Honesty but a continuation of OCD

Months have passed by since I wrote that last section and I am choosing not to read it. I just have a few more thoughts and I want to post this before I mess with it or rethink it or lose it entirely. I had the luxury of spending my weekend with my wonderful female cousins and some friends I didn't know I had. We shared a house, laughs, tears, hugs, worries, terrifying secrets, stupid moments, good food, and copious amounts of alcohol. At some point my openness about my OCD came into play and one of my cousins poignantly asked what it was I feared would happen if I didn't do my rituals. She wondered, and logically so, of I thought I would die by letting the drain touch my foot.(letting it, that's a whole other topic I hope I remember to come back to) I'm sick now. Not like I just realized I was sick but sick as in I want to throw up. The skin that I'm not even sure is mine begins to crawl. I can't contemplate the question. There is no answer. There is no beginning. It just can't be. I have since been listening to the things my mind has to say. Mostly it is repetitive. Mostly drivel. But since it belongs to me, I don't have a choice. I'm listening hoping that somewhere in the madness, there would be an answer. A sound, solid answer I can hang my hat on.
The aggravation of compulsion:
You can't answer it. You can't look at logic and expect it to hand you an explanation. It doesn't want to look at you because it doesn't find you familiar. So here you are, desperate, and those who are the ones that usually see through your hide are still looking at what you want them to see. I just noticed that I changed from a personal point of view to third person. You want them to know that you are clinging to logic as if it might actually be the very very last straw but there is no good way to convey the message. Even the ones that know, all of us that know, we want to not be there. We are so terrified to end up there again ourselves that no matter how much we recognize it, we are reluctant to respond.
The final result is that we/I/You see this, emote, perhaps tentatively reach out, but still fill up the flotation device and flood the moat because we are so adamantly opposed to going back there. This leads me to my next post, maybe. Depression.