want a taste of an OCD obsession?

Here's a scene where my main character Neely is obsessing about going to hell:

Sophie sat on the loveseat, listening to TobyMac rapping about Jesus while chatting online and flipping casually through an Anthropologie catalog. “This stuff is so cute,” she said to me, without looking up, “but everything is so expensive! Still, I want it all.”
“Mmm,” I said, but my heart was racing. My head was swirling with thoughts of hell and condemnation, but the one thing that was particularly striking to me was the fact that I knew I would be enjoying these TobyMac songs more if I just knew that I had Jesus, that Jesus had me. The way it was, I could not thoroughly enjoy the music, and that made me feel bitterness that made my tongue swell in my mouth, and that made me want to cry. I could enjoy everything—everything!—if only I knew that I were saved, that I had a reason to live.
Sophie hummed under her breath, and I stared at my laptop screen without really seeing anything there. Okay, think about this critically. The verses say that whoever speaks a word against the Holy Spirit is guilty of an eternal sin—whoever speaks a word! I haven’t technically spoken anything, so that should make me okay, right? But then again, Scripture also says that if a person looks a woman lustfully, he’s already committed adultery with her in his heart. So then, it doesn’t matter whether or not you actually do something—even the thought is condemning.
My stomach tightened, and I felt my gag reflex kicking in as I started to retch. Softly though, so Sophie wouldn’t notice. But God is very much about our intentions, I thought, and I don’t ever mean to say or think anything against the Holy Spirit. I don’t want those thoughts. They just attack me.
So maybe I’m not accountable for them. They’re considered “words spoken by OCD,” not “words spoken by Neely Richter.” And, of course, they’re never technically spoken. There’s always that. Hold onto that.
I shifted my position on the couch. “Aren’t these adorable?” Sophie asked, handing me her catalog, folded over onto a page of dishes. “The bowls in the corner? With the sparrows?” I looked at the photograph.
“Super cute,” I agreed and handed it back to her. Bowls with printed sparrows, I thought. I would enjoy those. Those would make me happy—if I only had Jesus. If I had Jesus and had hope, then I would enjoy everything. It would make me happy just to sit on this couch. The texture of this couch cushion would make me happy. But only with Jesus. Nothing matters with Him. I have no future. Only empty days until eternal damnation.
My heart began to hiccup in my chest as I fought off my gagging. I knew I wouldn’t throw up—the Propranolol incident had been extreme and isolated. Maybe this is all just silly. Maybe Jesus is looking down on me right now, smiling with love, going, “Oh that Neely is at it again.” My heart literally ached—it felt like heartburn. That along with my gagging and tight stomach, and I was a complete wreck on the couch. Maybe He is thinking that. Oh God, please be thinking that! I need you to love me. I can’t live without your love.
I got up quickly and walked to the bathroom. Since the tears were already coming out at the corners of my eyes, I turned on the fan to cover up the noise of my crying, then sat down on the edge of the bathtub and let myself go. Oh God … God!! I can’t do this! I really can’t do this. I pictured my prayers rising up like tiny birds that would crash into the ceiling, unable to go any further, unable to reach any celestial ear. I really can’t do this! God, I need You to hear me. You have to hear me. I will go crazy without you!
I felt crazy. I felt like that trilling alarm clock in my poem “Terror.” High-pitched, unremitting, frenetic. I bounced my foot against the floor to release some energy. I was literally going crazy. How many times had I thought I was going crazy, and tonight it was really happening? There was no way out. Things would never be okay again. I would always, always have hell hanging over me, an ugly promise, no future.
Lots of people are going to hell … who never worry about it like this. I would be the person who completely loves Jesus who is shut out of heaven by a technicality. I pictured myself at Christ’s feet. I would fall at His feet and weep there. Surely He would know my good intentions, my heart? Scripture says that a good tree will have good fruit. I have good fruit, don’t I? It also says that men will have to give account for every careless word they’ve spoken. Careless words … that doesn’t seem to take into account the intent behind it. Careless words are just that. I squeezed my fists into tight balls, my fingernails pressing hard into my palms.
But then again … careless words they’ve spoken. I never spoke them. Only thought them. My out. It’s my out.
For tonight that would have to be enough. I couldn’t sit in condemnation and wait there. I had to believe there was a loophole. This was my loophole. Looking at myself in the mirror, I sighed. My face was pale as always but splotchy with red, and my eyes were bloodshot and puffy. I ran some water in the faucet and washed my face. I brushed my teeth. When I opened the door, I called down the hall to Sophie, “I’m going to bed!” in what I hoped was a cheerful enough tone.
“Come here,” she said. “I want to show you these curtains first, okay?”
I sighed. “Yep, just a sec.” I ducked back into the bathroom and checked my eyes. They were still puffy, but I figured maybe I could just play that off as if I had rubbed them trying to get my mascara off or something.
I walked out to the livingroom again and sat down beside Sophie, who wasn’t fooled for an instant. She gave me a look of horror and said, “Neels, what’s wrong?”
It felt silly, old, redundant, monotonous to say it again. I couldn’t even form the words.
“Hell?” she asked. I nodded. She sighed. “Neely, I will say it again and again until you actually hear me: people who love Jesus do not go to hell.”
I loved hearing the words; they were like running a burned finger under cold water. But as soon as she was done speaking, it was as if the faucet were turned off, and the burn surged with pain again. “They don’t?” I said. I was goading her, trying to make her turn the tap back on.
“No,” she said, and there was the moment of relief again. Just a moment.
“I haven’t actually spoken a word against the Holy Spirit,” I said.
She sighed, and I could tell that she felt I wasn’t really taking in anything she was saying. “Of course not, Neely. Gosh, this is worse than the whole Matt thing.”
Matt. My heart bellowed in my chest. Matt would make things right. He made everything right. He balanced out my world.
“It will be okay,” I said, just to end the conversation. “I’m going to bed. I’m tired.” She nodded. I rushed to my room and texted Matt immediately: “Hey, how are you?” Anything to get him talking.
I fell asleep waiting for the response that never came.