the man who couldn\'t stop

by:YEROO     2019-10-24
An esse-female student named Bira once ate a wall in her home.
She didn\'t want to, but she found that eating the wall was the only way to stop her from thinking.
She didn\'t want to think about the wall either.
In fact, she is very upset about the thoughts and images that dominate her mind.
The only way she can make the thoughts of the walls disappear, and the way to quell the anxiety they cause is to follow a strange, unbearable, strong desire to eat it. So she did;
Day after day, year after year.
When she was 17 years old, she had already eaten 8 square meters of walls.
More than half a ton of mud bricks.
Birla lives in the capital, yadibaba.
Her father died when she was very young. she grew up with her mother.
Since she was a little girl, Bira has been eating mud every day.
When she was in her teens, she began to take it only from the walls of her home, and the situation got worse.
When she does this, images and ideas appear more vividly and more frequently, which will only intensify her need to find relief.
The mud caused Bella to suffer from severe stomachache.
Esther\'s traditional therapist tried to treat her with prayer and holy water and advised her not to eat any more mud.
But she can\'t.
She can\'t stop thinking about the wall, so she can\'t stop eating it.
One day Bira couldn\'t cope anymore.
Her expanding stomach is beating with pain and her abdomen is tightened with cramps.
Her throat was scratched hard by the straw in the brick, and her body was riddled with parasites in the soil.
She walked to the local hospital in tears.
At that time, in a country with a population of 70 million, there were eight psychiatrists in Ethiopia.
Bella was lucky.
She managed to see one of them.
She told him she needed help.
She knew that her thoughts were wrong, but she knew that she could not stop them on her own.
An ordinary person can have 4,000 ideas a day, but not all ideas are useful or rational.
There are many forms of mental illness.
As we perform some mundane tasks, there are irrelevant words, phrases, names, and images that pop up in our minds.
Ear Worm: insert our own tune in our minds, more commonly, called stuck --song syndrome.
Have some negative thoughts.
I can\'t do this. I have to quit.
Dead enemies of sports psychologists are everywhere.
Then there are very strange ideas: those that appear occasionally, randomly and without hints, because they are evil, immoral, disgusting, disgusting --
Very strange.
The tempting question is, if?
What if I jump in front of that bus?
What if I hit that woman?
These ideas are more common than most people realize. Ask around.
A friend of mine needs to check the rat in the toilet before he sits down.
The other opens the iron and puts it in an unusual place when he runs out of it, so when his brain asks for it later, he definitely knows the answer: you\'re sure, really sure, did you turn it off?
A tortured soul spent an evening unable to ignore the repetitive idea that he might scribble the word \"unt\" on his dream work application form.
Most people have this strange idea.
Most people get rid of them.
Some people don\'t like it.
They cause pain and mental illness when we can\'t let our strange ideas go away.
The friends I mentioned above did not change their strange ideas in this way. But I did.
I turned mine into obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The day Brazilian racing driver Senna died in a car accident at the Italian Grand Prix, I was stuck in the toilet at the Manchester swimming pool.
The door was open but my thoughts blocked the way out. It was May 1994.
I was 22 years old and hungry.
After swimming a few paragraphs in the pool, I got up from the water and walked towards the dressing room.
Step down the steps-one, two, three-ouch!
I scraped the back of my heel to the sharp edge of the last step.
It left a small scratch and through it the blood swelled into a mass and hung on my broken skin.
I transferred the water drop to my finger and expanded in a second to replace it.
I pulled a tissue from above the sink and pressed it on my wet heel.
The blood on my finger ran down my arm with the water.
Of course, my eyes follow the blood.
Of course, anxiety is back in front of memory.
My shoulder is down.
My stomach tightened.
It\'s been four weeks since the bus stop incident, and even though I told myself it didn\'t bother me anymore, I was lying.
My finger was stabbed by a screw sticking out of the corrugated metal of the bus shelter.
It was a busy Saturday afternoon with lots of people around.
I think it\'s easy for anyone of them to get hurt like me.
If one person is HIV-positive?
They may have left infected blood on the screw and then the screw pierced my skin.
This will bring the virus into my blood.
Oh, I know the official statement is that this transmission is impossible.
The virus cannot survive in vitro.
But I also know that when the pressure is long enough, those who know it will weaken this to a level that is almost impossible.
They can\'t be absolutely sure.
In fact, a few people have admitted to me that there is a theoretical risk.
Standing quietly in the toilet of the dressing room, still wet, one hand with my swimming Mirror and the other with a bloody paper towel, I once again went through a series of events at the bus stop.
I told myself how there was no blood on the screw when I checked it, or at least I didn\'t think it was.
Oh, why am I not completely sure?
Someone hit the door into the pool locker room. They whistled.
I looked at my fingers. Wait a minute.
What the hell did I do?
I put a tissue on a new wound.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
There can be anything on paper towels.
You bastard.
I looked at the paper towel and was wet now.
There\'s blood on it.
That\'s my blood, of course.
How can you be sure?
People with AIDS and bloody hands may have touched it in front of me. OH JESUS.
I threw it into the bin, took a second out of the dispenser and checked it. No blood.
This is a little helpful.
There is no blood next.
But they can do it.
I pulled the original paper towel back from the bin. It was bloody.
If this is someone else\'s blood, why did you pick it up?
I washed my hands very quickly.
What if they ran into the sink?
Don\'t touch your heel.
Don\'t touch your heel.
There is no such opportunity.
What if it wasn\'t the paper towel you threw in the bin?
I may be dealing with other people\'s paper towels and other people\'s blood.
I looked at it in the bin.
I can\'t see any other paper towels with blood.
What about that one?
The whistling man is ready to swim.
He came to the sink and grabbed the paper towel, blew got The blew nose and threw it into the bin. I did the same.
He looked at me. I smiled. He didn\'t. He walked away. I didn\'t.
He left after the tour. I couldn\'t.
Excerpts from the publication of \"the man who David Adam Can\'t Stop\" by Sarah Clayton in January 2015 are the marks of Farah, Stella and Giru LLC.
Copyright 2014 for David Adam.
All rights reserved.
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