Awesome Josh

I’ve been meaning to talk about this for some time now.  Not a lot of people see how bad my OCD is, because, well, it doesn’t come out often.  When I get depressed my OCD comes out of the closet and likes to sit in my lap.  I don’t like that, not one bit.

When I was first diagnosed with my depression, my parents attributed some of my more “weird” behaviors to this.  I haven’t done a lot of research on OCD because the fact is, no matter how much therapy or medicine you can shove down my throat, I’ll still have OCD and I’ll still be depressed.  But, I’m guessing that they are connected somehow.

Sometimes these OCD quirks get annoying.  Like the fact that I don’t like odd numbers, but yet my favorite number is 33.  I’ll go so far as to have two sandwiches because having one is a) odd and b) not enough.  But if I’m still not satisfied with two sandwiches, I’ll either not eat anything else or I’ll make two more, just to avoid the whole odd number thing.

Another thing is what I eat.  I can’t eat anything “grape” except grapes.  Grape jelly doesn’t taste like real grapes, nor does grape Kool-aid.  I won’t eat them.  The only kind of jelly I’ll eat is strawberry unless it’s something cool.  Something like what Erin has.  I don’t remember what she has, but they sounded exotic and delicious when she told me, so I’ll pretend that I’ll eat them.  But what’s the real kicker is how I make my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  It’s a lengthy process because if it isn’t just perfect, I won’t eat it.  And I can literally tell if someone makes my sandwich wrong.  I won’t eat it because I know you fucked it up.  I’m sorry if that will offend you, but that’s how I roll.  The peanut butter needs to be on the bottom, always, and if it’s not, and you flip it over just so you can try and trick me, I’ll know and I’ll not be happy.

The other day when I was “reflecting” on my life, I got to the point where I was counting everything possible to make sure that things were even.  I have three windows in my bedroom, which I hate but I can’t change but it still bothers me.  I wish I could make another window but I don’t think my parents will be too happy when I take a sledgehammer to my wall.  I only have one door, which also bothers me, but I can forgive that because having two doors would be quite odd.  There are 13 lines on my ceiling.  They are more like cracks.  I drew one in so it looks like I have 14, but it still bothers me because I know that I only really have 13.  I have a hardwood floor.  It looks nice.  But there are 107 pieces of wood.  This bothers me.  I want to remove one but I would probably trip and fall and break an arm.  I have 9 pairs of pants.  I’m thinking of giving away one pair or burning one, just so I can have 8.  I have an even amount of shirts, so this is good.

There isn’t really anything wrong with being like this, other than I can get a bit annoying sometimes.  I was talking with my mom and I was counting the tiles on our ceiling in our living room and I informed her that there was an odd amount.  She was annoyed.  When my parents decided to remodel the kitchen they decided to put tile down for the floor.  There’s an odd number of tiles.  This bothers me and I told them so.  They were annoyed.

But, whatever.  This is how I get sometimes.  I don’t like being all “ZOMG! There’s only 3 of this or 9 of that.”  That’s kind of weird, so most of the time I’ll just think to myself about how I don’t like it, play with my fingers, and move on.  I’ve learned to accept things and move on.  Because this is what I have to do in order to not be labeled the “freaky person who should be institutionalized.”