You know, I’m pretty open about my issues on the whole. OCD, SAD, GAD. Anxiety up the ass. What I don’t like to talk about much is the intrusive thoughts. Often, for no reason, these little voices pop into my head telling me things. Sometimes ordinary obsessions: “You’re not good enough, you’re ugly, you’re fat, everyone hates you and they’re right to, why are you even here anyway.” I can deal with these. Then there are the less-pleasant ideas, thoughts of murdering people or killing myself, carving pictures into flesh and hearing the sick gurgle of a slit throat. Once, sitting in the passenger seat on my way back from the city at night, a first-person video flashed behind my eyelids of reaching over and wrapping my hands around my mom’s throat - the fear and betrayal in her eyes, her spasming hands jerking the steering wheel over to the left, a kaleidoscope of neon signs and taillights blurring in my vision as we crash into the concrete at the side of the highway. She’s dead on impact, but I last until we spin and collide with another car. Funny, isn’t it? My therapist doesn’t think so. Not that killing my mom is funny, but it cracks me up that I can’t stop this from happening, since it stems from a neurological disorder. I guess that’s my secret. I’ve never told anybody and I probably never will again.