A twenty seven year old man sits at his mother’s dining room table. Placed in front of him is a plate filled with all the contents of a perfect roast dinner. He moves the plate two centimetres to the left. How hard can it be? Why can’t she just for once, just for once properly organise the way she places food on the plate. Just for once put the plate in the right place on the table. She knows I like it directly in front of me. The centre of the plate needs to line up directly with the middle of my forehead. Just for once, can she not just make sure everything is PERFECT? (Whispers) Just the way it should be. (He aggressively stands up and faces the audience.) THIS ISNT RIGHT MOTHER! IT ISN’T! She stared at me as though I was a child having a daily tantrum. (He furiously scratches his arm.) I wasn’t though. I know she is disgusted by me. I know she talks about me to her friends. I know she is ASHAMED of me. I can’t change the way I am though.
Growing up, I’d here the same mantra: “There is nothing wrong with you.” or “You’re just like the other little boys.” But, I know. (Rushed) I know that I’m not normal. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that washing my hands five times within an hour or spending more time organising my food instead of eating it is not… NORMAL. (He turns around to face the plate.) The plate, the plate, the plate. (He furiously shakes his head.) THE PLATE. I hate it.
I hate the fact if something isn’t perfect; my mind makes me constantly repeat it as though my mouth is a broken stereo, hoping that it could at least sound perfect when I say it and I HATE IT. (He laughs without humour.) I need help. If I didn’t need help, I wouldn’t be a twenty seven year old man that has to have his mother check up on twice a day just to check if he still hasn’t scratched off his skin. (He looks down at his hands.) Absolutely disgusting. When I look at my hands, I see germs crawling inside my skin. I see dirt. It’s disgusting. (He looks...
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