OCD // No. 8

The doctors told me that if I took my medicine, I can walk without counting my steps in increments of 8.

They said all I have to do is swallow a red pill, but doesn't he know I can't swallow red pills because red has 3 letters, and that's an odd number and the fact that I only swallow an odd number of the pill is the exact reason why I can't take it. The number 1 is a sad number, but the doctor doesn't understand.

He said things would straighten out themselves, but I'm trying to wonder what's in this pill that makes pictures seem even on a wall.

He told me it will help the germs leave me alone; I'm not certain, but I'm thinking germs aren't suddenly going to run the other way simply because I swallowed a red pill with 3 letters and a color out of my color scheme.

Doesn't he know gingers don't look good in red?

Did you know the place with the highest quantity of germs is the bottom of the kitchen sink? Yet mother doesn't seem to understand why I can't do dishes. Someone tell her to stop grounding me.

The second is the bottom of a woman's purse. Yet mother doesn't understand why I can't carry a purse, or refuse to grab hers.

The third is a restaurant menu. Yet mother doesn't understand why I have her order for me. She thinks I won't grow up, but at least I'm not the one going to get a disease that I made up in my head.

People give me looks simply because I can't touch a door handle, but they they assume I'm the bitch who demands the door to be open for her. I'm not responsible for opening the door for others.

I got made fun of because I have to wash my hands 32 times a day. If you multiply 2 by itself, it becomes 4. Multiply 4 by 2 again, it becomes 8, then multiply that by 2, it becomes 16, then repeat the same process, it becomes 32. It doesn't make sense to you, but to me it is one of the 10 commandments.

Everything has to do with 2 and 8. 2×2=4 and 4×8=32.

The volume has to be at 2, 4, 8, 16, etc.

Why is it 8?

Every piece of music is counted in increments of 8.

You dance to music, which is in 8 counts.

I've been dancing for as long as I can remember. I don't know if the fixation of 8 started because I simply lived by stepping in 8, or because the music told me it wasn't pretty to sing out of the norm of an even number.

Sometimes it's hard to count 8 in everything.

Sometimes it's not.

Sometimes I feel like I'm tore in half. Half of my face painted black, crying how things aren't perfect, and the other half white crying because it's tired of counting.

Sometimes if my footsteps end with less than an 8, I step in place until I reach 8.

You wouldn't understand the germ problem if I tried to explain it.

I will not touch your hand. Until I get to know you, that is. Once I know you, and I like you, it is almost like I can touch you because I know your soul is clean.

If not I will use my elbow or my closed fist to greet you. It's not you it's me... Well it is kind of you, so...

Do you want to know where the least dirty part of a door handle is? The very bottom, or the outside edge.

The dirtiest part of children's clothing? Their tennis-sneaker laces.

I'm filled with fun facts.

Did you know I spend 4 hours cleaning the bottoms of my shoes. 8÷2=4.

I shower for 32 minutes. 32÷4=8.

I chew either 8 or 32 times depending on what I eat.

I can get to the school in 8 minutes from my house.

I am okay with the number 3 for some reason when it comes to punctuation...

Did you know Brooklyn has 8 letters in it? I got lucky there.

The doctor told me that that wasn't healthy for my mind. I agreed with him because healthy is only 7 letters and that doesn't fly by me.

What isn't healthy about counting and multiplying and dividing?

No just kidding.

But seriously.

The number 8 is going to kill me if it hasn't already...

But then again doctor, who's mind is healthy anymore?

We all have our OCD. Some of us just stick to the rules more than others.