Quiet Compulsions

I have a compulsion that I’m going to reveal.  It’s something that naturally happens in my mind.  It doesn’t stress me out, particularly.  I do it in seconds. I do it every day, all day long.  It doesn’t interfere with my life, as I see it, mainly because I can do it so quickly and as of now, I don’t search out the formula just so I can do it. However, when the formula arrives it is definitely going to happen in my mind. 

A common place I do it this is in traffic or if I have to stand in lines, wait in a doctor’s office, doing it with the magazine from the waiting room, my phone, anywhere that the formula exists to allow the compulsion, it will happen. 

I’ll use a license plate as a simple example: 


3 + 6 = 9 + 9 = 18 

1 + 8 = 9 

Single Reduction: 9

Every day, anytime I encounter number series I immediately, within seconds, reduce them to a single number.  There is never a time I will not do it.  I don’t fight the urge to do it.  I suppose the answer would be of what reaction would I have if I tried not to do it.  Why frustrate myself, in my opinion.  Reduce and move on. 

You’re one step further into my brain. 

Do you have quiet compulsions?  Are you comfortable sharing them?

A List and a No Show

I make notes before I go to therapy sessions. Mainly because my thoughts become jumbled, I begin to go all over the place, switching and moving through moments, talking so fast my therapist’s head looks like a cat following a laser light.

So if I have a guideline for what I want to discuss I can refer to it, allowing me to remember what we want to talk about. It allows me to keep my/our thoughts organized or I will spiral off on tangents then before I know it, our time is over and Dammit! I didn’t get to discuss everything on the list!

The last few weeks have been personally heavy on many different levels. New Memories emerged. Catastrophic Dreams. An emotionally hurtful situation I experienced that I wanted to talk through with her. One thing I adore about her is that she has an incredibly analytical mind, and she doesn’t bullshit me. I can show her facts and she’ll tell it like it tee eye is, even if I don’t come out the winner. She always has the most amazing feedback and suggestions. She’s a great communicator. The list goes on of why she’s the bee’s knees.

My drive to therapy isn’t short, first of all, and since I have an intense OCD about lateness (I fucking hate it) I’m already watching the time. Add on that each trip in and of itself takes a lot of will power to even get my ass into the car and go.

I really do not like sitting in waiting rooms in general, much less with TV’s blasting medical advice and humans’ energy sitting all around me. It’s not the same as the average arena with the general population. No. I am an Empath sitting in a space filled with people in all levels of emotional pain.

I can feel all of it, see all of it, and I wear headphones to both block it and keep anyone from talking to me. I also wait in my car until right before my appointment so by the time I check in, I’m headed straight to her office.

This week I really needed to just dump it all out on her. I was really looking forward to my session, my list was ready and I’d even brought some factual evidence from a situation for her to look through and give me feedback on how to handle it, etc.

I finally get there, check in, and the receptionist says, “Oh, didn’t they call you? She went home sick today.”

Fuck… No… They didn’t call me. FUCK! What the FUCK! I drove all the way out here, did my usual emotional prepping, and I have a list! A GOTTAMN LIST that needs to be discussed!

“No.” I replied. “No phone call.”

Then the receptionist did something that just almost set me off due to my already flustered state of being. Luckily, I have a good handle on critically thinking and assessing so in the aftermath I just accepted that she probably didn’t know any better.

“Well, [enter another therapist’s name here] is available. Would you like to see her?”

Me: “Does she know anything about my background?”

Receptionist silence.

Me: “Exactly. It would take the whole hour and a half explaining my history to Ms. Temporary Therapist Who Knows Nothing About Me, and then I’d never even get to my list.”

Receptionist stare. Mind read.

“Damn. This chick brings a list.”

Me: “Touché.”

Receptionist: “I’m really sorry no one called you.”

Me, rubbing the index card upon which I write my list, softly between my left thumb and forefinger much like the silk lining of the blanket I had as a baby. Self soothing comes in many forms.

“It’s cool. Let’s re-schedule.” I say, softening inside.

Deep breaths. Being in the moment. Letting it all pass. No emotional catastrophes today.

But it rather feels like being stood up on a date, like getting all gussied up and gorgeous just to get a phone call ten minutes before, canceling or worst yet, sitting at the restaurant waiting on a no show.

And I’m just… Left with this damn list until next time.

the beat goes on.