Have you ever had an itch, usually on your nose or somewhere extremely sensitive, that you couldn’t scratch? Maybe you had things in your hands or it was in a place you wouldn’t want to scratch in public, and you just could not scratch the itch. You do that weird face contortion or wiggle around, anything to relieve the prickling sensation, but nothing quite works like a good ol’ scratch. But when you finally drag your nails across your skin, it’s like heaven.
Now imagine having that itch, but never being able to scratch it. And even if you do, the itch will never go away.
That’s how my brain works.
The itch is the irrational part of my mind. The part that makes me unable to learn how to drive out of sheer dread that I will run someone over. It’s the part that makes touching door handles, or light switches, or anything anyone could’ve possible touched, impossible.
The rational part of my mind, the part that usually loses, knows that I would never intentionally run someone over, and that touching a door handle, or even a light switch, won’t kill me.
But germs spread. People don’t always wash their hands. I washed my hands, didn’t I? What if I didn’t? Did I touch anything? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
The overwhelming sense of dread I feel, and the disgusting, groggy, dirty feeling on my skin is something I can never be rid of. I desperately try to scratch the itch, I wash my hands repeatedly throughout the day and I can’t even walk past a sink without doing so, but it’s never enough.
Sometimes I stand in the shower for an hour because I don’t feel clean enough. I can’t wait to get home because I need to shower. I need to scratch the itch.
I hate showering, it’s a chore that takes effort, but I do it twice a day. I scratch and scratch and scratch until I physically can’t take anymore.
That’s when the panic attack kicks in. As awful as they are, and as much as I fear them, they are one of the best things for me. They’re horrible. It’s climax of the itch, when my body can no longer take it, accepts that scratching is futile, and I break down. They start with indecisive, self-destructive, obsessive thoughts. I’m restless and I can’t sit still. My body is electrified, every nerve is on fire and I shake uncontrollably. Sometimes I scratch my arms until their raw, and I can’t breathe. There’s a belt around my chest that only gets tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter until I finally explode.
But the release it gives me… it’s extraordinary. I’m a blubbering mess convinced I’m failing at life, it’s over and everything seems easier.
I’m usually curled up on the floor, with my mother rubbing my back, and my dog cuddled into my side, and I’m OK.
For a few minutes.
Kirst's Corner 