Does eminem Monster song is for OCD?

Earlier today I did some pretty high-level contamination exposure, inspired by my therapist, and now I'm listening to a triggering song on repeat — the very song that kicked off my first serious bout of OCD in high school. There is a part of my brain that is telling me I can't handle the song and that I should find a compulsion to do, but my goal is to have it in the background while I go about my self-care tasks. I'm already starting to get used to it 💪 How are y'all challenging your OCD today?

I don't know what this is, I don't know enough about OCD, my psychiatrist put me on a medication and told me I have OCD and a mood disorder but I didn't ask any questions because I didn't want to be annoying. I have "evidence" that every year, when I think about death, the world kills someone I love, and it always happens twice. I have nothing to help change that, like, I don't do anything with my thoughts or anything numbers or ritually, so I wasn't sure if it even was OCD, but I do move my hands in certain ways to make my friends happy or improve their lives. Also I cant turn off my fan or something SA related will happen (i dont know how) I think that the world is threatening me, and that if I do something wrong or involve myself with certain things, the world will punish me and the people around me, so all I can do is apologize I've tried looking into the different types of OCD, and all of them are things that I've been anxious about before, but I haven't really been so anxious about any one of them in particular or held onto it for so long, or done any rituals, that I would probably not even say I have OCD. Like, I worry that I'm a nazi, I worry that I like kids, I worry that I killed my friend, I worry that I have schizophrenia or am somehow giving myself it, I worry that I'm going to abuse someone, I worry that I've already abused someone, I worry that somehow I might die, I worry people can hear my thoughts, I worry about ignoring my friend when he cried out for help, I worry that God has already rejected me from heaven, I worry that I like women, I worry that if I don't hit the hammer 9 times on the wall when Im using it that just something bad will happen that I dont know what and I don't know why, and I feel like I don't have a single compulsion that can even "fix" or bring relief to any of these things besides saying sorry, because if I say sorry at least people know that I am apologetic for the crimes I've committed, but saying sorry doesn't fix anything except my own guilt so I'm just a bad person looking for sympathy or seeking attention I don't know enough about OCD, and I don't know how to seek help for my condition because I don't even know if that's really what I have, if I'm not just simply anxious, or possibly schizophrenic Does any of this seem familiar to anyone? Can it be this varied and unfocused? Does this really sound like OCD, or can it be anything else, because I don't want to bark up the wrong tree when I could just be taking medication for something else.

I wrote these two poems for an open mike poetry night at my college a few years ago. Freshman year of college my anxiety ate me alive. I chickened out last minute and never performed, but I recently found the notebook I wrote these in and thought I’d share. i’m sO sCareD You say, "Oh my god, I’m so OCD about my notes," while I am drowning in the undertow of thoughts that refuse to let me go. You say, "I just like things neat, you know?" while I check the lock again and again, wondering if this time will be the time my brain believes me— but it never does. It's the monster under the bed except it lives in my head, whispers masquerading as instincts, warnings dressed as logic, fear that wears me like a second skin. And oh, how easy it is to laugh it off, call it a quirk, a habit, a punchline, while I stand at the brink of a thought so loud I can feel it crack my ribs. You say, "I’m so OCD about my computer icons." I say, I can’t hold my mother’s hand without tracing the veins, make sure she’s alive, still beating and bleeding, rewinding, replaying, repeating, repeating, until I become the pattern itself. I say, I live on a hill. And if the picture frames aren’t straight, the ground will shift, the walls will give way, my home will collapse beneath me. And I can’t let it go? I say, I step in threes, three, three, three, reset, three, three— reset. Because if I do it wrong, something worse will happen, though I don’t know what, only that the terror knows it for me. I am not particular. I am prisoner. So when you say OCD, I hope you mean the way it steals— the way it clings, the way it suffocates, because it is not about preference. It is about survival. hallway girl. Why can’t I have the helpful OCD? The organized one, the productive one, the one people praise instead of whisper about? Why can’t my compulsions make me a genius instead of a joke? Why do they make me the hallway girl— “she’s still walking the hallway” as if it’s a comedy show. As if it’s funny to be trapped in my own head. You see it in sitcoms— the guy who can’t handle an uneven stack of papers, the woman who scrubs the counters too much, laugh track ringing loud— but no one laughs at the panic that coils in my lungs no one sees the terror when the stairs don’t add up and suddenly the earth is shaking and I can’t move No one shows the moments I cry over a step miscounted, staring at the hallway, knowing I have to start over, but already too exhausted to move. No one shows the shame, the whispered apologies, the effort of convincing myself this time, maybe, I’ll be strong enough to resist— but I never am. And no one shows the shoes. How I would run, sprint, chase time through our fifteen-minute break, Back to my room, because if they moved— if they weren’t exactly right— my dad would have a heart attack. And it would be my fault. So I checked. And checked. And checked again. Until I was breathless, But still had to sprint back to class and pretend I didn’t leave my mind behind with my shoes. So when they call me hallway girl, I bite my tongue so they don’t see how hard it takes Because if OCD is a joke, why am I the only one who isn’t laughing?