I’ve danced with the devil again, the orange juice and rum sticks to my tongue. My head is aching and swimming with thoughts and self doubt. I wish the incessant buzzing would stop. My OCD is running rampant on my tender brain. It’s all flashes of knives dragging across skin and the brutal dissection of loved ones. I’ve learned to be at peace with these images, these things people would damn me for. I let them roll in like a tide and I barely worry if it shows on my face anymore. My thought process is bombarded with violent images and yet I mean no pain. I have a disorder, and I’ve tried to explain it but all I’ve ever heard back is, “that’s not OCD, you’re a psychopath”. “You really need to be put away”. So I secretly dream of disembowelment and wearing intestines like a scarf. So it’s hard for me to engage in a professional conversation without imagining taking a pencil to my colleagues eye. Am I crazy? Sure. But I couldn’t hurt a fly. I have intrusive violent thoughts, I have obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m no monster. Please, educate yourselves before you come to my door with your pitchforks and fire.