Personal Narrative: My Obsession Propulsion Disorder

"This note is going to be incredibly hard for me to write, so I 've decided to just get right into it and make it as short as possible. So here it goes, I had always been normal. I was a healthy boy growing up. I never had any major health problems, I played and acted just as the other kids my age did. I was raised in an average family with a dog, a couple cats, and both my father and mother present in my life. My family was not wealthy, but was not poor either. I had participated in many sports growing up including; basketball, football, and track. Everything in my life was fine. Nobody would 've predicted that I would have such severe mental issues as an adult. I never would 've guessed this could happen to me. I never even thought I

This is where my obsession compulsion disorder (OCD) came into play. I wanted everything to be perfect for her. I wanted our apartment to be perfect, our jobs, our pets, everything. So when she left in the morning and I 'd kiss her goodbye 13 times, or 26 if it was Wednesday. I 'd always do that. She 'd laugh and smile all the while I was doing these things. At night she 'd watch me turn the lights on and off, on and off, twice on Sunday, four times on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday, and seven times on Wednesday and Thursday. I would joke with her and tell she always safe because I for sure locked the door, 16 times, or 42 times on Saturday. I couldn 't shake these habits, I had never had a problem with them, long as I could remember. I counted my steps in sets of fours, had to tie both of my shoes twice, zip up every zipper three times, I had numbers for everything. This didn 't seem to be a problem at first, until Phoebe stopped thinking it was 'cute ' or 'sweet ', and starting thinking it was annoying. She started complaining that I was making her late for work, late for everything with my 'counting nonsense '. When I was kissing her goodbye, she started leaving before I finished counting, and I couldn 't cope with her not caring enough to wait, or not getting to finish my counting. I needed

Every time she 'd leave and I didn 't get to get to finish counting whatever it was I needed to count my reaction started getting worse. At first I would sit in a corner in our kitchen with my hands on my heads and cry, then I started hitting my head and repeatedly calling myself crude names, because they were true. As the days went on I got worse and worse, hitting my head for longer amounts of time, I stopped sleeping more than an hour or two a night, I couldn 't cope. I even quit going to my the job I loved, which resulted in my getting fired. Eventually I started tearing the entire apartment apart when she 'd leave, I knocked over shelves and broke dishes, anything and everything I could throw or knock over was. Then I would panic and rush to fix everything before she got home, I always got it straightened back up. Everything seemed to be going downhill for me, my doctor put me on the highest dose of anti-depressants she could. I started shuffling through life and nothing but Phoebe brought me, even a little bit of joy. She, however didn 't feel the same about me, she started getting up earlier in the mornings, started leaving before I could even kiss her goodbye once, came home hours after her shift ended, started taking anti-depressants herself, and went straight to bed without even a 'hello ' to me. I even started leaving some of the mess I made out, broken dishes would lie on the kitchen floor, and books would lie all over the lounge, she either