance abuse, homelessness and mental health. I began to notice a patter that when his life would be thrown into the maelstrom, it would often trigger my OCD and put me into thought spirals and feelings of depression. Well, I’m here again. My brother is in a South Florida drug rehabilitation clinic and of course I’ve back slidden into an OCD spike. My brother is at the end of his rope, and hinted to not having the strength to do this anymore, so I just shared this metaphorical story with him just now. I think it was written by a Christian author years ago, and their name escapes me. When I texted him the story, it occurred to me that there is relevance here for my fellow OCD sufferers. I’m am not a holy roller by any means, in fact I’m a lapsed Catholic who often struggles with faith and its meaning. The Lizard on the Bow: A Story About Holding On There was a man who had a tradition of taking a quiet rowboat ride early each morning. He’d walk down to the lake, uncover his old canoe, and slowly push off from the dock. It was his time to clear his head and connect with God. One morning, he set off like usual. The lake was calm, and the air was still. As he rowed out to the center, dark clouds began to gather. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and soon the rain began to fall. The peaceful morning was quickly turning into a storm. Deciding it was best to turn around, the man began rowing back toward the safety of the shore. That’s when he noticed something—on the bow of the boat, just ahead of him, sat a small lizard. It must’ve jumped on when he launched from the dock. Now it was stuck—surrounded by water, perched on an unfamiliar surface, and the storm was closing in. The lizard started to panic. It darted back and forth, unsure what to do, its tiny body trembling with fear. The man, watching, began talking to it—softly, calmly: “Hang in there, little guy. We’re heading back. Just hold on—we’re only 500 yards from shore.” But the wind picked up. The waves slapped against the sides of the boat. The lizard became frantic, searching for an escape—darting left, then right, then freezing, overwhelmed. “Almost there,” the man said again, “Just 200 yards to go. You’re doing fine. Stay with me.” But the storm didn’t let up. The lizard, confused and terrified, couldn’t see what the man saw—the steady progress toward safety. All it knew was fear. Despite the man’s reassurance, it made a desperate leap into the water. It didn’t realize that shore was just ahead. That rescue was almost here. That if it had just waited… just held on… it would’ve made it. The Message This story isn’t really about a lizard. It’s about us—about how, in the middle of life’s storms, fear and pain can cloud our judgment. When everything feels too dark or too broken, we start looking for an escape. Even if it’s one we can’t undo. But God is in the boat. And He sees what we can’t. He knows how close the shoreline is—even when we don’t. Sometimes, all we’re being asked to do is hold on a little longer. Not to fix everything. Not to be perfect. Just… hold on.