Welcome to the start of a not-so-random collection of mosaic memories as my OCD, anxiety, and depression play Connect-the-Dots.

"When trauma collides with narrative—in as much as narrative can exist in chaos—perception is upended, resulting in stories that aren’t always orderly. Events are shuffled and connected more by emotional and metaphorical association than by logic or a straightforward timeline.” ~(Waxing Episodic: Early Trauma and the Rise of the Fragmented Memoir by Sonja Livingston)

I’m 27

and decide to take a break from dating self-absorbed musicians in order to date a self-absorbed writer. Some very kind friends refer to us as Marylin Monroe and Arthur Miller for a while.

I love that.

You nickname me “Average” because my initials are AVG, and tonight while you are dropping me off at my apartment, you ask if you would ever be so lucky as to see what it’s like to “be above average.”

You had to be thinking of how clever it would be to say that the entire drive down the West Side Highway.

I’m 45

and having my recurring dream where I’m on the highway and everyone is driving fast in their cars and trucks and I’m in my 1975 red bucket-seat Big Wheels being pulled by two dogs and a ferret.

Take that Carl Jung.

I’m 10

and a girl my age is on the news talking about something called OCD.

I can’t believe my ears.

How can she be this brave?

Yes, I am familiar with the washing of the hands until they crack and bleed.

Yes, I know all about the times I believed in magic-

If I tap my head four times maybe he won’t kill her.

If I sit there instead of here, maybe she won’t die.

I hold my breath.

I can’t touch the doorknob.

I scrub my skin till the water turns red.

I suffer.

Over

and over

and over

and over

and over

and over

and over again.

I’m 19

and am checking myself into a hospital.

After seeing my qEEG results, the head of psychiatry sits me down.

“I have never seen a brain likes yours.  How have you managed to function all these years?”

She shows me two diagrams.

One of a healthy brain. And one of mine.

There’s a lot of red and orange and yellow but I am missing the frequency represented by blue.

Funny, because I feel blue all the time.

“You’re not leaving here without starting therapy and getting on medication.”

Finally, someone knows how to fix me.

I’m 37

and have had a stomach ache for 35 years.

Today you tell me that it’s not anything I ate.

I don’t have allergies.

I’m not lactose intolerant.

I have Anxiety.

Good old-fashioned gluten-free Anxiety.

I’m 25

and we have a lovely visit in the hospital.

“Do you know why people love you?’”

I shake my head.

“Because you listen to them.”

This is the last thing you ever say to me and I’ll wear it like a second skin forever.

I’m 35

and I ask the art teacher why her Kindergarten students always create the best finger paintings. She confesses it’s because she knows when to take the paper away from them.

So, I think it’s time to go now and let this conversation be our eternal masterpiece, untouched by unnecessary words filling up space that’s meant to be left alone.

You can read more here:  I’m AVG