An Insufferable Itch
I have an itch at the back of my head. No, not the scalp—it runs deeper than that.
It seems far out of reach, in a place that my fingers can’t scratch.
A parasite that beguiles me with irresistible commands: “Do this, now do that, stop a second, and go back, check again, did you count? Are you sure?, check and count again, until I say no more.”
The voice sounds like my own. But it isn’t–The parasite crawls and slithers in my skull. But it sings a siren call. My ears are seduced by the song. I’m compelled to answer its cry.
Yet, I resist.
I comb firmly with a brush, the bristles claw at the skin… but it doesn’t help much. It’s an insufferable itch that I can never scratch.
I can’t break this spell.
The voice already calls with resounding triumph, summoning my attention: "Clean, check, and count. Order and arrange this and now that. So what if it’s not important to you–it’s important to me! Now do as I say or I’ll never leave until you answer my plea!!"
So, I imprison it away in the dungeons of my mind... But behind the iron bars, it still bangs and bellows, and throws in a screeching chime.
There’s no relief in sight.
I seize the brush, rip and tear through skin, but the itch spreads like wildfire; it blazes a trail through all my thoughts, burning everything that is ripe for harvest. Flakes and blood fall from the scalp. I’m already weary. This battle has barely begun, but I’ve already lost. My eyes glaze over at the life unfolding before me. The countdown commenced long ago, now I’m grappling to prevent a personal record. Yes, the doors are locked, and the switches are off, but I refuse to yield to it anymore!
But the parasite isn’t the prisoner here. Soon it injects its venom. An intrusive interlude begins.
The voice shapes sinister questions: "How would everyone look naked right now? If you don’t wash your hands properly, will you contract a disease? What if the oven is left on and it explodes? Where would it hurt the most to get stabbed? Why don’t you read this line again and again?"
It’s a barrage of monologues that I’m absent from. Distractions around my home become plentiful and I rush to be relieved. I must confess that I’ve already cleaned, checked and counted just in case the voice decides to catch its breath. Yet it never leaves me alone. Who’s really in control here? I’m the servant tending to its master’s every wish.
Now that everything has been done, can I finally rest?
I beg for reassurance from a nearby soul. Though I’m scanned with a suspicious glance, I passed the test– yes, I’m human, just more fragile than you are. They mutter and nod, dulled by their apathy. Why does all this matter so much to me?
Contrary to what I expect, the itch calms down… for now. Yet, I can feel its hunger and thirst for more. The parasite grins as it swells: “You think you’ll ever do things once?! Hah, what a fool! I’m here for the rest of your life, this is your own private hell.”
I have an itch at the back of my head. It never leaves my side.
The parasite seems far out of reach, but if I could only find the right spot…
This is only a glimpse of what it’s like to live with OCD. It runs rampant in my headspace daily, although I do my best to keep it at bay. I hope this resonates with fellow sufferers and provides an ounce of comfort knowing that they aren't alone in this insufferable insanity.