2nd Place - ANNIE ZHOU - Hiding in the Shadows: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Hiding in the Shadows: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder 

No one is there, and yet I feel a presence lurking beside me. In this pitch-black room surrounded only by a flurry of quick-paced thoughts and murmured fears- someone abruptly shouts at me to jump in front of the rush-hour traffic; even the muttered threat sounds tempting to my sluggish ears. My head falls down as I both contemplate the strange demand and gaze upon the late-night roads, currently packed with Houston drivers rushing to return home under the shadow blanket of the peeping moon. The traffic lights simultaneously dance with their mesmerizing glow, beckoning the impulsive flies forth in a beguiling effort to claim the luminosity. I then scurry to the light switch- flicking the dingy, plastic knob up and down three times- determined to locate the source of the voice. To my disbelief, no one illuminates in the empty abyss of my bedroom when the bulb flashes on. Surrounded by discarded clothing, strewn papers, scraps of fallen candy wrappers, and leftover lego pieces, instead lies only my sullen reflection in the glassy mirrors. 

The first day that I encountered the shadow was a quiet one: the playful clouds framed the sky, pacing desperately around as if engaged in makeshift tag; the bright blue of the vast sky lounged about, basking in the vivid rays of the shining sun; the elementary school children burst into raucous laughter, hopping on the already rusted metal of the monkey bars and swinging their tiny little legs around. Subsequent to my daily stroll, I sat down on a leafy hill of the park, with the crisp grass bristling at my exposed ankles and the graceful wind fluttering through my dark locs. I reached for my plastic water bottle, only to realize that it had dropped into the soil, buried surface-level in the small mountain of dirt. My finger twitched to pick it up out of reflex, but a booming voice echoed in the resonant chambers of my head. All thought faded out of consciousness, instead replaced by incessant images of dirt and grime: the pale blue crevices of the plastic cap being invaded by dirt, small specs of dirt lining every inch of the translucent object, dirt caged by the paper wrapper of the bottle, dirt outside, dirt inside, dirt everywhere, just dirt, dirt, dirt. Bile ascended to the base of my throat, residing as an amorphous blob that simply sat there, waiting to escape out of the dungeons of my mouth into the freedom of the outdoors. I stood there in a trance for a few seconds, utterly disgusted by even the idea of having any contact whatsoever with the abandoned bottle. Even the air surrounding the bottle became contagious to me, infecting my vision with more images of rampant disease and filth. The voice in my head continued booming, claiming that this vile substance would find my family members and contaminate those I considered dear unless I repeated the extended finger action ten more times. Even when I did, the voice would not cease its unabating tantrum, claiming that the motion was not fulfilling and that I would need to continue in repetitions of ten until the sensation allegedly felt right. Of course, the very idea of this was outrageous; evidently this fictional being that I had somehow summoned out of the depths of my overactive imagination could not have a tangible impact on real life society: it could not touch anyone, and more so could not hurt anyone. Even knowing the conditions as such, the voice kept me worrying; my brain thus refused to persist in its everyday functioning until I completed the task that was demanded of me. It was as if the pesky gremlin of a voice took the reins on my cognition, rendering it inactive until I finalized its desired orders. 

Since then, the entity trails behind me through cross-roads, highways, neighborhoods, and decrepit buildings. It mirrors my actions and dignifies me with its own unique quirks: sauntering across tiled floors with my shy march, bouncing up stairways with my languid steps, and crawling through the tree branches with my spontaneous mounts. Most days, I am unsure if it is foe or friend: I feel the creature’s presence weighing on my skin, grasping the thin layer on my back and clawing its own permanent imprints, however, I also feel the reassurance of not 

being alone in this desolate eternity.

Sources:

[1] Contamination OCD - Symptoms and Treatment. (n.d.). BrainsWay. Retrieved June 13, 2024, from https://www.brainsway.com/knowledge-center/contamination-ocd/  

[1] Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder - National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH). (n.d.). National Institute of Mental Health. Retrieved June 13, 2024, from https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd