which means a whole lot of you don’t know the difference between an intrusive thought and an impulsive thought.
intrusive thoughtsare a symptom of ocd and many other disorder, they are upsetting and often graphic, they are thoughts you do not want and that scare you, commonly thoughts about doing something violent or about abuse. i suffer from intrusive thoughts, they are triggering and upsetting and yes, dark or about killing people.
an impulse can also be a symptom of a disorder, impulses are not inherently bad and are just your brain telling you to do things with no thought as to why. some can be unpleasant, but they can also be things like “cut all your hair off” or “eat the cardboard”.
please stop saying that intrusive thoughts and impulses are the same thing, you are only adding to the stigma and misunderstanding people with intrusive thoughts face.
honestly there needs to be more awareness and support for disordered eating that’s not just about body image
shout out to people with spoilage or contamination phobias. to people with very specific food rituals that can’t be disturbed. to people with sensory processing issues that can’t deal with certain textures or flavors. to people that can’t eat food they didn’t see prepared. to people whose foods can’t touch one another because it makes all the alarms in their brain go off. to people whose severe anxiety is reduced to them being “picky eaters”.
your problems are valid; sometime’s it’s not as easy as “just try it”; it’s not rude to refuse food you don’t think you can eat; your diet is no one’s business but yours and your doctors’
Stop making movies about people with disabilities “finding love against all odds” as if people with disabilities are unlikely to find love unless it’s in some “inspiring” story. Our struggles are not your plot device.
honestly, shout out to those who’re balancing mental illness and school. i know it’s hard. i know it’s stressful. i know it’s overwhelming. i know it seems like no one understands, especially when they call you “lazy” or “dumb,” but i am so, so, so proud of you for making it this far. go at your own pace. everything’ll be ok!
the worst part abt being young and mentally ill is that u see stories abt homeless mentally ill people and think: holy shit that could be me. im already super dependent on people right now whats it gonna be like when im supposed to be living on my own?
when i was four years old, i was very obsessive about having my socks at the same length.
if they didn’t align to the t, i’d throw fits. and for the first few months, my parents saw this as a cute little quirk - something that made their darling daughter a tiny bit more interesting.
but what what was interesting was how my mind would refuse to let me step a foot out of the door if i dared to mismatch my socks, or god forbid, have them anything but at the same length. doctors would’ve jumped at getting the chance to examine me, and why i was so fucking obsessive. that’s interesting. that’s different.
when i was eight years old, i was teased for the way i ate. small, precise nibbles or else your family will die in a car crash in exactly ten minutes. oh, and you have to eat in twos or fours or tens otherwise you’ll get food poisoning. but my quirk made me different, right? and how could any of these people eat the way they did? weren’t they concerned about their loved ones burning to death because they forgot to take a fourth bite?
when i was nine years old, i was shouted at for using all the hot water. but i had to. i had to scrub and scrub and scrub at my flesh until it burned bloody and raw, otherwise the water would transform into acid when the next person used it. i had to, otherwise the bugs would squirm under my skin and lay babies there. i could feel them brewing, and so i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed-
when i was ten years old, i was grounded for changing the volume on the tv remote to an even number. my hand was quickly slapped away, and i was reprimanded immediately. but why? why were they so ungrateful? i was just trying to save them. thirteen is a bad number, you know; unlucky. do you want to be unlucky? do you love my quirk now?
when i was twelve years old, i convinced myself i was a murderer. i convinced myself that my favourite celebrities had hurt me and i wasn’t allowed to like them anymore. i became so sick with guilt that i was either throwing up or hiding in my bedroom. how did my friends do their homework when their minds were focused unwillingly on knives? why was my ‘quirk’ keeping me hostage in my own mind?
when i was still twelve years old, i ended up confessing everything to my mother through a flood of tears after an extreme panic attack. and she didn’t really understand, but our doctor insisted i had something called obsessive compulsive disorder. and finally i could breathe, i could loosen the chains on my wrist and stop worrying. my quirk wasn’t so interesting as it was daunting, after all. my prison door was still locked shut, but at least i had the courage now to attempt to open it.
when i was fourteen years old, i would constantly be reminded of embarrassing situations. they’d play in my mind like a jukebox or a tape recorder, and i wouldn’t have the heart nor the wits to press pause. i’d be haunted by visions of my dead family, their graves a mock gift from one side of my head to another. and yet,why couldn’t i unlock the door? ocd had stepped into my mind without even shutting the door or wiping it’s feet, so why couldn’t i return the favour?
when i was fifteen years old, everybody would be staring at me constantly. they had to be, didn’t they? they could see the intrusive thoughts blaring in my brain and the neon sign above my head reading ‘FREAK’ and the note stuck to my back saying 'KILL ME’. the prison door still won’t open.
when i was still fifteen years old, ocd had swamped my life like it wanted to consume me. and i let it; guiding it around like a shadow on a leash. the door is still locked, and whenever i try to open it, the shadow looms. i’m it’s prisoner, after all, and this quirk has booked me in for a life sentence.
i stop going to school. i stop posting stories online. i stop eating. i stop showering. the dishes pile up in the sink and my dog whines for a walk. i start crying.
i start dying.
when i was still fifteen years old, i began seeing a counsellor. for real, this time, and despite her and everyone else around me being tainted by my intrusive thoughts, i saw the glimmer in her eyes and recognised it as hope. i stopped trying to open the door. instead, i saw the hand poking through the slot in it, beckoning me to take a hold and trust. trust.
and so i did, and boy did i grip tight, holding onto her like she was my only hope from a next stop to insanity.
i stopped trying to open the door. and instead, i started looking for the key.