Hurt and The Monster

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is what having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder feels like for me.

Submitted: March 16, 2012

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Submitted: March 16, 2012



Everything hurts. I hurt. My heart  hurts. The truth hurts; the lie kills. Why am I alive? Why am I still breathing when I wish to die? I'm afraid of death. Death is peaceful. Living hurts. I hope he sees the way he's hurting me when he gazes into my pained eyes. I'm confined. Lost. Confused. Different. Angry and defensive. I can't feel anything when the monster creeps out of me. The monster is my other half. The monster is slowly taking over. After the monster takes over, the hate will seethe out of my heart. I'm tired of this questioning inside of my head. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Obsession. Those girls. Compulsion. To question the past. Disorder. It leaves me cracked and broken. Defeating what I've been given seems impossible. Possible? No, possible is false hope. Impossible is more than likely the outcome. He doesn't understand. I refuse to understand. Accept. Them. Why? How? Should I? Can I? Will I? It's a mystery to me. Alcohol. Drugs. Black out. Drunk. High. Things I'd prefer to be sometimes. I won't step over that line. The line's disappeared. I've probably already crossed it. Did I even make it? I don't remember. Memories. What I want to remember. What I can't forget. He can move forward. I'm stuck. Left behind. Pushed back. Falling down. Stay down. How long have I been down? Getting up. Too exhausted. Careless. I'll just rot instead. Escaping them. I run too often. I never stop. Stopping means facing them. Those girls. Those ugly, hideous girls. I'm ugly. Disgusting. I'm what they say because I have no mind. I lost my mind long ago. Brains. Smart. I guess I am. Not really. Maybe. If I wanted to be. What do I want to be?

I desire to be free. Free from this hurt. This cell I call my mind. I don't recall ever knowing freedom. Little girl. Tween. Teenager. Young woman. I've always carried extra baggage. OCD. Mental disorder. Illness. Sick. I've usually felt sick. There's no medication. No perscription. No becoming better. Dealing. Embracing. I resist. Opening up. I wonder how that feels. To have someone actually listen. Compassion. Sympathy. Empathy. Friend. What are those again? Whatever they are, I don't really have any. Am I a friend? Fiend? Backstabber? User? Do I betray? I used to believe I was once a good friend. They hurt me. Lied to me. Talked bad about me. Left me alone. Stopped caring. Stopped loving. I stopped being whatever I thought I was supposed to be. I stopped caring. Quit loving. I became the "bad one." I became the "friend." My label as a "best friend" was torn off. Ripped from me. Stomped on. Forgotten. I was replaced. I was never good enough. I'll never be good enough. To them. To myself. To the world. One day I'll be okay with the mirror. My image. The flaws. The imperfection. Perfection is what I strive for. Perfection doesn't exist. Perfection is me. Perfection is what my OCD wants me to be. The voices. They whisper devilish words to me. They demand me to kill. Kill what's hurting me. Feed on the blood of my victim. Taste what's not in me, but will be. Laugh at their pleas for me to stop. Laugh at their dying last words. Bury them where they'll never be found. Then I realize murder is not the answer. The monster claims otherwise. The monster is my maker and destroyer. The monster will be the death of me.

The hurt feels like it's consumed 98.9% of me. The hurt feels like my only friend. The monster stalks me. The monster lusts for me. OCD. The obsession is too strong. I can't find the strength. The will. The power. The energy. I'm drained. Weak. Powerless. Fearful. Hesitant. I can't seem to make that step. I've tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed. Failure. The monster calls my name. The monster is becoming the person I'm attempting to get away from. If I don't win, what will happen? Who will I be? Will the person I love leave me in despair? Will he grow tired of the monster? I love him. I need his love to pull me through. Intimacy. Passion. Making love. Sex. Touching. Holding. Kissing. Adoring. Those specific things I never imagined I'd feel or endure. I give up. I can't have those things forever? Can I? Is it possible? There I go with the whole "possible" bullshit again. I need to stop with that already, don't I? Maybe there's a small part of me that believes. Tiny Part. It barely exists. That's when the monster arrives to crush my hopes and dreams. I have to push the monster away. Obsession. Those girls. Obsession. What they've done. It's not anything. It's everything. It's nothing. It leaves me cracked and broken. It leaves me hurting. Burning with malice. Animosity. Wrath. Revenge. Pointless. I've won. It's not a competition. It was all a competition. The monster disagrees. The monster is choking me. Hurting me. Bruising me. Breaking me. I don't want to hurt anymore. I think I'll continue to hurt. Why? The monster is apart of me. It's been apart of me since I can remember. It's overpowering my mind. It's going to be brutal. Judgmental. Hurtful. Harmful. Agonizing. Nasty. Vile. Feeding for its answers. The monster is me.

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