O.C.D./.Com

O.C.D./com

OCD.com

OCD.COM

What struggles
they endure,
an endless litany
of the same,
day in and day out.
Wanting to
move beyond
but always
beyond moving.
What courage it must take
to fit in,
when so much
time is consumed
in rituals that
would make them outcasts.
Thirty minutes
in the bathroom,
touching mirrors,
mirroring touches.
Clocks do not
exist any longer,
rituals are now
the hands on the face of time.
Hours spent arranging
rearranging each day,
to fit the controls
that control the fits,
amidst eyes of angst

Anxieties,
o v e r w h e l m,
fidget, tap tap,
fidget, tap tap tap.
Perhaps a set of
tap shoes and a dream,
but they can't be worn
nor new,
they have to be just right
or on the right or right on,
and just right is
never just right.
Hours spent worrying
about hours spent
sleeping in the haze of a Zoloft
high above all others
after seventy minutes
of getting ready for bed.
Medicated adjustments
tweaked bi-weekly
as doctors whisper in
a call about Risperdal.
warning that it can cause a nervous
tic in one's face,
permanently a flaw
that can't be erased.
Yet it has done wonders
in O.C.D. cases.
So many choices
so many habits
a ninety year old
nun's closet of choices,
each one worn out religiously,
on the crosses
O.C.D. kids bear.
The therapist is exactly that
pissed at the
lackluster results,
but at $200.00 an hour
the parents are
even more pissed off,
resulting in tensions
that bleed into emotions,
that upsets the child,
into much more anxiety.
A sad vicious circle
they all walk around,
days on end, ending in dazes.
The cure is the carrot
but the kid is a meat eater,
grown ravenous on pills.
3.3 million strong,
in the U.S. alone,
obsessed and compelled,
for reasons still unknown.

©-MFB III-Art Whimsically Yours Studio