Existing with OCD During a Global Pandemic
98.3. 97.9. 97.6. 98.1 The metal rod uncomfortably pokes at the fold underneath my tongue as I cross my eyes to read the numbers climbing on the thermometer. "This is rediculous, but what if?" I take my temperature, again, triple checking that I don't have a fever. My brain is constantly oscilating between a state of safety and paranoia. Just as I finally feel peace, the grip of my anxiety comes from the shadow and ambushes relaxation, reasserting it's dominance to perpetuate my infinite state of worry. The formal name for this mental asswipe is OCD. The worst part is that without OCD, I'm a completely different girl. I'm confident. I'm fun. I don't worry about what I can't control. I take risks with a proactively, calm attitude that even if something goes wrong, it will be ok. My internship supervisor gives me a task not normally meant for interns, becuase he sees an ability to remain unphased by stressful situations. But then I hear a