Dear, Kitty

I used to write in the shower. Literally. While droplets trickled from the tips of my strands of hair to the dip in my back, my breasts, and my tummy. I used to write on the train, walking down the street, and while I held conversations with people. I know. That last one seems rude. But it’s only rude if you get caught. Nothing a few ahh’s and hmm’s and that’s-crazys can’t conceal.

Thinking is writing, Kitty. Writing in symbols. Writing that can’t be seen. Writing that hasn’t been born.

I used to write about fascinating people, obscene happenings, and things that I can only acquire through thought.

“Self-love was her life pursuit. Either way she failed miserably because her story remains as stagnant as my very own.”

A couple years ago I wrote about a red-haired transgender girl that desperately wanted to be loved. Not by anyone else–but herself. Self-love was her life pursuit. Either way she failed miserably because her story remains as stagnant as my very own.

I don’t write ubiquitously anymore. I can’t, Kitty. It always happens this way. Instead of writing there’s intrusive thoughts and occasionally, when I’m lucky, blankness. I’d rather have a blank mind and not write anything than to have the awful, strange thoughts I have. Be incredibly still and dead like comatose. But my mind reigns over me. I heard once, by an OCD specialist, to think of intrusive thoughts as passing clouds. Look–but don’t stop– and let them pass on by. I tried that, Kitty. It doesn’t always work. I’m too much of a curious cat. I watch the clouds passing by and follow them until they’re out of sight and there’s a clear sky. I contemplate their structure, existence, and meaning.

Cirrocumulus. Cumulus. Cumulonimbus, I repeat this so I don’t start thinking about what they stand for.

What a load of crap! I don’t trust that specialist. I trust my therapist, Lorena. Lorena is a certified LMFT and has a psychology degree from Pepperdine, which I value as an academic. On top of her credentials and years of experience with OCD patients—she’s also struggled with OCD. She taught me to face the intrusive thoughts head on. Sit with them. Wallow in the discomfort and not try to make anything of it. With her, the goal was to accept the volatility of the mind and not try to squabble with it. That proved to be successful and has preserved my mental well-being.

Good. Because I’d rather be dead than to not be able to write because I can’t think straight. Writing makes me feel purposeful and peaceful, which is the complete opposite of what a professor told me about writing and writers. Only unhappy people write, he said. Happy people are off doing other things. It’s not verbatim but close enough for you to get the point. Sometimes I still believe what he said, but most of the time the feelings I get when I’m writing are contradictory to unhappiness; it more so feels like I’m walking on air.

Yours Truly,

Athena V.