This story is based only on my experience with OCD; everyone's is different. But I hope this will shed some light on what it's like to live with it. Don't be afraid to comment. And remember: we're in this together. You are not alone.

From the engine car to the caboose, the Northern Flyer was silent. Serene. All the passengers had moved into the sleeping cars for the night, into their cozy berths with cool cotton sheets, where they would stay until the morning light began to creep in through the windows. The cooks had all stopped cooking, the day engineer had gone to sleep, and the conductor was readying himself for bed, his little bowler hat set on his suitcase on the floor next to his cot.

Skimbleshanks walked through each car, nudging into every door to make sure it was good and closed, meowing at any human that hadn't yet gone to bed (except for the night engineer; he was allowed to be up, of course). He, too, was ready to sleep - unlike most of the other junkyard cats, he was accustomed to be awake and alert during the day, and sleep at night - but he had to finish his duties. And once they were finished, he sidled up to the conductor's cot and hopped up just as he started to pull up the blankets.

"Eh, you little rascal," he chucked. "I guess ya want yer vest taken off, eh?"

He reached down and started to unbutton the little tweed vest that Skimble wore, made for him by the stationmaster's wife at Dumfries. But he stopped after the third button and shook his head. "Aye, I forgot, I'm not supposed ter take it offa ya," he apologized, patting Skimble on the head. "You given yerself a raw spot there, from lickin' yerself too much." He buttoned his vest back up. "You'll have ter keep it on for tonight. I'll put a new one on ya tomorrow, but I'm sleepy now. You'll be alright, you little rascal. Just go to yer bed and get some rest for the night."

Skimble hopped down - he hated sleeping with humans - and went to his own bed, just across the car. He didn't mind keeping the vest on; it was comfy, though it was a bit more comfy to sleep with it off. But the conductor was right about the raw spot; he had been licking it an awful lot lately. But it was the only thing that kept him occupied at night, when he was restless but the train was peaceful and still, when he had nothing to do but listen to the thoughts in his head…

The thoughts. Did you really make sure every door was shut? they said. Did you really make sure everyone was asleep? Did you? Did you, Skimble? He tried to shut them out, make them go away, find something - anything - else to focus on. Are you sure there aren't any mice around? You didn't look in that one place. Maybe you should have. Maybe you should do it now. Heaviside forbid some human finds a mouse in their shoe in the morning. They'll kick you into next week, you know, if they think you're slacking.

He curled himself up into a ball in his bed, tucking his head under his tail. He knew hiding wouldn't do any good. He knew he couldn't really shrink into the darkness. But he could try, at least. And maybe it would make him feel like he was really shrinking away from the thoughts, from the thoughts, from the thoughts…

No, that wasn't how that went. He was supposed to contemplate his name like that. That's what every cat was supposed to do, sit there and contemplate his name, who he was. But all Skimble could seem to think about was the thoughts, how they hurt, how they bothered him, how they gave him the urge to lick himself until he fell asleep because at least, if he was licking himself, he was directing the nervous energy elsewhere, not letting it sit in his head where it caused all that ruckus that he couldn't tolerate. He could cope with human stupidity, he could cope with little kids picking him up and holding him like a baby, he could cope with all the noise they made - but he didn't know what to do with himself. The only way he coped was by keeping busy. But at night, there was nothing to do, no business to be done. And if he tried to find some, he would wake the humans, and they would be angry with him. And he didn't want anyone to be angry with him - Heaviside, he was already angry enough at himself.

He hated himself for being like that. The humans laughed; they thought it was funny and cute, how he went around mewing, telling them to make their beds and pick up the food they dropped on the floor, telling them to be quiet and quit causing fusses. And the other cats thought he was bossy, rolling their eyes every time he told them to put things back where they came from, where they belonged. Some of the younger ones even went as far to call him mean. Maybe you are, Skimbleshanks, the thoughts said. Maybe they're right.

But they're just kits! He retorted to himself. They'll learn eventually.

Will they?

They think Munkustrap is mean, too, for trying to keep things in order! Everybody knows he just means the welfare of the tribe, the kits! They all learn eventually! He flicked his ears in retaliation, though there was no noise to be heard except the chugging of the engine.

Do they, Skimbleshanks? Or do they just act like they learn? The thoughts always had some sort of rebuttal - more times than not, a good one.

What does it matter what they think? I have friends who like me for who I am.

Do you? Or do they just pretend to like you because they feel sorry for you and your obsessive-compulsive behavior?

He shuttered. There had been a vet on board a few weeks ago, and that's what he'd told the conductor Skimble suffered from. "Just keep him busy," he'd said. "Keep him a routine, and he'll get over it fine."

