Out of focus, the room blurred in the dim light,

the sheets lost their creases and folds, my hands

shimmering and streaking as I moved them.

I was lost, and everything was tenuous. Do you

understand now what fear can do? The tumor

in my head wasn’t even a tumor, but I was led

to believe it would take my one life and quickly.

The neurosurgeon’s words persisted. They informed

every hour of my day and night. Everything

was a sign. Everything that happened was a sign

of my impending demise. I was diagnosed with O.C.D.

at the age of 13. Long-standing friend, this disorder

was suddenly unwelcome. I could not stop thinking:

the tumor; the way it was supposedly growing.

I repeatedly asked question after question of myself.

How obnoxious my questions seemed when posed

to me instead of others. I questioned everything.

With not so subtle desperation, I questioned

the very universe. Lost and falling out of focus,

the room I had slept in for over a decade became strange.

Out of focus, it shrank and enlarged around me, a 

veritable scene from Wonderland. I was unsure. I

was not fully myself. I wanted the Queen of Hearts

to arrive, to shout her infamous “Off with his head!”