I Just played catch up with a picture of you and me
Twenty-two year old boy with a bright future. Nothing is going to stop you from working with Congress one day.
Nineteen year-old girl prodigy from the other side of the tracks. I have no idea what I want. I am too idealistic for my own good.
We are holding each other and you stare in to my eyes.
You hold me in such a firm way, but there is a gap between us the size of Mount Rushmore.
I have nothing on but my socks “Take them off,” You say.
“No. My feet are cold.” You start to laugh and you reach for my foot to grab my sock.
“Take. Them. Off.” He commands.
I breath so hard I’m starting to pant. I always loved it when he told me what to do. It drove me crazy in the best way possible. He loved when I questioned him.
“Why?” I sexily whisper in his ear.
You move toward the edge of the bed and rip them off of me. “Because it’s lazy. ”
Before I can say anything else, you take my sock off and stuff them in to my mouth. I am not disgusted. I am incredibly turned on. You proceed to tell me to get on all fours. You tie me up and start to rip my panties off me. Instead you leave them on. You come up from behind me and say, “Do you want it?” I feverishly nod my my head yes. You stick your cock right next to my soaking wet panties. You take the sock out of my mouth. “Tell me you want it.” I’m panting so hard I’m trembling. “Tell. Me. You. Want. It.” You say sternly. “I want it!” I manage to scream. You rip my panties off, and we proceed to have sex for close to four hours.
Afterwards we lay there and it’s so cold I say, “So can I put my socks back on or not?”
We both start laughing and I pick up my Polaroid Camera. You found it on a day trip to Paducah. We found it at a Vintage shop that sold old Election buttons from every Presidential Campaign. I buy you a Robert Kennedy Button. After all, he is your hero. You watch me as I eye a vintage Polaroid Camera. You buy it for me. “Only if you promise we have some fun with this later!” You say.
We lay in each others arms. You hold me and smile and you let me take another Polaroid of us. I look at the Polaroid. “Do you think your mom would like me?” You don’t respond. You are about to leave for a job. I won’t hear from you again for another two years.
Two whole years I wait. You call me when you find out I’m engaged. I listen to your voice mails “Hey Mae! I really need to talk to you!” After about the 7th voice mail I answer.
“Hello beautiful!” He says so cocky, I never really liked him when he was cocky.
“It’s too late,” I say. “You had two years to call me. To let me know if you’re okay. I didn’t think you were coming back! I was starting to wonder if I had made you up in my head! The only proof I have that you actually existed is a box of polaroids! And that’s all you will ever be to me! You are a polaroid!”
I hang up and take a look at my future husband. I smile and think of how he holds me so tight. There are no gaps between us when he holds me. When I ask him if his mom would like me he responds, “Well, she passed away when I was 15. But my Dad will.” He lets me sleep naked, but with my socks on.
You call me again last week to congratulate me on my baby. I don’t answer. I play catch up with a polaroid of you and me. Behind your cocky smile sat broken promises of a life that you were never meant to have with me.
So, I sat the polaroids on fire. You always loved to dream, but you were never ready to wake up.
Let me first begin with stating that my website, is not about OCD. My hopes that if I can get my message out there I can help someone else out.
When you have OCD you don’t have many quiet moments in your head. For me, OCD is often like a song playing over and over in a loop. Only the song isn’t a happy pop song.
Well…sometimes it is. But, I’ll get to that later.
The thoughts aren’t about me doing bad things, but they’re never pleasant. Most obsessions are based on deep fears — “What if I or someone I love gets sick?” — or basically the worst things one can think of, like blasphemy, racism, suicide, murder, rape, contamination, animal abuse, politics, torture … and the thoughts are often things I can never control.
Here is something that people with OCD can tell you-you are usually NOT a neat freak! Some of you might remember the show Monk, about a private eye whose OCD makes him a brilliant detective. I never felt as if I was being represented when watching the show because – COMPULSIONS DIFFER!
OCD doesn’t necessarily mean you’re neat and particular. Those of you into reality shows: Have you ever seen that show Hoarders? Hoarding is often a symptom of OCD. Compulsions vary. Sometimes they correspond to fears, like washing your hands because you’re scared of contamination. Sometimes there’s no real logic behind them, like when you have to jump over a line on the floor because otherwise everybody you know will die horribly and it will be all your fault. Or, like Hannah Horvath from Girls describing herself having to masterbate 8 times a night to starve off diseases of the mind and body.
Many don’t have physical compulsions at all, instead suffering from “purely obsessional” OCD, where all they have are obsessions. And some people with diagnosed OCD even obsessively doubt the fact that they have OCD. How’s that for a mindfuck?
