OCD

OCD is tailor-made for iceberg metaphors.

Even when he was trying his very hardest not to survive, my Dad still gave himself music. And somewhere along the way, he gave it to me too.

I struggle to find language that describes the messy tangle of thoughts and memories that weigh down every spoonful. If I had to tell you about my relationship with food in a sentence: I am totally and completely obsessed with it.

It’s supposed to imply that I can do a lot of stuff even while I’m sick, but what it actually means is “not dying yet.” Because that is the actual definition of functioning: existing. Breathing in and out, eating, talking, and — especially if you live in America — generating some form of income.

Bob’s Burgers is familiar and cozy and something I can let myself fall into completely. Having it on is like a constant, hilarious lullaby — one that I fall asleep to more often than not.

I am tired of taking medication. I am tired of relying on the manufactured versions of the chemicals and hormones my body could — should? — make for itself.

I’ve been mentally ill pretty much my whole entire life, and it isn’t something I see going away any time soon. I don’t see that as an inherently bad thing.

I have a lot of anxiety about not doing enough. Not doing enough at work, at school, around the house, to help save the world from the creeping tendrils of authoritarian nationalism… the list goes on.