Because I’m feeling the need to explain myself ad nauseum, into oblivion, and I shouldn’t, because it can destroy relationships, I’m going to write about it to no one in particular and explain myself that way. Maybe it’ll go away then. Here goes TMI.

Some people with OCD obsess about being clear. They worry that they misrepresented themselves and try to explain themselves to fix it, and then they explain the explanations. And so on. When they notice they’re not feeling any better, but worse, and it’s their OCD talking, it becomes really embarrassing and horrible. It’s like being caught naked in public. Like, without having shaved. At that point, they want to disown all the explanations of explanations, but it’s too late. As an alernative (which is still an explanation, so it would be a bad idea), they might want to mention, “It’s my OCD talking”, but that would just make them sound more, not less, crazy. So, it just sucks, instead. It starts with something you want to say, and next thing you know, you feel like a total idiot and can’t take it back. It’s really embarrassing. And it tends to happen with people who don’t know you that well–the very people who, it seems, would need explanations–and these instances can completely destroy these new relationships. It’s wrenching. You confuse people, you embarrass yourself, you don’t know when to stop, so you just make it worse, etc etc. Hooray. I want to cry. Not because I’m so embarrassed, but because I so don’t want to do that, and I did it. Who wants to inadvertently do things they don’t really want to do? If they were being their real selves. But you can’t always tell with these things, and by the time you can, it’s usually too late.

It’s not just washing your hands raw; there’s other types of misery. I wish everybody knew more about OCD so they could just write it off and not attribute some of my weirdnesses to my person, my self. I’m weird enough all on my own, but I like that kind.

I don’t feel right. Maybe I’m sick or something? I might be feeling sad, but I can’t tell for sure. My nose isn’t wet or cold… Maybe I just need a cup of coffee. I wish I was more in touch with my emotions (a la my thrown-about teenage self) so I could tell what I was feeling. I sort of think I know what’s going on, but I won’t allow it; I’m not usually bothered by such things, and I don’t intend to start now. So, I think I’m choosing to let it be something else. It’s not entirely maladaptive. 1. I can’t do anything about it, 2. There’s no point in wallowing in it, and 3. I wasn’t upset about it yesterday, and I most likely won’t be tomorrow. So, that’s that. Once I finish my ice cream, I’m going to go back out and embroider by the lake. That way, I can space out until it’s tomorrow. Then, tomorrow, I can “do the workaholic” and let my job distract me from my dissatisfaction.. Or, probably, I’ll just be over it.

Also, I want to adopt a cat, but I don’t think my roommate’s up for it. Her cat is obviously lonely and bored (it’s young!) so I think it’d be better even for the present cat to have a playmate of its own kind, who’s home all the time. But I don’t think she wants two cats at home. It’s upsetting; I really love cats. And her cat loves me, but I’m not allowed to love it back because it’s supposed to be hers. So, I have this cat that tries to claw its way into my room to sleep with me, and I have to try to keep it out and not let it get too attached to me. And I can’t have my own cat to enjoy that with. -Sigh- I want a little furry cuddlebug to take care of and play with and buy things for and and just have for my very own. This sucks.

Dear sponsored “sister”,

It’s exceedingly awkward to try to craft a letter to you. I’m having a hard time finding common ground. I’m having a hard time keeping on top of editing myself so I don’t talk down to you (even though you’re 2 years older than I am). I’m feeling guilty for automatically talking down to you; I didn’t think I felt like that about you until I started writing. I’m uncomfortable sharing my real self; you might think me very strange. I’m uncomfortable sharing my views on how to live; you’re probably much more socially conservative. Most of all, though, dear sponsored sister, I can’t stop thinking about how two such different lives can be playing out concurrently on the same planet.

What do you know? What do you wonder about? Being illiterate, what do you do when you wonder about something?

Would I be offended, with my individualistic, child-centric orientation, by the way you discipline your children? With our different universes and concerns, what kind of inner life do you cultivate in your children? Are you probably Muslim? I don’t believe in God.

