Thanks. I don't think the inches thing would work for me, icky, because I don't have specific lengths I'll go...I just go to a point, and then cover whatever I didn't do when I wipe the other way. However, I have managed to do some things more like that, using cloths from one end to the other. It works for some things, but not for others.

I have a psychiatrist, but he seems like all the others I've had...no CBT, just meds. Right now, even my boyfriend doesn't think CBT would work for me, not until I get some relief with the meds. I told my shrink I want to try upping the Anafranil (I take the generic, actually), to see if it might work again for me after all these years. It worked wonderfully once before, then a physician took me off it, I got worse, and it stopped working when he put me back on it again. I am so angry at that doctor, and it's too late to sue (turns out, I may very well have had a case, a lawyer told me, but it would have had to be done within two years after I'd seen him; I was young, didn't know I'd end up like this). I might be on a very different path had he not done that to me.

I feel like a disappointment to everyone, and a burden (my boyfriend told me I was a burden several years ago, so it's not just me telling myself that). I feel like I should be able to resist the thoughts, to be "normal." My mom and my boyfriend have both often said to me, "I wish you could..." and it makes me feel so guilty. I snap at my mom because she doesn't (can't) understand, and I am positive she has mental issues of her own, and I don't mean to be impatient, but with everything going on in my head and the mental and physical strain I go through every day, I just don't feel like dealing with her games and stuff. She wants to play on the phone, or I'll be trying to tell her how bad I feel or talk about something serious, and she'll make a joke, or change the subject ("Ooh! That man on TV went flying across the street!"), and I feel like she doesn't want to deal with me. Just like when I was a kid...I'd beg to be held, and she'd make an excuse to get away, like to use the bathroom or have to go iron some clothes, and say she'd be back, but wouldn't come back.

I'm bitter, and angry, and I think that, along with the stress of OCD and panic disorder, and my poor diet, are going to kill me one day.