Fragile Order

Fragile Order: A deeply personal exploration of life with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), delving into the complexities of anxiety, self-doubt, and the relentless chase for control.

Fragile Order

The taps are still running. I’ve washed my hands twelve times, maybe thirteen. I can’t tell anymore. There’s a raw, burning sting in the skin, but the fear of what might still be there is worse.

The mirror fogs slightly from the steam. I catch a glimpse of myself: hollow-eyed, shoulders tense, lips moving without sound. I’m not sure what I’m whispering, only that I’ve said it over and over again.

It’s clean. It’s clean. It’s clean…

The school uniform lies untouched on the bed, crisp, ironed, and unbearable. I can already feel the seams digging in, the tag on the collar scratching like sandpaper. I can't go. I haven’t gone in weeks.

Every morning starts the same. Pencils lined perfectly on the desk. Yellow, blue, green, red. Eraser square to the edge. Ruler aligned. The ritual has to be exact. If one pencil is crooked, it means something bad will happen. I don’t know what, but I know I can’t risk it.

Outside the window, the bins are overflowing. One is tipped sideways, contents spilling into the street. My stomach tightens. The pavement is cracked. Uneven. A person could trip.

I don’t leave the house. Not anymore.

In here, the floor is clean. The air smells like bleach and lavender. It’s quiet. Controlled. My sanctuary.

And my prison.

I stand in the hallway, just past the doorway to the bathroom. My hands are dripping. I should dry them. But I don’t move. I stare at the mirror again.

I don’t like what I see.

My chest aches. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. Just that echo in my head: not good enough, not good enough, not good enough…

But then just for a second I see something different.

Not a failure.

Not a freak.

Just a person.

Scared. Flawed. Trying.

I blink, and it’s gone. But the image stays with me, warm like the faintest crack of sunlight through the curtain.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll count to ten and stop. Maybe I’ll open the door. Maybe I won’t. But maybe that’s okay.

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health issues, please know that you are not alone. There is help available. Reach out to a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional for support. You can also contact crisis hotlines in your area.

Author's Note

Trigger warning: This story contains descriptions of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), anxiety, and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.

Reviews

[Emunah June.]

Wow! I have so much to say about this piece!

First of all, I want to applaud you in being so brave as to share your story with us. It is always appreciated and I, for one, love getting to learn about these kinds of things. I do not have OCD myself, but I do have anxiety, so I was able to relate to bits, but obviously not to most of it. I take everything as a learning opportunity, so this was exciting for me!

Now, about the story itself --

I really enjoyed that you were just direct and honest about what the speaker is going through without making it too complicated to follow. It felt very true to the disease, or, so I have been told. A few lines that broke my heart were "something bad will happen. I don't know what, but I can't risk it," and "the fear of what might be there is worse." It is stated so simply, but yet is more powerful than any metaphor you could have used. You did a fantastic job of putting the reader into the headspace of someone who is struggling -- the relief, the anxiety, the anger and the fear all at once, the complicated cocktail of hating what you are but not feeling safe being anything else. I took a moment to pause when I was done reading your story just because I really wanted to pay respect to its depth. Its the kind of thing that makes you feel both horror and awe all at once.

I am so thankful I got to read this, and if its okay, I do have a question: the beginning line where the speaker states "I've washed my hands twelve times, maybe thirteen. I don't know anymore." . . . . this is a sincere question because I don't know and I want to learn, but I thought a huge component of OCD was needing to hit a certain number of compulsions to feel safe, no? So wouldn't the speaker be keenly aware of how many times they've washed their hands? Or, with OCD, is it more of a threshold type thing, like "I have hit twelve times and anything else after that is excess"? Please teach me!

All in all, a powerful piece that brings attention to a very important affliction. Thank you for the share!

[RatsAlongTheWalls]

Hi there!

First of all I want to thank you for your very insightful comment. It is very useful for me to receive these comments and to improve myself.

To answer your question, OCD is a very complicated illness. Some people may have to keep track of each cycle and have specific numbers. This character I have created along with others with OCD don’t need to count the numbers or even get caught up in a cycle of anxiety and lose count of the numbers.

It is more the feeling of needing to do something to stop the anxiety, rather than sticking to a specific number.

I hope that all makes sense and please ask any more questions you have.

Thanks again
RatsAlongTheWalls

[Emunah June.]

Hello again!

Yes, yes it does! I am currently in school studying to be a psych nurse, so things like this will improve my ability to deliver informed care. Thank you, sincerely, for this, and again, your piece was exceptionally emotional and brilliantly executed.

[Carrie]

Shame, wondering what's wrong with them. Classic signs of narcissus abuse.