There are days I wake up already losing.
My head’s a war zone.
My thoughts—landmines.
I can’t move without setting one off.
OCD doesn’t tap me on the shoulder.
It drags me by the hair.
It tells me I’ve ruined everything.
That I’m dangerous. Broken.
That something terrible is coming
and it’s my fault.
It lies in my voice.
It wears my face.
It makes me question everything I love—
everyone I trust—
every fucking breath I take.
Some days I hate myself.
I mean really hate myself.
For not being better.
For being so goddamn exhausted all the time.
For not knowing how to turn it off.
But listen to me—
I’ve survived every one of those days.
I’ve fought when no one saw me.
I’ve screamed into pillows,
cried in bathrooms,
gone numb in public
and still got up the next morning
and made breakfast.
And answered texts.
And told my daughter I love her
even when I could barely speak.
I have been at war with my own brain
and I am still fucking standing.
So no—
I’m not fixed.
I’m not always brave.
But I’m here.
Still choosing to stay.
Still daring to love,
to hope,
to believe in something
more than fear.
OCD doesn’t get to win.
Not today.
Not ever.
Because I’m Sammie.
I’ve made it this far,
and I’m not fucking done yet.