People who suffer from OCD know that there is something wrong with them. One of the many differences between OCDers and people who are just “quirky” — besides a role on a major sitcom — is shame. Let’s be clear: If you regularly check your pockets to confirm that you’ve still got your car keys, or if you prefer your sandwiches with the crust cut off, or if you only eat red Starbursts, you’re not suffering from OCD. Those are just quirks, and also the pink Starburst is obviously the best. People like quirks when they’re cute, fun, and harmless. When they involve licking light switches or hitting yourself over the head with your shoe, people just think you’re “crazy.”
But you’ll believe it of yourself as well. You’ll be standing in your bathroom at three in the morning, scrubbing your pocket change because you’ve been awake for hours wondering if it could contaminate your clothes and make you a danger to the people around you, and you’ll be unable to stop, but you’ll know that what you’re doing is crazy.
OCD is “ego dystonic,” which means “out of sync with your ideal self. OCDers don’t even get any joy out of their compulsions. You don’t want to make sure the door is locked 25 times in one night, you have to. It makes you feel better. It makes you feel so good! It’s a relief from the constant thoughts in your brain. But, the relief is only temporary.
Sadly, it’s rarely just OCD. For example, I am also diagnosed with panic attacks, generalized anxiety disorder, and depression. Panic attacks, Tourette syndrome, hypochondria, body dysmorphic disorder, and eating disorders are all so-called OCD sister disorders. Meaning, they are all on the same spectrum. They’re diagnoses in their own right that exist on their own but also hang around in the background while OCD messes with your mind.
Dr. Anne Marie Albano, clinical site director of New York-Presbyterian’s Youth Anxiety Center, and a leading voice in child anxiety research, has found that the condition often takes root around age four, and can bloom into depression by high school, leading to substance abuse and even suicide. The clearest path to treating it is to “remove the stigma around anxiety with parents,” she says. Instead of hiding the problem, explore treatment—the most successful of which she has found to be “a combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and medication.”
Which brings me to my own story of OCD. I mentioned in an earlier blog that it was at age four that my parents realized that there may not be something right with me. I talked about my generalized anxiety issues, but it is only until now that I am telling my journey of OCD. My Mom died when I was 14, and that was when my OCD became extremely debilitating.
I am the baby of the family. I have three older brothers, all eleven and ten years older than me. It’s Brent, (the oldest,) and then Dirk and Kirk, (the twins,). Because my Dad was sick too when my mom passed, social services came in the night she died and told my family that my oldest brother Brent would have to be my guardian or I would be handed over to the state.
Brent became my guardian, and ensued was a whirl-wind of change. He was only twenty-four years old, and he was not mature enough to be a guardian to a teenage girl who had just lost her mom. He didn’t know that he was supposed to take me to my psychiatrist that I had been seeing since I was eight years old.
So, something I loved to do was the alphabet in sign language. I would be in school and I would have my hand near my side and I would do sign language. And it felt so good. If I were stressed I would tug on my ear 4 times and then slap my side with my right hand, and then I would do the alphabet in sign language. I would do the alphabet walking down the halls, I would do the alphabet in gym class, I would do the alphabet in class while I was supposed to be writing notes. My hand felt like it was going to fall off. My grades were starting to be effected. I was always a straight A student, and at the time I came home with all F’s. Oh, and kids are super cruel anyways, they are extra cruel when you are doing things that are bringing attention to yourself.
At night time the song, “Story of a Girl,” would play over and over in my head. One night I became so desperate for sleep that I started tugging on my ears. I tugged on my ears so hard they started to tear and bleed, and I put a cotton ball in my ears. The school counselor finally stepped in. And when she did she threatened my brother that she was going to call social services. My brother got me back into my normal doctor, and I got back on my meds. I also started talking to a grief counselor.
While my anxiety and OCD was not cured, and it was definitely not the last time I hurt myself or someone else, I was able to sleep better. And I was getting better grades. OCD is treatable.
There have been better years than others. The year I miscarried the twins I didn’t leave the house for a year.
Recently my OCD was becoming really uncontrollable again. There was a lot of changes going on in my life, and I would get stuck on words in conversation. For example, I just started a new position at work. My team was in training and we were reading out loud and my boss got to me and I started my sentence and said, “The attorney stated stated stated stated…” I went on as if nothing had happened, but you could tell there was a confusion in the room. I left the room and went to the bathroom, and cried in embarrassment. No one likes being the New Girl, but when you feel like you are different or there is something wrong with you go home and you feel ashamed. And like you are worthless.
