Best 53 quotes in «ocd quotes» category

I have OCD mixed with ADD, you try living with that. Its complicated.

Oh, I'm crazy all right. I do have plenty of psychoses. Multiple personality, delusional dementia, OCD. I've got them all, but most of all, I'm crazy about you.

It happens that there are a lot of people who are very talented who also happen to have a mental disorder. A lot of the mental disorders are initially things that are adaptive. Like even OCD, it's good to sort of have structure and have certain rituals but when it gets to be extreme then it becomes problematic.

The level at which my OCD enters my writing process isn't that I slap the keyboard - it's more along the lines of a compulsive need to swap syllables around, rework words and sentences - I revise for the pleasure and satisfaction of it, rather than out of a sense of duty.

But the most important part of her ritual was cleaning the toilet. In order to prevent the spread of bacteria and viruses, it had to be done with absolute thoroughness and precision. Cleaning the toilet was a test of her competence and loyalty to Oliver, her god, and the precept of staying in control.

An obsessive is an addict-in-waiting.

Gloria watched the swollen white orb of a hot-air balloon rising over Navy Pier and knew she had to break it off with Oliver, for he was the type who would never enjoy hot-air balloons, Van Morrison songs, or mess, whether from orgasm or otherwise. But who was she to be dreaming about mess today?

Being stress and anxiety free is a human preset, I just show you how to 'flick the switch' to off. Permanent stress and anxiety recovery is possible quickly and simply despite what many are told.

I couldn’t escape the spiral of my thoughts, and I felt like they were coming from the outside.

Frustration wells in me, and I want to cry as I back away from the thing of lighters, but somehow, I don’t. I just stand there, watching him laugh and trying to not let the moment cut me down completely. No part of this is funny, and I try to be rational—maybe he isn’t even laughing at me at all and just has the worst timing in the world—but I’m paranoid and take offense to it anyway. Using my hair to shadow my face, I turn away from him and pad back over to Camilla.

Feelings are like blankets, covering you up so you can't see clearly, or like mazes you can too easily get lost inside. I am terrified of getting lost.

I didn't really have any sharable anecdotes. That's the thing about anxiety - it limits your experiences so the only stories you have to tell are the "I went mad" ones.

If you put the wrong foods in your body, you are contaminated and dirty and your stomach swells. Then the voice says, Why did you do that? Don't you know better? Ugly and wicked, you are disgusting to me.

[I]f he had to guess, he would say that the reason he doesn't want to loan the book out, to Ethan or anyone else, is because of the part of his personality that is one gigantic record-keeping system, a complex sifting and filing scheme that dictates what goes here and what goes there, turning his life into so many marks on a tablet. His mind would busy itself with the book's whereabouts every second it was away. He knows it would.

I had to stop him from arresting an old lady who let her dog urinate against the fire hydrant that was in front of Burgerville headquarters. "You'll blow our cover." "But what if there is a fire?" "The fire department will come and put it out," I said. "With what?" "Water," I said. "Not from that hydrant," Monk said. "It's inoperable." "No, it's not," I said. "It can still be used." "There is urine all over it," Monk said. "no fireman would dare touch it, nor would any other human being." "Firefighters run into burning buildings," I said."They aren't going to care about some dog pee on a fire hydrant." "They would if they knew," Monk said. "We should call and warn them. Call Joe right now. He can get the word out faster than we can." "Every fire hydrant in the city has dog pee on it, Mr. Monk. It's how dogs mark their territory. I can guarantee you that every male dog that has passed that hydrant has pissed on it." He looked at me, wide eyed, "No." "It's what dogs do," I said. "The firefighters knows this." Monk swallowed hard. "And they still use the hydrants?" "Of course they do." "They are the bravest men on earth," Monk said solemnly.

I guess I wonder what it would be like, to be living their live instead of mine.

I just want to know if I can go to Heaven. That's all I want in life, salvation in the next.

If I'd been the author, I would've stopped thinking about my microbiome. I would've told Daisy how much I liked her idea for Mychal's art project, and I would've told her that I did remember Davis Pickett, that I remembered being eleven and carrying a vague but constant fear. I would've told her that I remembered once at camp lying next to Davis on the edge of a dock, our legs dangling over, our backs against the rough-hewn planks of wood, staring together up at a cloudless summer sky. I wouldv'e told her that Davis and I never talked much, or even looked at each other, but it didn't mater, because we were looking at the same sky together, which is maybe more intimate than eye contact anyway. Anybody can look at you. It's quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see.

I have seen many cases like N. during the five years I've been in practice. I sometimes picture these unfortunates as men and women being pecked to death by predatory birds. The birds are invisible - at least until a psychiatrist who is good, or lucky, or both, sprays them with his version of Luminol and shines the right light on them - but they are nevertheless very real. The wonder is that so many OCDs manage to live productive lives, just the same. They work, they eat (often not enough or too much, it's true), they go to movies, they make love to their girlfriends and boyfriends, their wives and husbands . . . and all the time those birds are there, clinging to them and pecking away little bits of flesh.

