A homeless thief breaks into a house that has nothing worth stealing - except for the heart of a lonely man who is obsessed with time.
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Blake has been living on the streets for...
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-Jordan-
I did get out of bed after a long struggle. It felt horrible to ignore my messed-up instincts, and exhausting to convince myself nothing bad was going to happen, but when I was standing next to my bed, it was easier to take the first step to the door.
I visited the bathroom, and I tried to force myself to take a shower but couldn't do it. After a short struggle, I decided to use my energy on eating. It was way more important than smelling nice. Getting something to eat was a big battle on its own, so I needed to focus on that.
And a battle it was. I peered at the clock every five seconds as I slowly washed my hands, made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a can of yogurt, and sat down at the table. I tried to focus on how well I was doing compared to the times I couldn't even get out of the bed, but I couldn't completely shake the feeling I was doing something terribly wrong.
On top of that, it had taken me ten minutes and twenty seconds to get here because I needed to stop to catch my breath a few times, and it frustrated me.
That wasn't even the hardest part. I stared at the can of yogurt. I wasn't allowed to eat. That was my punishment for missing my schedule. A remnant from the days when I used to torture myself with broken glass and other sharp objects.
I stared at the can, preparing my mantra. Nothing bad was going to happen. I didn't need to punish myself. It was perfectly fine to eat. But I never started it. I couldn't concentrate on the power words because Blake had promised to talk with me once I was done eating. It was easier to focus on his words. After all, he'd been the only thing on my mind the entire morning.
"If I eat this, I can call him," I said, staring at the yogurt.
I'd never rewarded myself for doing things against my OCD. I had never given myself anything to look forward to during these struggles, and only focused on pushing myself simply because I had to. I never believed rewards could help, but thinking about Blake gave me more strength than any of my power words ever had.
It took a while, but this time it was easier to start eating. It was pretty shocking. Eating was always difficult for me because I feared I'd choke on the food, so when my mind was insisting on punishing myself, it became practically impossible.
But now, as long as I kept thinking about Blake, it was pretty doable. For someone like me. For someone who had nearly drowned in a ditch because their tiny body had been too broken to hold their head above the water.
"Blake... Blake... Blake..." I muttered, forcing myself to think about the thief. I couldn't afford to think about the past at that moment. If I failed to eat... "No. No failing. It's not a failure if I don't eat. It only means I'll be hungry."
Failure. Success. Two words that were most harmful in my vocabulary. There were no such things as failing to eat or failing to take a shower. To others, failing to eat meant being hungry. To me it meant I failed as a person, and I needed to be punished for it. Rewarding myself was probably just as bad because it could easily turn into another obsessive thought, or make worse the ones I already had.