The good news is that OCD and its tag-along disorders are treatable. There are all kinds of medications and therapies that can help alleviate symptoms. And since the spectrum disorders are linked, one treatment can sometimes cover all symptoms. OCD is not something that can be cured, but it can be controlled.
More recently a site reached out to me that is called nOCD. nOCD is an app that was created by someone who suffers from OCD themselves. The founder, Stephen Smith, (a total cutie BTDUBS,) is on a mission to help people with OCD and to take the shame away from the disorder. nOCD is a fully customizable app which incorporates clinically proven OCD treatment techniques (we are not creating a revolutionary new therapy, instead, we are revolutionizing the DELIVERY of an existing form of therapy – ERP – which we already know to be highly effective for OCD).
Here is a link which provides an overview of Exposure and Response Prevention, the type of therapy which is incorporated into nOCD.
nOCD provides real-time tracking of a wide range of metrics, including time spent doing ERP exercises, anxiety levels during exercises and during general use of the app, location/time of day of OCD episodes, and much more. All your personal information is stored on a HIPPA compliant secure server.
nOCD allows you to export this objective data directly to your therapist if you choose to do so. This was something I was extremely impressed by. When I see my doctor, it was problematic since self-reporting is subjective and OCD patients commonly doubt some of the most basic things about themselves or about whatever they are doing. In addition mOCD has a large community on social media @treatmyOCD. I caught myself in the middle of a trigger last week, and the community was so supportive.
nOCD is available for FREE on the App Store (Android version coming soon!). nOCD is determined to bring high-quality, affordable treatment to anyone who needs it.
“How do you plan on spending the last day of your twenties?”
The question hit me like a ton of bricks. A question asked by my husband as a loving gesture, left me sitting on my bed on the verge of tears. Today, May 27, 2017- is the last day I am ever going to be in my twenties. I don’t think anyone will ever understand the pressures that are placed on twenty-something girls. We live in a society that romanticizes the notion of being a girl living in her twenties. The twenties are supposed to be the best decade of our lives! It’s supposed to be the time we find out who we are, and we make friends, and we meet someone and fall in love. We are supposed to excel in our careers and all while maintaining the perfect body weight.
Only, I was always kind of a late bloomer. I fail by most people’s standards on a daily basis.
The Question: How do you plan on spending the last day of your twenties?
The answer: By letting my twenties go with dignity and class. I don’t plan on being sad! I’m going to have fun! I had an awesome twenties! I may not have accomplished everything I set out to do, but, I have some pretty amazing stories.
I met two US President’s, I met and married the love of my life in four months, I partied-a lot. I had fun sexual experiences! I did illegal things! I once did a dine and dash! I protested! In fact, I attended the largest protest in the History of the United States! And I was an organizer for it! I have been interviewed on the news several times! And I adopted a baby, despite being told I would NEVER have children!
Oh! And I laughed a LOT!
Most people measure their lives based on how big of a house they have, or how far along they are in their career or how nice their car is….but-wouldn’t we all be a lot happier if we measured our lives based on how much we are laughing? After all, I am kind of KNOWN for my laugh!
My Thirties are going to be awesome because I am going to tell my story. I am the writer. How am I going to spend the last day of my twenties? By ending a chapter to my and beginning another!
This is the story of the first time I had a panic attack. If you know someone with generalized. read. A panic attack can feel like you’re dying. Paralyzed with fear. You could also be lying awake at night for hours at a time knowing damn well you have to be up in a few hours when the baby wakes up. It’s a real condition, and the people suffering from it are often deeply riddled with fears, and patterns, and THEIR BRAINS THINK FASTER THAN THE AVERAGE PERSON. So much so, that if they aren’t doing enough of their routines or practicing in self care they could really spiral in to a deep depression.
I have Generalized Anxiety. One of my earliest memories is I’m five years old and my mom is driving up to a block buster and handing me a VHS Tape and asking me to run it in for her. And I sat there with the VHS in my hand and I said to her, “What if they won’t take it from me? Because I’m too little?” And she says, “They’ll take it from you. You just have to run in there and drop it in a slot!” And I say, “Okay, Mommy!” And I go to grab the door knob and I get scared again. “What if someone tries to abduct me??” At this point my Mom is like, “Just give me the damn tape! I’ll run it in myself!”
When I look back on it I think that’s really weird that I am so afraid. That I am so new to this world but there is something in my head telling me to be frightened. And it’s a very irrational fear.
So, fast forward three years later and I have my very first panic attack. My mom and dad had me on the swim team and I was at a swim meet of all places. And the gun goes off and I jump in the water and take off–but half way down the lane I forget how to breathe. Which sounds crazy because, how does someone forget how to breathe? My mom notices that I’m going under water and she jumps in the pool after me. And so does the life guard, and my coach. They pull me out of the water and my mom is patting me on my back and crying really hard. She screams, “What the hell was THAT?”