I don’t know, Hellena Ding Maker. You probably wouldn’t understand me and my ways. I wish I wasn’t encouraged to write. I wish I could provide you with a real support system, but they won’t even tell me your address. I wish I could figure out first what kind of person you are. I wish I could teach you to read and write. I wish I could send you books and articles. I wish I didn’t have to contend with religion. I wish I could speak Arabic. I wish it was peaceful in Sudan. I wish lands and times of plenty didn’t tend to spoil people. I wish you didn’t have such a short projected life expectancy. I wish you weren’t dependent on me, and infantilized, and I wish I didn’t naturally want to talk down to you as my temporary adoptee. But good luck in the program, Hellena Ding Maker, whose name wouldn’t have graced the internet otherwise.

A really upsetting incident happened on the bus today. I got on the bus and went to my customary spot–in the very back–which today happened to be between two young black men. There was another black man a couple rows up from us, with his girlfriend, who appeared to be their friend. They weren’t wearing gang paraphernalia or specific colors. They chatted together, whatever, and I minded my own business as the bus plodded along and picked up more passengers. Suddenly, I became aware that the bus was filling up, but the people getting on–all white–were all staying in the front. I felt like a leper. It became shocking–people preferred to sit next to each other than in the free, wide-open space with us. Eventually, a black woman got on, and she sat in the back with us, so there couldn’t have been something else going on that I wasn’t aware of (and there was plenty of room.. around 12  seats!)(she kept turning around and looking at me. I don’t know what she was thinking) And yes, it got to the point that new passengers were standing in the front, before two young women finally braved sitting next to each other in the seats closest to the front of our section. I’m a little white girl! I’m sitting here between these people! There is nothing wrong! Sit down, dammit! But we got to downtown around then and we started losing people, and then I got off.

I didn’t think such things happened anymore…? I felt so bad for these men! They started out with all this lively chatter, but around when I realized something was amiss, they had also gone quiet. They were examining the front of the bus like I was, and we were all observing every new passenger, but they weren’t boisterous anymore. Un-f***ing-believable. I put Tupac on my iPod (“Changes”–it seemed appropriate…) and seethed.

I was listening to NPR today, and they had a really ignorant segment about that tv show, “Obsessed”. To me, putting it on NPR is practically an affirmation of its validity. I’m upset on many levels.

My most surface irritation is that this is obviously sensationalizing. They’re taking people with OCD and turning them into entertainment–a freak show. Ouch…

A deeper problem I have is that I think CBT–especially the way the therapist in the sound bytes I heard did it–is sick. To show someone’s CBT on television is sicker still. CBT is basically a very controlling process wherein the therapist–as “Mom”–bosses you around and tells you what to do. Exposure therapy is a CBT technique that involves bossing you around specifically regarding your fears. You don’t like germy doorknobs? Too bad! Touch it! Now lick your hand! Do it! That’s exposure therapy. Kind of like s/m without orgasms, or SS without guns and electric fences. Showing someone, for entertainment, undergoing this dehumanizing, enfeebling, infantilizing process–that’s “Obsessed”. And that show is how we’re going to view people with OCD now–impotent little weirdos who need (like! want!) to be told what to do in order to be “helped”.

First of all, it’s a disorder. It’s not a character flaw. It’s not a choice to get it. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or stupid or foolish and don’t intellectually know any “better”. Clearly, bathroom doorknobs are not America’s biggest killers.

That said, CBT is not any sort of cure. It’s someone telling you what to do so you can experience your anxiety, live with it, and see that living with it doesn’t kill you. You still have your obsessions, and you still have OCD, but you can suppress some compulsions so you have more time for life (and more skin left on your hands, or whatever). But it’s nothing magical. And you could do your own “CBT”, thus maintaining your dignity, and saving yourself submission to a Freud type.

Yes, let’s gawk at a person in a really vulnerable, exploitative position, and marvel at their weirdness and laugh at them. And then let’s put it on NPR, because it’s so damn intellectually intriguing.

All this is part of why I want to go into therapy: to be an option for someone who, like me, will implode if they try to submit themselves to the “care” of a person who abuses their power. I care a lot about power dynamics, exploitation, and vulnerability; child psychology, here I come. And I will not do CBT.