Illness is a story told in the past tense.

In job interviews they’d ask me, What’s your greatest weakness? and I’d explain that I’ll probably spend a good portion of the workday terrorized by thoughts I’m forced to think, possessed by a nameless and formless demon, so if that’s going to be an issue, you might not want to hire me.

I realized that I was okay with myself. I was quirky and withdrawn and loud, but I liked that. I smiled at strangers without thinking they were going to attack me and drag me into their cars. I went to doctors’ offices and touched magazines that had been touched by sick people.

I'm tired of being inside my head. I want to live out here, with you.

I’ve gotten really good at reading Kara’s face over the years. and I know what that expression means. It’s disappointment. Here she is trying to find me a perfect boyfriend, yet I can’t keep my neuroses in check long enough to keep them from running away. I can’t bring myself to care. If a guy runs from something as small as this, they are in no way, shape, or form able to handle me anyway.

(In response to a picture critic.) I'm actually a very joyful person. But being a genius with a photographic memory mixed with a strong case of OCD makes for a difficult picture sometimes.

I was beginning to think that Simon just had a bad case of OCD, ADD, and PMS. With a little BS and OMG mixed in.

It would've been the perfect time to tell her. To tell anyone. To say, 'I'm drowning and I need someone, anyone, to be my life raft.' To say, 'I thought it had gone, and it hasn't and I'm so scared by what that means.' To say, 'I just want to be normal, why won't my head let me be normal?

My reflection followed me mercilessly in mirrors, car doors, shop windows. I lived in a world of circus mirrors, the grotesque distortion of my body looking back at me everywhere.

OCD is not a disease that bothers; it is a disease that tortures.

My compulsive thoughts aren't even thoughts, they're absolute certainties and obeying them isn't a choice.

People who live with OCD drag a metal sea anchor around. Obsession is a break, a source of drag, not a badge of creativity, a mark of genius or an inconvenient side effect of some greater function.

Officially, it is no more possible to be a little bit OCD than it is to be a little bit pregnant or a little bit dead.

Often during writing, I am compelled by OCD to delete and rewrite a word or sentence over and over again.

People with OCD including myself, realize that their seemingly uncontrollable behavior is irrational, but they feel unable to stop it.

Mind over matter represents the triumph of will over physical hindrance. Our thoughts are our weapon against the world.

People with mental illnesses aren't wrapped up in themselves because they are intrinsically any more selfish than other people. Of course not. They are just feeling things that can't be ignored. Things that point the arrows inward.

Personality is a slot machine, and the cherries, lemons, and bells are your SSRI system, your schizophrenic tendency, your left/right brain lobalization, your anxiety proclivity, your wiring glitches, your place on the autistic and OCD spectrums - and to these we must add the deep-level influences of the machines and systems of intelligence that guided your brain into maturity.

...shades of OCD.

Soon my sobs dulled to a whimper. Soon my breathing came back. Soon I was able to get off the carpet. Soon I'd meet my friends for college and pretend it hadn't happened.

The first time I saw her, Everything in my head went quiet.

...The human mind is a complicated place...We hold on to things, images, words, ideas, histories that we don't even know we're holding on to.

The talked about their messed-up, dysfunctional families, carefully respecting boundaries, never probing too deep in any one sitting. And they always ended up laughing. Even when the subject matter was intense or macabre, Henry’s sick and twisted and often politically incorrect sense of humor was infectious…Gloria laughed more in these first weeks at Oxford then she remembered laughing almost anywhere.

This will sound strange, and yet I'm sure it was the point: it was a bit like being high. That, for me, anyway, had always been the attraction of drugs, to stop the brutal round of hypercritical thinking, to escape the ravages of an unoccupied mind cannibalizing itself.

Pretty hard to see when you refuse to look. Pretty hard to hear when you refuse to listen.

This isn't normal. This isn't how normal people think. Fuck off, world- what the hell is normal anyway?

To resist a compulsion with willpower alone is to hold back an avalanche by melting the snow with a candle. It just keeps coming and coming and coming.

Torture: knowing something makes no sense, but doing it anyways.

When I am fully immersed in my work of nourishing humanity, it fills my head with all kinds of feel-good chemicals, such as endorphins, serotonin and dopamine. Problems occur during the brief intervals between the finishing of one work and the beginning of another. During these intervals, my biology starts to get filled with stress hormones cortisol and adrenalin, that worsens my OCD. That is why, I can’t sit still even a day after I finish writing a book. Because if I do, my OCD begins to suffocate me inside my head. Hence, as soon as I deliver a work, I have to start working on my next scientific literature.

We're Killers On The Keyboard

Thoughts are only thoughts. They are not you. You do belong to yourself, even when your thoughts don't.