Читать книгу Leaving the OCD Circus - Kirsten Pagacz - Страница 13

One summer day before I met OCD (which I would not know by name for another twenty years), I was at the playground by myself. I now think of that day as a kind of soul fossil. I can practically still smell and taste it. I remember how I smelled like a mixture of fresh green grass, dirt, and metal chain from the swings at the park, the top of my head baked by the sun and my hair hot and shiny. I remember the feeling of an untucked shirt, my belly round, and my knees dirty.

As a little girl I had a thirst for life you wouldn't believe. I loved how the bees would buzz around in their yellow-and-black-striped fuzzy outfits, as if they were enjoying a celebration together. I even found the flies magnificent. Their backs were colored with flowing metallic violets, blues, and greens. The colors would catch the sunlight, and I would stare at them and wonder how God made such color and put it onto their backs.

I remember hanging on to the jungle gym, which was in the shape of a submarine. I would hang and hang and hang, like a smiling monkey hanging from the limb of a tree. I hung until I felt my arms might stretch out of their sockets, but even this burning sensation felt good. My tennis shoes would create little dust clouds as my feet dangled and brushed across the gray rocks and tan pebbles.

I remember the swings. They were another land. I would sail through the air. The rushing breeze would cool my flushed face. My hands would sweat as I held on to the chains tighter and went higher. My heart would pump with excitement in my chest. I could hear it; I was alive. This was living. This was life, my life.

I could not have known that this was the best life would get. At least for a long, long time. I was calm, happy, filled with joy. I didn't need for anything.