![]() ![]() On other occasions, it's as if I can't stop. They just do, and once they do, the obsessions usually continue until I'm so sick of them-or of myself for enacting them-that suddenly, and with a sense of great relief, I'm repulsed. ![]() My ritualistic obsessions are no longer limited to animals (currently, they include Diane Sawyer, The Slender Man stabbings, and eating bacon every day for lunch). I once stood for an hour with my face against the glass at Sea World, trying to make meaningful eye contact with a manatee. I put my teddy bears and stuffed lions to bed every night under blankets of washcloths-I couldn't fall asleep until they were safely arranged like Tetris pieces on the floor, covering every inch of carpet. I interviewed neighbors about their dogs. My teachers thought I was becoming deranged but my mom explained that it had been going on since before the divorce. As a five-year-old I wrote a fully illustrated book titled Tigger Maskkir about circus animals that revolt and eat the clowns. My obsession with animals preexisted any trauma in my life. This article originally appeared in the online magazine
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