Dear Neuroses…

Posted: December 20, 2010 in Uncategorized

We have known each other for so long, I’m not really sure where to begin this letter. We’ve become so intimate over time that it’s difficult to take a step back and actually open up for once. Sometimes, though, you just need to say “Fuck it!” and do something. So here’s my first letter to all of you together.

Tourette’s, you were with me as a wee child, herkin’ and jerkin’ me every which way. I looked possessed. Perhaps that isn’t so far off the map. Perhaps I am Satan. No, wait… I meant Santa. No… No, Satan. It’s Satan. I’m Satan.

ADHD, you, too, were always around, sending me skittering all over the map and making it just about impossible for me to organize anything. Yeah, sure, you enhance my creativity, but who needs that, anyway? When employers say they want “creative” people they mean “organized and neat”. I’ve been telling you this for years. All you’ve given me in return are lists: lists of lists embedded within lists, with very few items checked off. You cheeky bastard.

GAD, you’re a relative newcomer, but I think it may just be that I wasn’t aware of your presence under my bed. Or in my closet. Or in my shower. Or between the couch cushions. Or in my phone. Actually, now that I think about it, you’re a goddamn stalker. I’d have you arrested if the thought of facing you didn’t make me so damn anxious.

Depression, you’ve been my lazy, annoying roommate for so many years. The least you could’ve done is clue me in when GAD was jerking off under my desk. But no. You’re an ass. Never helpful. I can’t trust you at all. So many times you’ve thrown parties, and we’d do shots together, and I’d think, Okay, now things are gonna be okay. Now we’re friends. Yeah, right. Invariably, a couple weeks later, you’d be back to upperdecking my toilet and fucking my sisters. And yet, for some reason, I still haven’t moved out or kicked you out. I think you might be drugging me. Given how lethargic I feel sometimes, I’m sure you’re drugging me. Asshole.

All of you are part and parcel of my daily existence. As infuriating as you may be sometimes, I wouldn’t be who I am without you. But nobody’s been more central to Bezuidenthustra, to my day-to-day, to my very definition of self, than you, my dearest OCD. You are my abusive lover. You make me think I’m exercising my free will, choosing to do things, when really you’re just bullying and manipulating me into doing your bidding. You’re cunning and capricious and absolutely all-consuming. I can’t tell what I like and what I don’t like anymore. My head’s filled with all sorts of lies and I just can’t drop them. They won’t go away. And all the while you’re pulling the strings. I’m like Pinocchio without the ridiculous nose. But I’m so comfortable with you, OCD! Why do you have to be so cruel?

I just hope these letters help me unravel my relationship with all of you. And if they don’t, at the very least I hope they fuck with your heads, because you lot are the wonky bits that have been fucking with my head for just about ever. Fuckers.

Yours in the DSM-IV (soon to be V),


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