Streams of Profanity

Over here runs the creek muddy with confusing thoughts, anger, and depression. The waters churn over rocks called bipolar, OCD and anxiety. Navigation is nearly impossible. Small pockets of calm rest just beyond reach. Other’s have named this creek for me. It is called Shit Creek.

Just there, barely flowing, is a small stream. Just a trickle really of what it once was, the cool stream of hopes. Dammed up now by progress. The water is mostly red and viscous. Oh sure it still says it is happy to assist you onto your destination but you will have to be patient with its slow progress. Promising great destinations of financial freedom, or at least financial survival. I tip-toed in with hope. Along the way, I curse the course that claims to appreciate my time. Damn Red Tape Dam.

From behind, you can hear the wild rushing river threatening. Picking up debris along its mighty route. Deadlines, debt, health, obligations, and relationships litter the rushing waters. It’s always back there getting closer. You can not escape the ever approaching path of Sucking River.

OCD Part Two

 

Wound healing powder by Johnson and Johnson works pretty well for wounds that can’t be stitched but won’t stop bleeding. Trouble is I can’t seem to find my supply. Sweat is pouring off my brow and I have a rib cramp blooming on my side as I try to reach into the depths of my medicine cabinet. The cabinet takes up two shelves in my kitchen cupboard, it is deep and loaded with bottles, syringes, test strips, gauze, vitamins, band-aids, and assorted medical must-haves. Meanwhile, my husband sits softly crying at the table applying pressure to his wound. Ahh ha! Found it!

The following is a warning for those weak of heart or stomach: graphic blood details coming up.

My husband lives with OCD, Anxiety, Severe Depression, Bi-Polar II, Agoraphobia, and PTSD. Right now his anxiety is ramping up his OCD causing him to pick his skin until he bleeds. His arms are covered in constellations of scabs – some are oozing, some are scabs, and some are actively bleeding. He picks with such aggression that on six occasions he has opened  tiny blood vessels which pump blood out in alarming quantities.

A close look with my magnified reading glasses reveals the source. A perfectly round yet small as a pin-head vessel shows itself with a slow eruption of blood in sync with a heart beat. I know from experience it needs advanced attention. I hope the powder will work. The ER doc said to try it before we made another visit to his domain, it will be a lot cheaper.

In minutes the bleeding stops, clotted by the magic powder. I’m relieved that we do not have to make a trip to urgent care. He says it burns, I reassure him that the directions say it might burn and remind him that stitches really really sting.

I cover his arms in tube socks adapted for just this purpose. His crying has stopped, he is full of remorse. He hates himself right now. The balance beam has been set up for the day. We both will try not to fall off.

OCD

Hazy daylight filters unhurried over the sodden sheets of my bed. Another sultry day promised by the fogged window. I sit up to drag the damp ends of my hair from the creases of my neck. Free from the muffling pillow I hear his crying. Again.

The need to pee stops me from attending to him quickly. I am not worried about this so much now because it is familiar. I know what’s waiting for me. I linger a bit while washing my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I look tired. I make a few practice faces trying to find the sparkle in my eyes that tells me I am me. The creaking floor snaps me out of trying on faces, he is on the move.

We meet up in the living room that separates our bedrooms. His face is red.

Yawning, I ask, “What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”

He lifts his arm and I am less shocked than grossed out by the amount of blood. Blood is dripping, staining the already weathered pine floors. I think about how hard it is to clean blood stains from this floor before I think about cleaning his arm.

“What the hell?” I sound  mad to my own ears.

Moving quickly across the room, I embrace him, standing on my tip-toes to kiss his teary face. My husband of thirty-five years looks sad and ashamed. He has done this to himself. Again.