Poisonous Thoughts

May 21, 2011
By Anonymous

I clicked the lock back and forth. Twenty-seven. It had to be twenty-seven times. Always a seven.

"One, two, three, four-" I counted out-loud quietly.

"V...V?" Damn, now I had to start over.

"Hold on a second mom." I said a little louder. Her eyes bore into my back, I could practically feel the concern and confusion, but that didn't matter right now; I had to finish this.

"-ten, eleven, twelve." I kept going, all the way to twenty-seven. Then turned the knob back-and-forth seven times, just in case.

"Sorry, what?" I asked as I turned around quickly.

Mom just stared at me with a frightened expression on her face.

"What mom?" Her eyes widened.

"What was that?"

"What? I was checking the locks. I keep thinking they might be breaking-"

"V," she interrupted my rant, "you stood there for three whole minutes." Three minutes? It couldn't have been that long. I shook my head and hurried downstairs.

She didn't even tell me what she needed.

I stopped abruptly as I walked by the bathroom. Anxiously turning around, I stared at the toilet. Toilet seat must go down. Up, down, up, down, seven times.

Finally collapsing on the bed, I stared up at the ceiling covered in scrawling writing, bible versus, crude drawings. I remembered when the lock was only seven times, now it's twenty-seven every time I pass it. Why me? Tears started to fall. Three minutes? I checked my watch, checked the computer, set the clock. This happened at least seventeen times throughout the night. Seven. I picked up my red Fender. Six strings, three picks. I spent as much time on the guitar as I could, sometimes, occasionally, it kept me occupied enough to become unaware of myself, of the world. As much time that wasn't consumed by my poisonous thoughts. Poisonous thoughts. Seven. Three minutes. The clock.

I had to pee. The toilet seat, the toilet paper roll. Why couldn't this just stop?

My arm fell into my lap as I slid to the floor; I saw it heavy with scars and a few fresh cuts. Not as deep as they were before, they were still there.

The apathetic fog of depression had receded halfway, my poisonous thoughts and anxiety had filled it's place. Half of the numbing fog was still there, though. There were still moments when I felt like a monster and the only way to get away from my evil alter-ego was to drag a precious razor-blade across my pale flesh.

Someone please fix me.

The author's comments:
The memory of when I first really became aware of my OCD.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!