1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,…
The rhythm is off.
Have to start again .
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
This is the rhythm that my life dances to.
An internal, syncopated, programmed waltz that moves me forward in time with the beat of 1,2,3…
Flipping the light switch:
3 times to count.
3 times to check.
Dimming light switches are my relief.
Check the window locks…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
Kiss the baby…
1,2,3…
1,2…
You get the picture.
Nope. Can’t leave it like that.
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1 kiss on the right cheek.
1 kiss on the left cheek.
1 kiss on the tip of the nose.
4 children.
4 pairs of cheeks to kiss.
4 heads to pray over.
11 windows to check.
3 doors to lock.
6 light switches to turn off…
2 light switches to turn on.
1 carbon monoxide detector (unplug, check plug, plug in x3).
2 closets to check for intruders.
3 beds to check under.
3 curtains to arrange just right.
All x 3.
The math adds up.
I’m not a night Owl. I’m tired by 9. But I stay awake because I want to be comfortable and avoid the fear, the pressure, the uncontrollable puppeteer inside me playing my strings to move inside an unwilling mind.
Night time routine is my worst nightmare.
This is not control.
This is not relief.
This is not structure.
This is a prison.
An Alcatraz.
I cannot escape because to do so would mean I would have to tear myself in two.
How can I separate me from myself without losing my own life?
Always purchase the second item on the shelf.
No floral patterns. Not enough structure.
That’s not even…
That’s NOT how you load the dishwasher!
It’s not right.
That’s JUST NOT RIGHT!!!!
In college I once had a roommate who after I had turned the alarm on and off 3 times and climbed up the 10 feet into my ceiling high bunk bed for the night, would walk by and click it just one more time without even breaking face.
START AGAIN.
BREATH.
1, 2, 3.
I love airplanes. Besides the fact that I’ve been flying with my Father since I was an infant, the rhythm of the propeller is the most soothing sound I’ve ever found. We live by an airport and the sound of the engines, the propellers, the jet intakes as they taxi, take off or land, brings me more peace and soothing than actual peace and quiet.
My husband always asks me why the bathroom fans are always running….
The hum. The rhythm. The patterned soft rumble of the blades numbs the random shrieking of my children.
I recently started running. I’ve been trying to run since Middle School and I never could. I chucked it up to the fact that I’m a theater buff, artist and writer.
But then came the iPhone and the iTunes AND THE MUSIC.
Run Forest run!
And run I do.
To the beat.
To the rhythm.
To the bass reverberating and drowning out my uneven breathing while my body feels the force of my rhythmic canter on the pavement.
1…
2…
3…
I can’t.
I can’t stop.
I can’t do that.
I can’t touch that.
I can’t move.
I can’t look at that.
I can’t just let my husband handle…
I can’t just leave someone else in charge.
What Buzzfeed finds as an amusing OCD personality test sends me into fits of bouncing my leg to keep time and rhythm vibrating through my bones.
I can’t.
1…2…3…
You can’t.
You can’t understand what it’s like to feel your own soul twist and turn and dig it’s claws into your flesh and brain.
You can’t understand what it’s like to have the duality of two persons…
One physically acting and one psychoanalyzing your every move all in one nonnuerotypical brain.
You can’t grasp the concept of wanting to not have to, or wanting to stop, or begging to your very own self,
“Do I HAVE to do this? PLEASE! PLEASE can I just not? Can I have ONE moment of peace in my own head? NO. PLEASE NOT AGAIN!”
The world is a shoe that for us doesn’t just doesn’t fit, but the socks within have to feel just right, the linings have to be smooth with no odd lumps, the laces have to be laced just so and each bow much be the same length and for Pete’s sake… ( whoever he is)no scuffs or dirt.
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
My soul was created to keep the world in time with God’s beat.
The world just got so scattered, yet there are still some of us out there…
Drumming our fingers away on the tables trying to pull it back into the pace time was meant to move at.
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
1,2,3…
Andie.ink 
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