The Ultimate Analyst
OCD has its perks, here is one of them
While I seem to know a lot about this disorder, my knowledge cannot be quoted as expertise, since I’m mostly making assumptions based on my experiences and the little information I have gathered from the internet. Nevertheless, having mastered the art and punishment that is rumination, I assure you I have an idea of what I’m talking about.
Twenty-one was a turning point for me, I had decided I was ready to be an adult. So, I started by eating the biggest frog and went to the therapist. After being officially diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), I was prepared to take the necessary steps towards taming it, to eventually rule out being a human disgrace. The reality is, I already knew this wouldn’t be entirely possible.
One can learn how to live with OCD, but to take away its identity doesn’t mean it’s not there anymore, it follows your every step, and with it lingers the things you hate about it, like the endless obsessions that cannot seem to be appeased no matter the amount of compulsions.
The reason for the poem is to explain how illogical a brain with OCD can be, its capability of self-understanding constantly defied by non-stop doubt to the point where it affects what it shouldn’t. Readers should begin to grasp how complex the disorder is, and how it’s more than being “insufferably tidy”.
Finally, I would like to wish a happy OCD awareness month to those “celebrating,” know that no matter how complicated things become, you are not alone.
If you are lost, I hope this poem finds you.
The Ultimate Analyst
by Nicolas Chang
I’m majoring in all my problems,
longing to master the connection
between my conscience and heart,
between the couch and the table.
It’s dirty and walked all over.
It’s rumination
of everything I’ve ever done,
said, thought, held my breath for.
It’s the painting and the wall,
someday it’ll leave a hole.
If it’s the thought that counts,
I can be a good man for hours.
I’m constantly dodging bullets that I shot to fill the silence,
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killing my perception
of how a good person would handle it,
while I shriek under the tension.
Can’t get accustomed with;
ultimate analyst.
There’s a moral to the story,
I just hope someday it’s me.
If you believe in what you cannot see,
this is an attempt of showing you how I live;
filled with grief for decency.
If you’re water, help me breathe.
I must deserve it.
I’m majoring in all my problems,
longing to grasp the connection
between my conscience and heart,
between the couch and the table.
I feel like a constant lesson.
I feel ill and unable
to fix the painting
without breaking the table.
So I lay on the couch,
and I pray that I’m stable.
Here’s to a perfect wall
between willing and able.
