Back in the days...

Back in the days of childhood,
Of barefoot backyard bliss--
I recall the touch of sunshine,
And the breeze's ling'ring kiss.

Tucked behind a wooden fence,
I challenged life and smiled
'Till the day time's whirlwind passed,
And left behind no child--

But a pale and trembling girl,
Shaky steps unsure,
Eyes cast downward from the light
Each breath insecure.

The ground seemed so unsteady
My fence had disappeared.
Outside the cold world waited,
Unknown--it laughed and leered.

I blew a kiss behind me,
And surrended my last tear--
I finally took the step
That trampled my last fear.

Those sun-filled days I dream of,
In fond rememberance--
I know that I can ne'er return,
Nor would I, giv'n the chance.

The diagnosis...

Typically, I accept my issues as a part of life and do my best to make the most of them--but every once in an eternity an unavoidable issue surfaces. I've considered visiting a psychiatrist in the past, but quickly dismissed this idea by convincing myself that my problem isn't that serious. Just recently, however, I discovered a pamphlet entitled "Help for the Victim of Mental Insecurity and Peer Rejection Undergoing an Inadvertant Denial Phase." According to this document, I should admit that I have a problem (instead of diluting it) and face it "with the clear, loving help of an understanding and certified individual." I asked my friend what this meant, and she (with the strangest look!) told me to go see a doctor.

After recollecting my thoughts, I started to consider the idea. The pamphlet said that the first step to becoming a strong, confident, and self-secure individual was to "identify the problem." Easy enough--I have an obsession with detail. This is no doubt what I would be diagnosed with. I don't necessarily strive for perfection as a whole--as those who know me would be quick to inform you--but the slightest missarangement of obvious details has the potential to inflict anxious feelings of great urgency. My problem began in childhood, when my brother's block tower wasn't symetrical; continued through the trauma of junior high, (why didn't my eyebrows arch the same?); and still manifests itself today, (excuse me a moment--someone has evidently lost the proper cap belonging to my pen and has attempted to replace it with one of a different color.)
I'm certain my psychiatrist would have no difficulty in identifying this issue; especially after I've absent-mindedly polished his doorknob, straightened his rug, and adjusted his glasses--before calmly taking my seat. But then again--how does one correct such behavior? How is a higher standard for seemingly unimportant detail treated?

Besides--my problem isn't that serious.