But Skimble knew better. If keeping busy and sticking to a routine were what fixed the thoughts, he would never have suffered from them in the first place.

He hopped out of his bed and jumped up onto the window sill, staring out into the landscape in front of him. The night was bright, with the twinkling of the stars and the yellow glow of the crescent moon. It really was beautiful. Stupid, how the night could be so beautiful, so perfect, and yet, all that dwelled beneath it was so awful, so hideous.

He pawed at the window, the little glimpse he had of the perfect world around him. He imagined just how nice it would be for everything to be perfect and peaceful and beautiful, how nice it would be to wake up in the morning and have something to do to take his mind off the thoughts that preyed on him constantly. He imagined how good it would feel to dream about living in a world where people didn't laugh and cats didn't roll their eyes every time he tried to help, where he and Munkustrap weren't bad guys and the kittens understood how difficult it was to keep everybody safe and happy, where the thoughts would go away and he could just be a normal, name-contemplating cat, no questions asked.

But it was, ultimately, all a fantasy. The reality was something vastly different. And whether the Northern Flyer was at peace because of him, or because of the thoughts in his head, Skimble didn't know. Because at times like these, he and the thoughts were the same thing.

Standing there at the window sill, the thoughts suddenly worsened. I don't want to be here. I wish I were in Heaviside. Nay, I want to go to Heaviside.

No! He caught himself. He didn't want that, not one bit. He had a wonderful life - the trains, the junkyard, humans and cats alike who relied on him, who loved him!

Everlasting, please, don't let that happen. He repeated to himself silently, desperately trying to counter the thoughts' words. Everlasting, please, no. Please, don't let that happen. I want to live. I want to stay here. Please, don't...don't...

His ritual was interrupted by the taste of blood on his tongue - he looked down at his paw, revealing another pink raw spot where the fur had been licked away, so raw that it was beginning to bleed. His stomach churned, his eyes grew blurry, and he swallowed down a lump of fur. Heaviside, he made himself so sick.

He hopped down from the window, his sore paw stinging from the landing, and made his way back to his bed. His head was pounding, the praying ritual having resumed, trying to shove the thoughts as far back into his mind as they could go.

But alas, he knew wholeheartedly it was worthless.

You're worthless.

He settled down in his bed, his head tucked under his tail.

What if the train were to crash? That would be nice.

No! Everlasting, I would never forgive myself if that happened! And then I really...wouldn't be able to stay here...

The stinging in his paw returned, along with the metallic taste of blood - he was licking again. How he dreaded returning to the junkyard; Jenny would think he'd hurt himself on purpose. She would panic, absolutely panic!

He curled his paw beneath him, shutting his emerald eyes and continuing to repeat his prayers to Everlasting that nothing bad would happen, not ever. If one had walked by, they would have assumed him asleep; and with time, he did fall asleep. But the thoughts never slept, not really. They were always there.

No one could see them, of course. But they were there. And the ruckus they made was the one fuss that Skimble doubted he'd ever be able to put an end to.

Again, this story is based on what I have experienced living with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and research I have done on the subject; however, everyone has a different experience. If you want to know more about OCD or other mental health conditions, I encourage you to research on your own. But here's a little snippet for now:

Intrusive thoughts (sometimes featuring themes of self-harm or suicide) are a hallmark symptom of OCD and so are ticks such as nail-biting, or in this case, excessive licking, which are the result of excess energy created by anxiety. This does not mean we desire to harm ourselves or others; these thoughts are created by chemical imbalances in our brains and, while they are in our heads, we are not really "thinking" them (i.e. generating the thoughts on our own) and do not mean what the thoughts say. However, with all the stigma in the world right now, suicidal and self-harm thoughts can and do become real for people with OCD; I have been lucky to be spared that so far, but others have not. And so that's why we need to talk about it.

I am doing a lot better now personally - I have found writing to be a great way to escape and talk about these issues that matter to me. But if you or a loved one are experiencing Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, are considering self harm or suicide, or any other mental health concerns, I encourage you to talk about it with those you care about and who care about you. If you are in crisis, I encourage you to call an emergency number or a local hotline so you can get the help you deserve.

Keep in mind, the internet is also a great place to find communities to talk about things like mental health. Contrary to what we are taught, there are benefits to chatting online with anonymity and sharing about such sensitive topics as mental health. Be sure not to share personal information such as name, phone number, birth date, etc. But it is 100% okay to talk about sensitive subjects.

You are strong. You are valid. You are beautiful and incredible and amazing. And things do get better. I promise.