this is kinda gross..Boyfriend and OCD

[Miss Firecracker]

His family must be very well off to do all this for him. I guess it got to a point they had to have him a place of his own. Imagine they got tired of living with all of that mess in their home. I feel sad for the whole family.

[Anon333]

I do too..He has two other brothers and a sister..And yes, his family is well off....Im not sure he lived with them for so long....He went away to college, and even heald a job at times. His OCD seems to have gotten worse, but I think it ebbs and flows,,I just hope it starts getting better and for good! Thank You again....

[Miss Firecracker]

Anon,

 

If you are still around here, maybe you will appreciate this story my son found on his OCD forum. It's a good story but very sad and may be something your boyfriend could relate to.

 

The OCD Ogre

 

Deep in the darkest reaches of the forest stands a little hut where the ogre lives. The ogre is very,very old and his house is shabby and unkempt. He is unwashed and has a very long beard that reaches all the way down to the floor. The reason everything is so grotty is because this poor old ogre has OCD. All day and all night he goes over his rituals, muttering and counting to himself. So much so, that he has little time to do anything else. No sooner does he finish one ritual than he begins another. On and on. Day and night without rest.There is nothing this poor ogre would like more than to be able to rest. If only he could switch off his brain long enough to get to sleep. He is so tired he would willingly sleep for eternity.

 

One cold winter's night there is a knock at the door of the hut. It echoes loudly round the empty room, for the ogre has no furniture. What does he need furniture for? He has no need of a chair for he has no time to sit , no need of a bed for he cannot sleep, and he cannot cease his rituals to answer the door. The visitor can hear mumblings inside and knocks again. Still no reply, but the voice continues muttering, so he turns the handle and lets himself in.

 

The Grim Reaper has come to collect another victim and he stands patiently in a corner waiting for the old ogre to finish his ritual so that he can introduce himself. But the ogre mutters on, and on, and on, barely pausing for breath. Death places both hands over the handle of his scythe and rests his head on them. Clearly,this one is going to take a while....

 

After several hours the Grim Reaper is bored of waiting and slips back out of the hut in search of an easier victim to reap. He returns many times to the ogre's hut that winter, and the next year, and the next. But each time he calls it is always the same. The ogre is lost in his rituals and doesn't even see Death standing at his shoulder.

 

Now the ogre is extremely old. His beard has grown so long it reaches to the floor in thick folds -so deep that at last he has a matress to lie on for a bed. The ogre lies down on his soft beard, weary to the core, longing for some release from the endless counting and checking. He is SO tired. If only he could sleep. What wouldn't he give even to die!

 

There is a knock at the door, but used to getting no reply the Grim Reaper barely pauses before letting himself back in. For a moment he thinks there is silence! But no, the ogre is chanting still, the sound is merely muffled by his long beard. Death sighs deeply. This one is proving very difficult. The hardest he has ever had to reap in fact. More so even than those who cling to life and try so hard not to let go. But even Death does not know how to break through the rituals. Even Death cannot reach the ogre to let him rest in peace.

 

If you are ever out for a walk in the depths of the forest, perhaps you will hear a muffled voice carried to you on the breeze. But it will not be the whisperings of the forest that you hear, nor the rustling chatter of the leaves tossing in the autumn wind. It will be the old,old ogre wih OCD. For he is counting and chanting still, and longing for sleep. How ironic, how sad, that rest awaits him if only he could pause long enough for a single swish of the scythe to cut through the air and take him to his final rest.

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