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Cup of Coffee

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OCD is a pretty tricky thing, apparently. Yes, a lot of the times it revolves around a harmless pattern we must repeat throughout the day. Just a daily nuisance that one must learn to integrate into his schedule, it can’t possibly have such a drastic effect on your life style right? It’s just time consuming, if anything.

So why am I here then? Every time I ask the nurses or the doctors for some sort of explanation they just force a pill in my mouth. I spend most of my day trapped in a restraining jacket in a dingy room, counting the minutes in complete silence. I am sure I am as sane as any of them, but they insist that I require mental treatment. Is all of this really necessary just because I have a minor form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? A lot of people I know suffer from OCD and I don’t see them being labeled as mad.

How did they even find out? It’s not like my obsession is that noticeable or anything and I haven’t really told a lot of people about it. In my case, I just feel the need to reward myself with a cup of hot coffee every time I complete something that I see as significant, like after a hard day of work for instance.

I mean sure, my caffeine level might be a bit high but that’s hardly a reason for cramming me inside an asylum full with nutcases. No matter how hard I try to think, I just can’t list another reason that might justify me being here. Plus, I have yet to experience any sort of cooperation from the workers here. I do believe that after your home gets stormed by a dozen uniformed men, which are apparently authorized to beat the shit out of you before finally putting on the restraints, you at least deserve a fucking explanation! The bastards didn’t even let me finish my coffee.

The whole ordeal is a bit fuzzy, probably from having my head bumped against the hood of the police car several times, but I think I recall the important parts. Perhaps you can enlighten me on what in the actual hell I did wrong.

I believe it was around six or seven pm, but I might be wrong. I just got home from work, hung my coat in the usual place and tiredly stumbled into the kitchen. I had to fill in for a colleague, so I’ve been doing double the work. Unfortunately, there were still the mangled bodies laying on the floor from yesterday that needed sawing up. I have a pretty big fridge, but cramming a fully grown human adult in there is pretty much impossible, so dismemberment was in order. My daughter and son were already prepared and stuffed in the fridge, but I didn’t have time to take care of my wife’s and her lover’s corpse.

My dad’s old saw was pretty dull, but it did the job eventually. The bones took a little bit more, as the blade kept getting stuck, but it had to be done and I am not the type to simply ignore chores. Once I was finished, I stuffed the remains in the fridge next to my children’s, mopped the blood and, of course, plugged in the coffee machine. As you can tell, my OCD doesn’t interfere with my work. In fact, it makes me look forward to completing every important piece of business I have on my schedule. I couldn’t imagine a better reward for a job well done than a hot cup of my favorite brand of coffee. I even felt like adding some cream, thinking that I deserved it after such an excruciatingly difficult week. As I took a sip, I started to wonder about how I was going to spend my weekend.

Suddenly, my door was knocked down and the aforementioned morons piled over me, yelling as they kicked and punched me around my own kitchen. One of them was pointing at my fridge, as if he hadn’t seen a household appliance in his life. He even started shouting at me about it, but I couldn’t determine what he was saying over the loud buzzing in my ears. By the time they got me in the back of the car, I already passed out. Surely I have the rights to press charges for unneeded physical assault, but nobody seems to care for my opinion here.

It’s been several weeks now since I arrived in the mental institution. Two weeks, three days and twelve hours to be exact, I don’t have much to do besides count. Fortunately, they were kind enough to allow me out of the cell and remove the goddamn jacket, so I can at least wipe my ass like a normal human being. I am still not allowed around the other inmates though, for god knows what reason. My therapist gave me this audio log and told me to record my thoughts, and seeing as I don’t have anyone to talk to I might as well. At least she is all right, and appears as if she wants to help me. Regardless, I want nothing more than to leave this place. I keep telling them that it's just a habit and that it doesn’t affect me or the people around me in any negative way, but that usually results in me getting more meds pushed into my system.

It’s just coffee people, what’s the big deal!?

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