After everything boiled over that night my mom was kind of confused as to what to do. This was a time when people in middle class families didn’t really know anything about generalized anxiety issues. Looking back on it now, my Dad definitely had generalized anxiety issues. If someone knocked on the door he would hide in the bedroom. We were threatened with a beating if we answered the door and told anyone he was home. My Dad wasn’t in to drugs, and he didn’t owe anyone money. So, why was he so afraid to answer the door? What was he afraid was going to be on the other side?
So, my Mom and my Coach get together the next day to talk about what happened. My mom asked my swim coach if he had ever seen anything like this before. “No,” he says shaking his head, and he continues, ” There was a kid in my college dorm that would get overly worked up a lot. Kind of like Mae does. But, he never quit breathing.” I sat there listening to them as they continued talking about me as if I wasn’t in the room. My sleeping patterns, what I had been eating, did I cry a lot when I was a newborn? My mom tells him that I never sleep, I am extremely meticulous about what I eat, and yes, I was a very colicky baby.
Coach says he would feel more comfortable if I see a doctor before I swim again. My mom understands and she gets me in to see Dr. Barnard. So, we are about to go up to Dr. Barnard’s office. Dr. Barnard was a family doctor, and he saw my grandparents, my parents, and my brothers. I had heard a lot of stories about Dr. Barnard. His wife and daughter had died in a car wreck a few years ago. My Dad tells me he looks like Santa. He has a long grey beard, and he drives a 67 Chevy with a Cubs logo on the back. My Mom and I go up to his office and I say to my Mom, “Do you think Dr. Barnard is sad about his wife and daughter?” My moms eyes widen and she puts her hand around my mouth. “You can’t say anything about that to him! Do you understand?” I shook my head yes, but really I don’t understand! If it were me I would be really sad that my Wife AND my daughter died in a car crash! I would want someone to comfort me! I mean even doctor’s need to be comforted!
So, we are seeing Dr, Barnard, and the doctor tells my Mom that I had a Panic Attack. He asked my Mom if anything has changed significantly in our home. My Mom says no, and I say, “Yes it has!” My mom starts to laugh it off and I say, “YES! IT! HAS!” Dr. Barnard starts to chuckle like he’s an uncomfortable Santa, and I say, “My brother Kirk ran away 3 months ago! Everyone has been yelling and mad at each other! And it’s all Kirk’s fault!”
Dr. Barnard looks at my Mom with sympathetic eyes. “Kirk ran away?” My mom starts to break down crying and she nods her head yes.
Dr. Barnard has me go to the waiting room and I hear them talking. My mom is crying, and Dr. Barnard is comforting her. My mom comes out of the office with a prescription, and Dr. Barnard motions for me to come back in to the office. I go back there and Dr. Barnard hands me a paper bag. “Some people are more high strung than others. And, that’s okay. They often go on to accomplish great things. But, when there patterns are thrown off, and their normal every routines change, they can feel like something is off. I sent your Mom home with a very low dose nerve pill for you. Only take it if you feel like you are having a hard time breathing. Also, when you start having a hard time breathing, pick up this bag and blow in to it.” Dr. Barnard shows me how to do it, and I start to panic while I’m breathing in to the bag. “Dr. Barnard! It’s making it worse!” I start to cry. Dr. Barnard says calmly and slowly, “Look at me- look at what I’m doing…” I start to blow in to the bag with the same rhythm that Dr, Barnard is using. The same rhythm I have when I’m swimming. “I get it, Dr. Barnard! I get it!” Dr. Barnard gives me a high five!
My Mom and I leave and I can tell I’ve upset my Mom. She isn’t speaking to me. I’m trying to show her the cool trick with the bag and she isn’t saying anything. We sit in the car and my Mom starts to cry. She says, “Do you think I’m a bad Mom?” I shake my head no. “No! You’re a great Mom!” She says through muffled tears, “Then why did your brother run away? Why are you having panic attacks?” I shrug my shoulders, “I think I’ve always had panic attacks, Mom. I don’t think it’s you. I think there is something wrong with me. But, maybe it doesn’t have to be something wrong. Maybe it can be like a super power.” She starts to laugh and we go home.
This was not the first time I would have a major panic attack. My brother Kirk eventually came home about a year later, but he came home with a huge surprise. Dr. Barnard was my doctor until I was 21 years old. When I was 21 the DEA raided Dr. Barnard’s offices, and Dr. Barnard lost his practice. And my Mom- well-that story doesn’t have a happy ending. But, those are all stories for another day.