The Rage Of OCD

When I finished  the two posts about losing my therapist Kara , I left my readers with a sense that I was dealing with what happened rather well. To be honest, I thought I was dealing with it a lot better and had begun to accept things. Having answers to some of my questions did help at that time, but when a person has OCD these feelings of acceptance can be very short lived.

More questions begin to enter my mind and I questioned these questions. I've been worrying over the details of what happened so much that I've begun to wonder if things happened the way I thought they did. I've even questioned what happened to the point of wondering if my very life was just an illusion.

I've tried to capture what it's like inside my mind during these times:

Thoughts swirl thru my mind nonstop... continually and never ending - like walking thru an endless tunnel-totally dark, nothing except these thoughts-is that a minuscule spot of light hundreds of yards ahead? Could it possibly be an end to this tunnel of torment? An end to these questions? Please! There has to be an end! Sometime, somewhere, somehow, someway there has to be an end!

Thoughts swirl like dust and debris in a storm. The wind rages. The rain blows hard. Trees are being ripped out of the ground. Thunder booms and lightening cuts through the night. The power of my thoughts rage and roar seemingly forever.

For more information on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder click here.

Still Struggling With Worry Over Daddy's Death

In my December 12th post "The Consequences Of Not Properly Coping With My Anger", I mentioned that my therapist Kara had pointed out that my dad didn't have control over his death and I had begun to realize that I had no reason to be mad at him.

While I was writing that, another thought occurred to me and I've still been thinking about it. I've heard about people dying just because they give up on living for one reason or another. Daddy had suffered from chronic back pain for years and it seemed, especially closer to the end of his life, not much was helping it. Did Daddy die because he was tired of living with his pain?

According to one website "Depression may play a part in premature death due to other causes, such as heart disease." Certainly Daddy's back pain caused him to be depressed a lot. That, coupled with his diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder would really aggravate his problems.

Daddy definitely worried a lot about other things. He continually worried about having enough money despite the fact the nursing home was taking care of all his needs. I keep thinking about what I said earlier about getting mad at him. I did give him a lot of grief. Maybe he never really got over that. Another log added to the fire of worry.

Does it really make sense that Daddy died because he just gave up? The coroner said he had hardening of the arteries around his intestines that caused his death. How could he have control over that? Could depression have played some part in that?

Now that I've thought of this, the O.C.D is going to gnaw at me. Yeah, I know someone would tell me " Try not to worry - there's nothing you can do to change the situation." Hearing that never helps. It just makes me angry and adds more worry.

The Demon of My Mind

Inspire by my OCD


In a dark and gloomy place in the back of my mind is a door that leads to a cellar.

I hear continuous scratching at the door and on the dirt floor. I know the source of the noise. It frightens me to think about it. It’s been there a long time and won’t go away. It’s an insidious, evil thing… a demon. It has one thing on its mind. To be released.

Sometimes, it’s scratching and clawing is intense, invading my mind and making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Sometimes, its efforts to be released are quieter. Still allowing me to think, but always trying to claw it’s way out. It’s persistent, always clawing and scratching. Desperately trying to be free. God, how it wants out! I tremble at

the thought of it being released. The terror it could cause!

Locked Up Memories

Some more of my writing from a few years ago.


I had an argument with my sister a few years ago. During that time, I played certain parts of it over like a CD on continuous playback. After awhile, I shoved the memory inside a door in the back of my mind & locked it. Now, I panic whenever I think about unlocking it.

It’s kind of like sweeping the dirt under a rug. The floor looks nice and clean to visitors. The dirt is out of sight, out of mind. Right? Perhaps out of sight, but not out of mind. I know it’s still there, waiting to be discovered. Possibly by someone other than me.

If I’m the only one who ever knows it’s there, that’s enough. While visitors think everything is clean, I know the truth.

With memories repressed or locked behind doors, they’re not out of sight, out of mind. I know it’s there and it’s wanting to get back out.

The locked up memory is pushing on the door. Putting stress on it. Over time, if enough pressure is applied, the door is liable to break open. Then what’s the magnitude of the problem? Worse than in the beginning?