Obsessive Compulsive Disorder | Neil Hilborn

Durante un fastidioso dormiveglia cliccavo un po’ così a casaccio e per inerzia, unica vera filosofia di vita di cui mi possa fidare in momenti come questo ma in linea di massima direi anche sempre, su youtube. Tac, capito su una performance di Poetry Slam che si intitola OCD e mi sento un po’ a casa prima ancora di cliccare play.

L’esibizione è tutta d’un fiato, un po’ come essere attraversati da una scossa veloce, dolorosissima – ti lascia con un momento di totale vuoto nella testa e, successivamente, un forte capogiro che ti obbliga a sederti e chiudere un attimo gli occhi. Ora è come se avessi bevuto una decina di caffè, non credo che dormirò per le prossime due ore. Forse venti.

Appena riesco a rimettermi in sesto leggo che questa performance è diventata un fenomeno virale nell’agosto 2013 e Neil Hilborn, l’autore, è una delle punte di diamante del National Poetry Slam americano; il testo della poesia è autobiografico, scritto in un momento in cui l’OCD aveva preso il sopravvento e bisognava muoversi, fare qualcosa.

Le serrature, le fughe di gas, il freno a mano, gli interruttori della luce, i buchi nei marciapiedi, le strisce pedonali, i punti di sospensione, il disinfettante per le mani, il numero 7, dividere per colore, i quadri leggermente ma visibilmente storti, il mercoledì. Ognuno può personalizzare a piacimento le proprie combinazioni segrete.

Hilborn, il suo disordine mentale, la sua ragazza. La convivenza non è semplice ma il confronto con l’altro aiuta Neil ad acquisire una maggiore necessaria consapevolezza, che diventa consapevolezza collettiva, del proprio disturbo e a cercare di trovarvi rimedio. Prima di tutto, raccontandolo.

Ciò che si vuole abbandonare definitivamente sono i pensieri indesiderati e i gesti ripetuti e ripetuti, decine di volte, fino a raggiungere una ridondanza automatica, dolorosamente comica.

Anche da qui, un sentito grazie a Basaglia, così, en passant.

 *

“OCD”, Neil Hilborn

The first time I saw her

Everything in my head went quiet.

All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.

Even in bed, I’m thinking:

Did I lock the doors? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

Did I lock the door? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips.

Or the eyelash on her cheek –

the eyelash on her cheek –

the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.

I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.

She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her

But she loved it.

She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.

She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.

When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.

I’d always watch her mouth when she talked –

when she talked – 

when she talked – 

when she talked – 

when she talked;

when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.

At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.

She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was just making her late for work.

When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking.

When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.

She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.

Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.

She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but

How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?

Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.

I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.

I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars.

And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.

How she turns shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.

How she blows out candles – 

blows out candles – 

blows out candles – 

blows out candles – 

blows out candles – 

blows out…

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once – he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!

I want her back so bad

I leave the door unlocked.

I leave the lights on.