My routine is a fairly complex one. At this point my family doesn't bother telling me how my neurotic behavior appears. They know I am not on my meds, and that they never worked in the first place. I can get away with being off my prescription, as my condition is psychiatric, unlike Mee maw's diabetes. I love my grandmother. After mom and dad divorced, I went to live with my grandmother. She was not very healthy, and her hands shook violently from her Parkinson's ravaged brain. I was tasked to give her her shot, and only then began my routine. I begin by brushing my teeth sixteen times consecutively. You would assume my oral health to be optimal, but my teeth hurt. Tears run down my face as I diligently brush. Each brushing is to be 60 Mississippi enamel scraping, gum cutting, gag inducing seconds of merely the beginning of my rituals. I take a breather, and step into the shower for no less than four hours. My skin is blistering from the scalding water, and the soap stings me cruelly when I bring the ever so abrasive washcloth against the wounds, chanting the Lord's Prayer in multiples of ten. I make it to one hundred and twenty. I don't even believe in God anymore, but the paralyzing fear drives me to keep praying. I then blink a succession of thirty five times. I apply shampoo, and conjure up images of gruesome car crashes, when I rinse, not because I like it. I cry by the time that I have given my hair its seventh wash. Grandma has not interrupted my "cleansing", and I sniffle back my tears and decide to savor my being spared of her making me start over. I can't be interrupted in the maintenance of my fragile sanity. In gratitude for my completion of showering in peace, I do eighty eight push-ups and spit ten times in the toilet. I can't look in the mirror, but I know that I have permanently disfigured my face while sharing in just one week since I quit meds. I hate to admit it, but besides a couple new obsessive thoughts, it was this bad even on the pills. Maybe it was worse. I finally exit the bathroom after shaving my entire body five times and dousing my bleeding and irritated skin with hydrogen peroxide. My cuts and sores fizz with bubbles, and I enter the kitchen. I merely touch my bottles of Prozac and Xanax, as I no longer take them. Unopened for a week, they remain on the counter, separate from my grandmother's meds in the the bathroom, which she takes every three hours, and her rapid acting insulin, which she keeps in the refrigerator and needs almost every two hours. At my request, her insulin is to be wrapped in seran wrap and stored at the very back, behind the four gallons of milk, twelve ketchup bottles and twenty boxes of fruit rollups, which I'm not sure whether they go bad or not, and I will not take the chance. The light is off, and my condition makes it unbearable to tolerate food that has been kept in the dark. (No potatoes, please!). A repulsive odor fills my nostrils, and although it is a little odd to such an overbearing scent of decay, even from a dead fridge, I realize that there was no excuse for not taking thirteen deep whiffs of it, as per every morning upon looking at food. To make up for it, I take the same amount of sniffs from the burning vapors emitted from the open top of a bottle of bleach, which I have procured for this reason alone. I notice, upon slamming the freezer door eight times that the smell is coming from Mee Maw's room. I count exactly thirty seconds out loud, and walk to the door to my poor Nana's room, and I grimace at the flies, exactly five of them, as they gorge themselves on the bloated corpse laying in my grandmother's Queen size mattress. I get on one knee, and begin to pick up her slippers from under the bed, and spend thirty minutes straitening their position and pondering with a furrowed brow: My "routine" is so complicated, and although my memory is profoundly powerful (as my condition necessitates). I go through the motions of almost thousands of ritual behaviors every day to keep balance in my head, to make certain that I remain sane and keep my head on straight, prove my shrink wrong about needing to take my meds and yet, despite everything, I can't shake the feeling that I have forgotten something.
Submitted May 06, 2016 at 03:17PM by relative_person http://ift.tt/1T26WHW creepypasta
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