Personal Narrative-Compulsive Disorder

To you, I am just another story to tell. My phone is on, but I haven’t received a text in weeks. You remind me of that every day. You laugh at me, call me a whore, tell me I am crazy. To you, I am just another girl for you to destroy. Depression, you make me physically ill. You make me thoughtless. I can’t concentrate on conversations or school anymore. I am just so exhausted. I look forward to the moment I can crawl into bed and sleep my life away. You made my life not worth living. Anxiety, you lowered my self-esteem. I can’t even wear my hair up in ponytails because you told me my forehead was too big. You told me that everyone was watching me walk down the hallway, judging my plain outfits. You pulled me into extreme isolation. When you

I am disconnected, lacking contact with reality. It happened in an instant and gradually intensified over time. October of 2015, I had just turned 14 and everything was average, mediocre. I was subdued at this time for reasons I cannot recall and hadn’t been talking much in class. The issue commenced in chemistry class in what lasted a second but felt like a lifetime. The class had been divided into groups, and we were assigned to create a poster. After half an hour of doing the entirety of the work myself, the poster was completed, and I was satisfied with it. Each group was to choose a person to represent their group and explain the poster. Fortunately, I was not chosen. After each poster was presented, they were each taped to the whiteboard

I caught her wrists which were crossed together and pulled them apart as I slowly licked and sucked my way toward the peak of the white breast that was gradually being

Throughout my elementary school days, my teachers regarded me as a trouble maker. Most instructors just assumed that as a young boy, I was naturally energetic and loud. My second grade teacher, however, did not see it that way. She told my mom about her hunch, suggesting that I get tested for ADD. My mother however, thought I was just being an overzealous kid. Yet, the bad reports continued. Many teachers said that I was “too loud, disruptive, hyper, etc.”. Finally, I was diagnosed with ADD in eighth grade.

Bucky kissed you tenderly while his hands worked with your bra, undoing the straps and throwing it off the the side. His hand massages both of your breast. The contrast between the cold and the warm as able to make you utter a soft moan. Bucky groaned in response, loving the sweet sound you made as he worshiped you.

She felt the strength in his arms as he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. His hands gripping her back side as if he wanted to commit every last curve to memory. But it was the kiss that send her mind spinning. She moaned and met his passion with her own, her teeth catching his bottom lip and tugging as her body pressed firmly against his.

The first dimension I will discuss is the psychological dimension. From age seven I suffered from severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (subtype scrupulosity). From an early age the disease ran rampant in my mind but I hid it for twenty years (which I hear is common for children who develop OCD so young). The impact of this disease affected my development in the way that my brain thinks, reasons and works. By the time my family realized something was wrong, I was spending hours upon hours performing rituals. My brain had trained itself to listen to scrupulosity and I had no control over it. I could not live a normal life…and the anxiety from the obsessive thoughts controlled everything I did. Every memory I have, OCD was present. Now

I've struggled with Generalized Anxiety Disorder for years. It started when I was 11 years old...I bean over thinking things and became increasingly scared of social situations. In high school, it escalated quickly. I knew all too well the horror of anxiety attacks and many times I was too afraid to even get out of bed.

I can relate to what you expressed about your son being assessed for ADD symptoms. My son experienced the same situation when he was in first grade. Unfortunately, he lost his father from a sudden death and he was present when we found him. After his dad’s death, he started acting out and his teacher suggested to have him tested for ADHD disorder. Not knowing any better I had him tested, and the Dr. said he does not have ADHD. I took him to counseling at seven years old and he wouldn’t cooperate with the counselor so, we discontinued his therapy. His behavior continues and now the school was suggesting he has a learning disability; he was tested and he was given a IEP for school. Now he is entering middle school and the subject is brought up

Elizabeth agreed on the idea of us babysitting almost all the time. I had learned she had no idea Rodney stayed home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I mean, I see why, he still did get paid for those days, as he would work his ass off whenever he was normal.

Have you ever gotten so furious before you felt like nothing mattered? They just kept on doing something to you and you just kept on getting mad.Then someone tried to talk to you and you just weren't in the mood to be talked to or bothered . You reacted in a horrible way by hitting and yelling. Well that's exactly what I'm writing to tell you about. How my anger got a hold of me and would not let me go. How I wanted waffles but my mom gave me something else instead.

I remember while I went to school, my father babysat my toddler son, Jay. One night I came home to a flustered grandpa. "Diane, there is something wrong with Jay. He cried the whole time you were gone. That's not normal." My dad's words about my son hurt me, but I just filed them away in my memory.

The following week was our next game and we were extremely ready. We practiced everyday as hard as we could because we knew how close we were to the championship I could almost feel it. The team we were playing was the saints and they seemed as ready has us, but we knew we were going to come out on top. In the first five inning both teams didn't score or get any hits. It wasn't until the the seventh inning when until any one got a hit. It was a little blooper over the second baseman's head for a single that's when we got fired up. The next at bat a double down the third base side was hit. Now there was runners on third and second with no outs, this was our chance to take the lead. The next batter up popped up the first pitch to the catcher

I do not think most people understand how much I would sacrifice to live the life of someone else. No, it’s not because I live a life of poverty or have terminal cancer. It’s something far deeper, lurking beneath what I care to show the world. Still, it’s a thought that floats around my mind every second of every day, like a fly’s constant buzz as it scours the room for its next victim. I know for a fact that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Though it may sound silly, my hundreds of Google searches on the subject have told me otherwise. The clinical definition of this apparent mental health condition is “an anxiety disorder characterized by recurrent, unwanted thoughts and/or repetitive behaviors”. From experience, those who have never been exposed to this kind of mindset view OCD as some sort of joke. “After all,” they say, “who is dumb enough to check a lock a million times?”

I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder when I was fourteen. Thoughts of germs plagued me everywhere I went. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of getting sick; I was just obsessed with everything being germ free. Before touching anything, a rundown of the possible germs on it consumed my mind. Everything between an outstretched hand to a school desk traumatized me. Who knows the last time this person washed their hands? Who knows what type of people could have been sitting here before me? Everything was a mystery, so I didn’t touch most things. It was tough to get through a day without coming in contact with something that made me uncomfortable. Touching school desks and textbooks were inevitable, so I carried around a bottle of germ-x with me everywhere I went. I’m sure my classmates got sick of the stench of hand sanitizer; it got quite old after the 20th time I put it on… that hour. Everyday was a battle inside my own mind, and I knew something had to change.