I still wonder if I did the right thing, if I did any good in the world.
I feel sorry for my wife.
I chew my aardvark and all the hamsters imagine treason.
The curious thing about this dream is that I am both the main participant and an onlooker. I ride a bicycle quickly through a strip mall, passing many stores — at least one of which is empty. I ride fast, dodging people as I come to them. A series of landscaped pits open up in front of me. Both ramps and stairs lead down onto concrete floors. The challenge is to find the ramps. I swerve about, looking for the ramps. At the last pit, the one ramp is very far away, so I have to ride half way around the pit to get to it. When I get to the top, a couple of guys sword-fighting at the bottom of the stairs block my path. I yell at them to get out of the way as I speed between them. One of the fellows gets on his bike and starts to follow me. A voice tells me that I have finally met my match. I lose him, but I come to a place where a pudgy cyclops blocks a ramp up. I steer around him. He starts to chase me, clenching his pale fists. I find myself on a city street, pedaling as fast as I can. A block away, the light is green. I find myself muttering “Stay green. Stay green” as I wake up.
Two doses of Xanax in succession seem to have brought me out of the mania.
I believe that a good apology requires that you take responsibility for your actions.
It is hard to have a southern overseer;it is worse to have a northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of yourself. — Henry David Thoreau
I need to stop talking about my “OCD”. When do I label myself thus? When I do make sure my desk is orderly every night or make checklists or avoid stepping on cracks or squeeze every last drop of toothpaste from the tube or proofread my blogs before I publish them or correct them after I have published them. It’s a cheap use of the term and it belittles those who actually suffer from the illness.
Many people do it. They have no clue about how it screws up the life of its sufferers. OCD isn’t just a few quirks but it takes over entire lives. I know people who have to touch every door knob in their house before they go to bed or repeat certain phrases over and over again or have their food arranged in a certain way on the plate — they can’t eat it otherwise. Some clean until the floors in the house are badly scratched and carpets are frayed from excessive vacuuming Others hoard. My dentist hygienist tells me that she is always telling her clients with OCD not to brush too much; their excessive efforts wear out the enamel on their teeth and tear up their gums. Its sufferers don’t perform their rituals for pleasure but to avoid punishment by the disorder such as extreme anxiety and sometimes panic. One sufferer described it to me as having a lattice of borders in his mind that he dare not trespass upon.
So I apologize for trivializing the term. It is bad enough to have the disease. No one should have to bear with a stigma that makes light of a serious problem in their lives.
What could they have said to a raging bullshit artist?