"I’m not crazy, not really.
I know I act strange at times.
I know I ask too many questions.
I know the door was locked, and you watched me turn the car around . . . again . . . to check the lock . . . again.
But I’m not crazy.
Her hands are red and raw.
She hides them in her lap or behind her back.
But still, she wonders if they’re really clean.
"I did touch the door knob, not with my hands, of course, with my sleeve.
But now I’ve touched my sleeve."
She needs to wash her hands again.
But she’s not crazy.
"Don’t come in. Well, okay, come in.
But don’t look around. Don’t judge my house."
He knows he has boxes of paper, magazines,
And newspapers cluttering the rooms.
But he knows where his taxes from 1962 are . . . and the utility bills . . . and the canceled checks.
But he’s not crazy.
She walked through the door, but she didn’t do it right.
She knows it was the eighth time.
"One more time, I’ve got to get it right."
If she doesn’t do it right, something may happen to her mother.
But she’s not crazy.
My mind wanders when you’re talking to me.
When you look at me strangely,
I pull my thoughts together and try to concentrate on your words.
But I can’t quite give you my full attention.
My mind is filled with worries and fears I can’t seem to release.
But I’m not crazy.
We’re not crazy, not really.
We know these behaviors and thoughts aren’t normal,
That they’re irrational.
But we do them anyway.
Do "crazy" people know they’re acting irrational?
No, they act and think with ignorance of their strangeness.
They don’t see your stares or hear your whispers.
They don’t hear the other children laugh.
They don’t see their families’ worried faces.
Oh, the bliss of not knowing, of not caring,
Of not longing to stop checking, washing, hoarding,
Ritualizing and worrying.
But of course, we do want to stop,
We do want to be "normal" like you.
We dream of a day without these tortured thoughts.
I will leave my house without worrying about the lock.
And she won’t have to go through a door more than once.
His house will be clean and her hands will be healed.
My mind won’t be filled with worries and fears."
...
Cherry Pedrick
I know I act strange at times.
I know I ask too many questions.
I know the door was locked, and you watched me turn the car around . . . again . . . to check the lock . . . again.
But I’m not crazy.
Her hands are red and raw.
She hides them in her lap or behind her back.
But still, she wonders if they’re really clean.
"I did touch the door knob, not with my hands, of course, with my sleeve.
But now I’ve touched my sleeve."
She needs to wash her hands again.
But she’s not crazy.
"Don’t come in. Well, okay, come in.
But don’t look around. Don’t judge my house."
He knows he has boxes of paper, magazines,
And newspapers cluttering the rooms.
But he knows where his taxes from 1962 are . . . and the utility bills . . . and the canceled checks.
But he’s not crazy.
She walked through the door, but she didn’t do it right.
She knows it was the eighth time.
"One more time, I’ve got to get it right."
If she doesn’t do it right, something may happen to her mother.
But she’s not crazy.
My mind wanders when you’re talking to me.
When you look at me strangely,
I pull my thoughts together and try to concentrate on your words.
But I can’t quite give you my full attention.
My mind is filled with worries and fears I can’t seem to release.
But I’m not crazy.
We’re not crazy, not really.
We know these behaviors and thoughts aren’t normal,
That they’re irrational.
But we do them anyway.
Do "crazy" people know they’re acting irrational?
No, they act and think with ignorance of their strangeness.
They don’t see your stares or hear your whispers.
They don’t hear the other children laugh.
They don’t see their families’ worried faces.
Oh, the bliss of not knowing, of not caring,
Of not longing to stop checking, washing, hoarding,
Ritualizing and worrying.
But of course, we do want to stop,
We do want to be "normal" like you.
We dream of a day without these tortured thoughts.
I will leave my house without worrying about the lock.
And she won’t have to go through a door more than once.
His house will be clean and her hands will be healed.
My mind won’t be filled with worries and fears."
...
Cherry Pedrick
