There is a distinct possibility that if I even publish this post, I may regret it and take it down.

Which you can take as your warning that this post is going to contain a bit more personal information than normal.

So, a small bit of background.

I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). For years I denied it, which is rather strange, since I didn’t have too much of a problem admitting that I suffered from depression. For some reason it was OK to admit I was depressed, even to other people, while OCD was just something that wasn’t going to be in my world.

Despite the fact that I knew all the symptoms, despite the fact that I knew some of my “quirky” behaviors weren’t normal, and weren’t healthy.

The problem is, of course, that mental illness just isn’t something one wants to admit to–at least in public. (And working for a someone who referred to the local mental health facility as “that damn nuthouse” didn’t help either.)

This has been on my mind because I’ve been having trouble with my OCD recently. Not a serious problem, but some of my “quirks” are crossing the line from “quirk” to “annoyance.”

The quirk that’s bothering me the most right now is weight. I don’t own a full length mirror or a scale. It’s a matter of self-defense. If I can’t weigh myself or look in a mirror, I don’t think about how I look.

Unfortunately for me, the rec center has a digital scale that I have to walk past every single time I walk in and out of the changing room. Every single time. So I have to weigh myself. Every single day. So when my weight goes up a couple of ounces, I worry about it. And then I start thinking about what I’m eating. Am I eating too much? Am I eating too much food that is bad for me? Am I gaining weight or is this just a daily fluccuation?

Now, every single meal I consider what I’m eating, how much I’m eating, and how good it is for me.

Does this sound unreasonable? What if I tell you that I am precisely in the middle of my weight range for my height, I exercise every day, and I haven’t eaten mammals since I was 20. If there was anyone who doesn’t need to obsess about weight and what they’re eating, it’s me.

I know this is bad, and I know that nothing good can come of it.

What makes things so difficult is that I’m perfectly capable of functioning with untreated OCD and depression, and mostly capable of hiding the fact that I’m having problems. (Of course I might just be deluding myself about that last bit.)

Things never get so bad that I can’t work. They never get so bad that I can’t function. I know the tricks to make things easier: exercise, relaxing, distracting myself. But it’s still there, some days worse than others.

However, today, I managed to avoid stepping on the scale, and avoided checking the fit of my clothes in the mirror.

One day at a time.