What I Do and Why a Used Tissue Might Kill Me One Day...

Updated on January 26, 2018
Editing in a caravan, in a field in Dorset... because why not?
Editing in a caravan, in a field in Dorset... because why not?

The perfect way to make my first personal blog entry, no?

Hi. I'm Katie, I'm a writer and I suffer from OCD.

I don't mean the 'Oh, you're so OCD!' kind of OCD. Nor the 'I have to straighten out all your artwork or I'll go mad!' OCD (though I admit that gets me, hang your pictures straight or not at all Godsdammit) I mean the genuine, diagnosed, strange-thoughts-that-make-your-brain-itchy type of OCD.

I go to therapy, I get help, I manage my condition. I write. I go do my day job and then I come home and I write. I do little else. I fill my time with words so that I spend as little of it as possible actually thinking. I have Avoidance down to a fine art form. I accept this about myself and I manage it, then I move on.

So why the article? Basically because it's hilarious. OCD doesn't care how smart you are, nor how logical. It teases you and then laughs at you until you do what it wants you to. Today I had one of those moments.

To get to the day job I have to endure the terror that is 'Public Transport.' I get on the bus (it's late but since it's always late that detail is barely relevant.) I get on the bus and 'being OCD' I stride confidently towards my spot. My seat. The only place on any bus I have deemed it is safe to sit... and today it was occupied by a horrible, manky, snotty used tissue.

I stared at the tissue and it stared at me (it was alive enough to have grown eyes.) There were two other people on the bus and I started to sweat. I was going to have to make a decision before I looked like a weirdo. The bus engine turned over, the Driver pulled away- and I'm still stuck there, staring down at this tissue and wondering what in the Hell I'm going to be able to do about it. We drove on and I could feel the other passengers eyes on me. I had to sit down, I had to stop gawking at the seat and sit in it. I had left it too late to find another seat!

I forewent my usual seat and sat in the one beside it, then spent the rest of the journey trying not to notice that the germ ridden kerchief was coming closer every time we took a sharp left turn. I took deep breaths, I plastered a smile to my face. I grinned like a maniac and realised that there was no arm rest. With no arm rest and no seat belt I had nothing to hold on to, and this wee bus pelted along the road at forty-five miles an hour, me trying to avoid this tissue whilst simultaneously hanging on- even though there wasn't a clean surface in sight!

The point in all of this is that I could have died today. If that bus went off the road I would have plummeted head first down the aisle and planted my forehead in the windscreen...and all because of a damned tissue. The moral? I need to start carrying hand sanitizer again. I suppose also maybe, perhaps, reservedly- that the OCD can make you do things that puts yourself in worse danger than just confronting the thing you are afraid of. That doesn't apply to me of course, that's just for other people. I'm just a writer with my head in the sand. Perchance I will remove it one day if it starts getting too hot.

© 2018 Katrionawrites


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