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She worries about contamination. Things touching other things. Things mixed with other things. She worries she will never be perfect... Enough... She can't work with others, They never meet her standards, Or dont do things her way. Their way is never good enough... She can't walk without worring about her feet, She has to be careful where she walks, Is the floor lumpy? Bumpy? Are her feet even enough? Otherwise she will feel bad, And bad things will happen. She counts in twos... One, two, one, two. Are things seperate? Clean? Or contaminated? Bad?
Food is her biggest problem. If she misses breakfast she cannot eat, Not till the clock strikes 12 and the day is done. She learns to overcome this problem, Only for it to get a lot worse, Every bite she took was hell, It posioned, contaminated her body. Sure, she enjoyed the taste, but it filled her up, She hated feeling full, she needed to be empty, Pure. So she stopped eating for days on end, Only liquids passed her lips. Until she could go on no more.
Numbers are so important. Some are good, But some bad. She can list them from the top of her head, 1,2,3,4,5 good 6,7 bad 8 good 9 bad 10 good 11 bad 12 good 13,14 bad 15,16 good 17 bad 18 good 19 bad 20 good See a patter? Neither does she. She just knows. It just is. Everything must rest on a good number... From the volume on the radio and TV, To the number of times she has done something... Anything.
