We all have those moments, where we’re stretched thin for time and patience. I remember one particular night, I took the wrong off ramp and it turned into the biggest fiasco to get back onto the highway. Frustration, on top of traffic, I was wound tight. I wish that I could say, I laughed it off, but no; it was more of a masochistic tirade, “How could you be so stupid, idiot, absurd, moron.” One self-deprecating word after another, the litany was relentless.
After my mother’s death, it took months before I could properly socialize. I was incredibly nervous about being around so many people at once, but figured that the first time would inevitably be difficult. With my favorite charity event around the corner, I decided to buck up and attend. Despite my initial reservations, I had a wonderful evening filled with infectious laughter and contagious smiles.
Communication is a tricky thing. I’ve noticed that as articulate as I am, I’m often misunderstood and it’s usually my fault. When I speak, I use self-created colloquialisms so that doesn’t help with clarity. I should have introduction cards to all those who pass by: Hi, my name is Jacqui and I have OCD and a made up language- just kidding. I think for most of us, it’s hard to communicate your feelings when you are emotionally invoked. Yet, what I failed to notice before and only see now is that it’s even harder to hear what’s being communicated when distraught. What does this ridicul
It was such a gorgeous day in San Francisco, no wind, no fog, just sunshine. I was on an adventure just 60 miles from my home. Although close, the city still felt like a different world. I loved these days; I’d hang out in the Marina usually at a bar with an upside down pig as its logo. All the twenty and thirty somethings, career bound and city struck, would crowd around the wood and glass. I’d sit there with my strawberry ambrosia, watching the people around me, writing in my journal and catching bits of conversations that whirled about the room.
You know that you have OCD when you make 8 edits after already posting your blog. Yep, that’s me. Some people call it perfectionism, but that’s not what I would call it. See, my need for perfectionism died at a young age due to my impulsive sloppiness. I learned long ago to accept that “my perfect” was simply doing my best. So, why the ridiculous amount of edits?