I always thought I was a little different growing up.
Kids are supposed to be carefree. Their innocence is supposed to wrap them up in a warm, cozy blanket. Kids are supposed to be kids.
Me? I think I was wired differently.
By the time I was in elementary school, I developed odd habits. Little Leah would try to hide it, but her obnoxious tendencies were hard to conceal.
I would wash my hands a certain way and if it wasn’t done quite right, I had to get up and repeat the task. I had to sit down a certain way. Praying, tidying, walking– it all had to be done clean and sharp. If not, I’d have to start all over. If the cycle didn’t continue, who knows what could possibly happen! My parents might die. My mom might get sick. My house might burn down.
Except not really.
But to a person with OCD, these thoughts consume us. Every second we think we’re safe, we’re not. It always creeps back into our mediocre lives, waiting for the right moment to infect our thoughts like a good case of the flu.
I didn’t admit this for a long while.
I tried, but it never came out right.
So when my hands were raw from washing, or when people would see me whispering to myself or praying 4 times consecutively in public; I would just shrug when they asked why.
I don’t know why.
It’s just a part of me.
Finally, a few months ago, I admitted to my doctor the strange habits that have followed me like a shadow since I was small. She nodded her head like she wasn’t secretly thinking “Who the fuck prays a certain way four times in a row, in public nonetheless?”
It’s okay. I’m not sure myself.
Anyways, I don’t have answer for this one. My thoughts are usually composed into something positive by the end of a post. I’ve got nothing for you this time.
Tune in next time.