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 Iâd share.
iâm sO sCareD
You say,
"Oh my god, Iâm 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 meâ
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,
"Iâm so OCD about my computer icons."
I say,
I canât hold my motherâs hand without tracing the veins,
make sure sheâs 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 arenât straight,
the ground will shift,
the walls will give way,
my home will collapse beneath me.
And I canât let it go?
I say,
I step in threes,
three, three, three,
reset,
three, threeâ
reset.
Because if I do it wrong,
something worse will happen,
though I donât 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 stealsâ
the way it clings,
the way it suffocates,
because it is not about preference.
It is about survival.
hallway girl.
Why canât I have the helpful OCD?
The organized one,
the productive one,
the one people praise
instead of whisper about?
Why canât my compulsions
make me a genius instead of a joke?
Why do they make me the hallway girlâ
âsheâs still walking the hallwayâ
as if itâs a comedy show.
As if itâs funny
to be trapped in my own head.
You see it in sitcomsâ
the guy who canât handle an uneven stack of papers,
the woman who scrubs the counters too much,
laugh track ringing loudâ
but no one laughs at the panic
that coils in my lungs
no one sees the terror
when the stairs donât add up
and suddenly the earth is shaking
and I canât 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, Iâll be strong enough to resistâ
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 movedâ
if they werenât exactly rightâ
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 didnât leave my mind behind with my shoes.
So when they call me hallway girl,
I bite my tongue
so they donât see how hard it takes
Because if OCD is a joke,
why am I the only one
who isnât laughing?