Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

5th blogoversary — March 25, 2015

5th blogoversary

Persevere bitches! !!! I almost forgot today was my fifth blogoversary. Time flies when you mull over how life blows for five. fucking. years. But seriously I love you all, and hopefully one day I’ll stop having a pity party with dumpster dive cake.  Thanks!

No Offense, but…. —

No Offense, but….

No offense, but,
I’m about to tell you
how you are nothing,
Worthless and dim, 
How I must enunciate  syllables,
Your Neanderthal brain is too slim.

No Offense, but, I told you not to take offense!
Its not my problem you shed a tear, when I said I can’t talk to you as an equal, your mind is just too dense! 
Just remember, though,no offense! No Offense!

“None taken.”

(Written for an online friend of mine)

— March 21, 2015

Ever since I was a small child, people have tried to change who I am, most of all myself. At age 7, I remember the praying over and over again for Jesus to come into my heart. Not just to avoid certain eternity in hell, but that if He were really in my heart, I could be normal and perfect too. At age 7, I who was already preoccupied with choking to death and dying of a heart attack thanks to TV, believed Jesus would live inside my heart. In exchange for my free fibrillating condo,  He’d give me shelter in heaven when He set the world alight and make whatever about me that made people dislike me go away.  Ms. Stewart, my teacher would say with certainty that “you’ll be fine,” instead of, “Well, just keep praying about it. Only Jesus really knows…”
Jesus in her heart didn’t stop her from being sadistic and delighting in humiliating me in front of other kids and teachers, or threatening me with her goddamn paddle.

People who claim religion and wear it upon their sleeves are often sadistic and narcissistic, and make everyone else weaker than them suffer. I believe Jesus knows what I mean.

I still pray for God to come into my heart and make me perfect or at least average. There’s just something about me, you know? It’s not so much religosity anymore,  but the need to be liked.

What is it about me that at the age of five, my neighbor saw me choking and giggled? When my throat muscles got the lime candy up and I spat it into the grass, he said “Now look what you did. Get back in the house now.” When I told my mother about it years later, she thought it must have been a dream. There was also some debate among therapists as to what happened when I accidently saw his penis when I was four, but that really doesn’t matter now.
There’s just something that emanates from me that people see as wrong, worthless, needs to be obliterated.
As a teenager, they triedto make me an adult, but I had exiled myself from everyone for two years homeschooling, so I acted younger because I hadn’t been around anyone. My highschool principal’s congratulations for my diploma was “Well you’re done.”
Fast forward to Aging Twink, hero of my mom’s passing. That should have killed me.
With this mark on me how will I ever measure up for anyone?  I will just dissapoint anyone who remotely cares about me from now to eternity.  I am so depressed.

My Septic Self — March 14, 2015

My Septic Self

When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window and gives you a tub of butter to slide your fat ass through.  I feel like I’m having doors shut and windows open left and right, but somehow my massive body can’t pull through them.  One too many Burger King BOGO Whoppers I guess. The truth is that the God who watches over sparrows forgot to kill me the day my usefulness ran out, which was somewhere around 7 am September 13, 2011. I tried to rectify this about three years ago, but it was a lame attempt, and God, like everyone else said, “I don’t want you.” I really don’t know how I survived my life after the attempt, but I did.

What have I become? A filthy, disgusting government mooch. A sifter purveyor  of garbage.  A hoarder is worse than being a whore in most people’s estimation. If I’m not a financial mooch of people, I’m an emotional one. I want so much to be loved, but all I leave is a path of destruction in my wake. I’m too much of a pussy to attempt suicide again. Anything painless is usually fruitless, and I’m too much of a wuss to jump off a bridge  and have my ribs skewer my lungs. I don’t want physical pain, and the fear of physical pain inherent in humans is enough to drown out the pain of sheer worthlessness. I deserve a painful death. I deserve to die the way my mother did,  to have my body become septic and reject me. That is justice.  

I wish the worthless feeling would go away. I know everyone thinks I’m worthless. The other day social services came to help me clean up my apartment so I won’t get evicted. One woman found my ‘fries with that ‘ college degree.’ Now that’s funny.

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