Obsessed

My fingers slide off of the door knob and I tap it once again before I exit my extensively organized dorm. Taking the right number of breaths, and counting everything as I walk, my day begins. Compulsions result from the obsessions that I consistently ponder over. My mind is flooded with "what if's" as I try and retain a better understanding and purpose for everything I do, and see. My clothes must feel and appear in a manner that I deem acceptable, which to most others might be viewed as perfectionism. Everything I partake in, whether it eating, writing, walking, talking, or whatever else I may do on a daily basis, fully exposes my extreme obsessions and tics. While sometimes obsessing may be considered helpful, in that it keeps me organized and on my toes, the anxiety caused by the severe constraints provided by my many compulsions and thoughts makes obsessing far beyond being worth it; although it is not usually a choice for me. When people have as many tics as I do, it is generally considered a disorder, and control over one’s thoughts, at this point, is a very limited capability.

To list everything I need to perform, think about, and how I think about either what I am doing or thinking of, would be nearly impossible. Even before I knew I had obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), it was clear to me that my thought process differed immensely from anyone else I had met. While the traits of my OCD do not define me, they have truly made me a completely different person. Worries constantly overwhelm my mind, and thoughts circle in my head, almost endlessly, as I think about the most random things that could happen and how they are all tied together. My biggest fear, yet at the same time fascination, lies within how my thoughts seem to follow the theory of the butterfly effect. Everything that happens, regardless of how minutiae it may be, is connected to, and alters, upon change, everything in existence.

A bloody night in Happy Valley

http://www.centredaily.com/2012/01/18/3056541/police-say-marijuana-theft-led.html

A cold, dry winter parking lot, commonly hosting some of State College deviants, could only belong to the South Gate residence. Despite its somewhat luxurious title, South Gate is merely a miniature slum within State College, not often busy or exciting despite the consistent and extremely blatant minor drug deals that go on around the apartments. Unfortunately, for two young, arrogant, and ignorant young men, a bitter Monday night starting on South Gate Drive lead to a much more revolting conclusion than a simple pot sale. There is a fine line between drug dealers and fiends, and a scraggily, ill kept Tyler Marlatt fell far beyond its border in an attempt to retrieve what dirty money was schemed from his equally skeptical girlfriend.

‘Are they coming for that G?’ Marlatt’s girlfriend, Fatima shouts to him from the neighboring room in their drug infested apartment. Although not all drug users are unstable and criminally bound, addiction, poverty, and greed can consume nearly anyone fixing for either substance, or cash. ‘So are they coming?’ Fatima inquired again. ‘Jesus I said yes!’ Marlatt shouted back through the wall. Soon enough the faint sound of an engine rattled through the window of the dealers’ bedroom, and a quick peak through the blinds led to the ever so high Marlatt to call out to his lady: ‘They’re here!’ After a slow, somewhat euphoric walk down the steps, Fatima slides out the front door of the Southgate residence and walks in a nonchalant manner to the idling, beat down sports car.

Bursting back into the apartment, Marlatt’s girlfriend frantically begins voicing his name, as she limps to the few doors he could possibly be behind, smoking with a few of his typical self-centered friends. ‘They took our weed babe! They didn’t pay me shit, and when I tried to take it back they just took off while I was still holding on! Ah, and my leg hurts pretty damn bad; I dunno what the fuck just happened!’ After a split second of zoned-out hesitation, Marlatt replied in furry, ‘Wait who did what? You mean Struble?’ Catching her breath Fatima replied ‘Yeah. His stuck up bitch Melinda, or whatever her name is was there too.’ After another few seconds of what seemed to be an out of body moment for Marlatt, he stood up, walked to the door leading to the hallway, turned to the rotted coffee table to his left, pocketed the hunting knife laying atop, and demanded his friends grab his wooden bat from his bed room corner. As the three young, absent minded men and Fatima headed to their ride, Marlatt coldly remarked: ‘Either we’re leaving with our money, or somebody is getting hurt.’

Soon arriving at Struble’s house on a nearly vacant Henszey Street, the aggravated conflict for twenty dollars began to unfold, as did Marlatt’s six inch steel hunting blade.

Soul Shoes

Out all of the clothing articles people engulf themselves in every day, there is nothing one can wear that out-serves their shoes. The most memories I can recall, in terms of clothing, all retreat back to a pair of white, slip-on, Van's look-a-like shoes I bought at Walmart. While inexpensive and poorly designed, the blank canvas of the shoes inspired me to be creative. Before I left Walmart on the day I purchased the shoes, I also grabbed an entire kit of sharpies, and let my imagination go to work. Within a few hours of concentrated drawing at home, I had constructed a true representation of myself that I could slide onto my feet. Unfortunately, the shoes were demolished within a week; due to riding a bike without brakes, and longboarding on the roasting asphalt roads in the summer. Although the shoes had a quick demise, I had more fun riding around in them than anything else, and came out with a new hobby. Soon I was going through countless amounts of sharpies and making one pair of shoes after another. I would give them away as gifts to friends and family, and even managed to sell a few pairs in high school.

Drawing on shoes is definitely a time consuming activity, but every time I either made a pair for myself or someone else, I got more in return in reference to respect and good memories. My sister, who is much more talented artistically than I am, also took up the hobby, giving us the opportunity to exchange them between one another. In almost no time at all we had what seemed to be a small non-profit business running, where we simply bought shoes and drew on them for basically anybody who wanted them. While neither of us made much of a profit from our new found hobby, I can speak for us both when I say the process itself rewarding enough regardless. Finding a way to express my creativity in a way that I feel serves a purpose is, in my mind, worth the cost of a pack of markers, and a pair of ten dollar shoes. Even though college does not leave me with enough time or money to enjoyably do so anymore, I still have intact creations that I wear around, and I know, being a local, that there are others on campus that do as well. The remaining pairs lying in my home, in my dorm, in people’s closets, and in the trash, despite how torn, will carry my memories, and perhaps the memories of several others.