a plague of tics

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to write about this short story. It was about a man who had lived with body tics since he could remember, with neither support nor escape, until he ended up in college and started smoking.

Rather than give any insightful commentary on the story itself, I'm going to relay a personal anecdote via blog. When I was about 10 or 11, my father married this thing which we will call Molly. Molly was, and is, a despicable creature unfit to even have made the acquaintance of my family, let alone become part of it. (I still maintain that she hasn't gotten that far.) She used to live in this city called Williamsport, which is about half an hour from my hometown. Inner-city Wilpo housed the BroDart book publishing/binding company (I forget what the hell they do there). Every few weekends, we'd drive up to Williamsport to meet this foul bitch, and since I was pretty much in love with books at the time, I'd always suggest going to BroDart, where they had used books at warehouse prices (read: cheap).

The one time we drove up, I came across a book called Kissing Doorknobs, which (as far as I can remember) was about this girl who developed obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) over the course of her adolescence. I'm pretty sure she gets molested at some point, and eventually she seeks treatment, but is still pretty fucked up. Molly bought me the book after reading about it, and I swear to god, she knew what she was doing, because in addition to being as much of a bitch as she is, she's manipulative. I read Kissing Doorknobs and thought, "This is kinda weird. I bet if I started doing these things, though, I could stop." The girl in the story goes around kissing doorknobs (obviously), counting steps, and generally having mental obsessions along with physical compulsions.

So I started performing some of these physical acts... counting things, moving certain body parts for no reason, and what have you. And after a time, I realized I was wrong: I couldn't stop. It was so frustrating. a plague of tics hits me hard. I can remember so many times when people would call me out on it and I would be so embarrassed that I would cry and cry, but I would keep doing it anyway, and it's one of those problems that's so difficult to explain to people, because they don't understand that "I NEED to do this." They will keep walking when you need to recalculate how many steps you've walked. You're trapped in your mind with the numbers floating around, the license plates you catch a glimpse of and then repeat to yourself over and over and over again, the words you mouth even though no one is listening to you speak... and you look like you're fucking crazy.

I hate the parents in this, because fuck. I hate the sister in this, because my siblings have always done the same goddamned thing: when I need support, they mock me instead. What's more, I finally sought treatment in 2007, almost 7 years after I read that book. Seven years of compulsions, of obsessions that I had been having with numbers and thinking that I was going crazy. I found a counselor, the same one I had had in elementary school (coincidentally-- she had since opened a private practice), and didn't realize at the time that I was looking at the wrong thing; I needed someone with a doctorate, not some self-absorbed, racist piece of shit. I talked, but I don't think she heard me. She would always give some kind of input, and when I asked if I could be put on medication to see if there was some kind of chemical change that could make this madness stop, she reluctantly agreed and contacted my doctor for a prescription.

Once I received the prescription, I tried cancelling my appointments as often as possible. Every time I went to see her, I would end up in tears because she would bring up some point (my dad, my childhood, etc.) that would just be upsetting. I wanted to be talking about OCD, not my childhood. I went off Zoloft in a matter of months, since asking my doctor to refill my prescription (which he wasn't going to write in the first place, since he doesn't believe in that kind of medication... ass.) was embarrassing and made me feel weak.

So four years later, I am still wrought with vocal and behavioral tics. I at least know more about them now than a licensed, practicing counselor does. My mom doesn't know the full extent of my issues with tics, and I tell her everything. She's been supportive of me all along, but I completely know where the author is coming from when he says he doesn't understand how people may have their vices, but he isn't allowed to have his, and then his dad slams his nose into the goddamn windshield.

Who the fuck even DOES that.

Anyway, I'm done.

***

Edit, post-yoga.

I was really in a bad mood since I'd read this story, and after class I felt so guilty for making a spectacle out of everything that I thought I should probably take this blog post down. After I read over it again, I reasoned that it was organic enough of a post to keep it up in its entirety. I should be more charitable to the author, though, and to the nature of the assignment, to state that beyond the surface-level stuff, it was a well-structured short story that was captivating (for whatever reason). It held my attention through the whole thing.

Sorry for being derp.