04/17/2026
TW: Real feelings, loss, grief, OCD
I remember so very much. Not everything, not always in order. Push the right combination of buttons and I’ll spit out an exact scene of the moment in reference. Perhaps once upon a time it was eidetic, not sure If that’ll ever come back. There’s before and after now. Some scrambling a permanent fallout of loss, grief.
I once read a book where the main character was covered in tattoos and highly paid to, well, be herself. Capable, strong, investigative, reputation for results. Dressed, worked, came and went how she desired. Oh s**t, I now have a dragon tattoo. But I digress. At the end of the book I thought, how good do you have to be to get away with that. Be careful the questions you ask of the universe, she answers.
Perhaps it was the beginning of the end of the beginning to the path I needed to take, trying to avoid. It’s this liminal esoteric crazy space of becoming. What the f**k does that even mean, are we trapped in some adult Dr Seuss reality? Crazy how my favorite children’s author known for whimsical messages of fancy that teach humanity with rhythm and rhyme shared the same birthday with the water that boiled me slowly like a frog.
All these references and reasons must come out they swim in my head and take up space and birth babies and hide their eggs in the crevices of my brain and I find myself frozen. I notice I’m holding my breath. Stop. Breathe. Count, 1…2…3… Breathe. I know box breathing says four and my OCD trips, waits, stumbles, remind myself its ok 4 feels wrong 4 feels bad 4 feels like holding my breath too long to the point I’ll suffocate and I …. Breathe. 1 2 3, Breathe. Head between the knees, hands crossed behind my neck open the chest BREATHE.
I think back to a time my therapist asked me about the counting. I had made an offhand remark to her that I count everything. “Everything, what does that mean?”
“Everything”
“Like, can you give me an example?”
I’m used to this line of questioning. I know she’s not trying to lead or prompt specific answers. She really wants me to do this, not give me an out. She really wants me to reach into the feeling. Describe it the way I feel it. I’ve learned I have logical head based answers and an entirely different set of answers in my body. F**k, I wasn’t ready to feel this topic but here it is, on the table. F**king breathe! Counting 3 2 3…. 4 2 3… all the appropriate pauses, holds, inhales, exhales in between. Sometimes my hands rest in this process and I feel grounded and bold and ready and like I’m standing in front of Congress ready to give my testimony and others, not so much.
Today looks like hands wringing, foot tapping, shoulders rolling, big audible sighs, shifting in my seat, box breathing intermittent with forgetting that I was here as the waves of anxiety roll over me and I gasp… out loud.
“Breathe”
Gasp!
Ok Jade, you’re here. You’re paying a lot of f**king money for this you indulgent little bitch. This is so ridiculous, who gives a s**t if you count? Who cares if you learned to type because you obsessed the keys on your fingers like you were typing every sentence you spoke ‘virtually’ long before virtual was virtual and memorized the position of the QWERTY keyboard and would make up little sentences to figure out if there were 10 letters on the left hand and 14 on the right or how we could hit all the keys in practice when sentences were too much so our brain made up nonsensical Seussical phonetic ways to hit the most used keys in the alphabet. Think, Missy Elliott flipping and reverse it - that’s what it sounds like. Phabetalacious Wereflippininqertus. Yeah.
Snap back
“I (too long of a pause). I….. I count everything. And sometimes I stutter. I don’t mean to, it just happens. I used to get yelled at for it a lot, just spit it out! But that made it worse. Overwhelm, white noise, black out… shut down. Counting… counting grounds.” The thoughts overlap with the out-loud answer and the counting.” I know I’ve used a lot of ellipses in this story but this is truly what it feels like - for me. You may or may not recognize your OCD in me. I may or may not recognize my OCD in you. None of that matters and I know I’m taking too long to answer.
Layering everything into the words the way it happens for me. I can’t exactly write sentences over the top of each other so they’re interspersed with the bulls**t that is tearing me apart from the inside and still the glass rolls under my skin and I’ve literally counted every second since she asked me this question and I’m circling and I don’t know why because I trust her and she trusts me and we’ve been down so many roads together I’m simultaneously talking, counting, processing, reliving, talking myself down and on and on “I can tell you exactly how many seconds have passed since you asked me this question. I can tell you the number of times my heartbeat spiked in my throat while trying to answer you. Double counting? No they have their own process lanes. Behind my eyes is so much truth and doubt and resistance I have to counterbalance and hold myself up with something concrete something physical and numbers feel physical, ya know?” I blurt.
“Breathe” she says
And I take a deep breath, blow it out. She prefers when I do the whole action. Give my body something else physical to feel. Push it hard. Audible exhale. “I know how many steps it is from my bedroom to the driveway I know how many go missing when I leap over the banister I know how many steps disappear when I’m running quick like a gazelle in an attempt to stop what has already happened” I say.
“You doing really good, do you want to take a break?”
Eyes close, remembering. I’m ok, not on the verge of blown, managing. It’s hard. It hurts. I know the counting didn’t start after, I also know it increased. I also know this is one piece of something and that she’s navigating, but I’m not the expert here, just the storyteller. “No” I say, eyes still closed. “I’m ok.” Remind myself I trust her. Tears falling down my face by now, but I stopped apologizing for that with her ages ago. “I know, know, I know how many days he lived. how many days he’s been gone. I know the number of times he begged for his father to f**king want something to do with him. I know the number of times I made ‘the loop’ (more on that another time). I know how many times I woke up that night, listened to him laughing with his friends playing on Discord well into the night. I know how many times the cat puked. I know I know I know I know I know”
“Jade, take a deep breath. With me, 1 2 3. We’re going to take a break now. Follow me.”
>>>>>>>
It’s national semicolon day. If today or any day you’re struggling with ANYTHING! Please, know you are not alone. This is a snipit of a story that I know is relatable to someone. And even if it’s not your exact story I see you. We’re kindred spirits. I’ve named part of me Jade to make it easier to tell these stories in hopes that someone out there can see that even though this is all happening inside your brain, there is hope. There is help. You are worth it and you deserve it. I know it’s hard.
Please stay.
Ruminating thoughts and all if that happens to be you. Depression and all. Stigma and all. Whatever your diagnosis, non-diagnosis, feeling, humanity and f**king all you will never be alone here.
Love, j
