My OCD and Me

Anyone who has ever had OCD knows just how cruel it can be. The way it robs you of your happiness and your time, the way it makes you feel like you're going mad and isolates you from the world. What I find the most unbearable, though, is knowing that your worst enemy is inside your head. You can't run away from something that is a part of you.

When some people think of OCD, they think of Monica from Friends or Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. I'm here to tell you that being neat or just plain awkward is nothing compared to the dark truths of OCD. of course, OCD comes in many different forms for different people. Like all mental illnesses, it comes in different levels of severity as well. For me it's time-consuming compulsions, obsessive hand washing, and severe anxiety. But what I need you to understand is this; I DO NOT WANT TO DO THESE THINGS. Being neat is a choice, having OCD is not. I do them because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. Will I die? Will I be bullied again? Will my day at school be so bad I'll come home crying? Will I be abducted by a strange man and raped? I don't want to wash my hands till they bleed, but I'm so anxious of being ill that I'll do whatever necessary to stop it from happening. I don't want to spend half my life worrying about this and that, but they control my mind, there to torment me. I spend hours making sure things are perfect because I think it's going to stop these bad things from happening to me. It's torture because I know how illogical it is, but I still do it. To have to listen to people comparing their neatness to OCD infuriates me. To have to see people refer to OCD as "quirky" and to to hear people say, "God, I wish I had OCD!" is insulting and I have to restrain myself from screaming. For those people who really have OCD, don't go around shouting about it. When I correct people on what OCD actually is they say, "Oh, no not that," and I don't blame them for their ignorance but the society we live in. I blame the media for making fun of OCD and other mental illnesses, for shops that try to make a profit from selling products that have "O.C.D. OBSESSIVE COFFEE DISORDER" on them. Some people may say that I'm making a big deal out of nothing, but I don't think that it's fair for 1.2% of the population to have to suffer in silence because they believe that they won't be taken seriously. OCD never has been, or ever will be something to laugh at.

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It feels like I've had OCD my whole life, because it became such a big part of me that it felt like it had been there all along. Like a lot of people with mental illnesses, mine began whilst I was at school. Being both quiet and shy, I suppose, made me an easy target for bullies. They made my life at school unbearable, and not being a very academic or sporty child, made me not very high on the list of priorities of my elitist primary school. Their poor and half hearted attempts to stop the bullying, made me realise I was the only person who could help me.

I remember how it first started. I would repeat the words "Today will be bad, today will be bad" again and again, because some crazy voice in my head had convinced me that repeating the opposite of what I wanted would make things better. The truth is, at the time I thought it did. Although now I know it was just by chance, back then I thought I'd found the light at the end of the tunnel. Believed that I somehow had the upper hand. Of course it didn't stop the bullying; the truth is, nothing really could've stopped that. And unbeknownst to me then, the OCD was slowly tightening its grip on my mind. The OCD only heightened my already severe anxiety, which in turn made the OCD worse. Worries about the smallest of things would make me feel as if the world was about to end, and would leave me feeling exhausted and feeling like a fool for overreacting. But deep down I felt that the constant pointless worrying was what was protecting me; that it was the necessary evil. This constant thought fueled my anxiety, kept it alive whilst it slowly killed me.

My parents, at first, would say, "There's nothing to be worried about! You have a roof over your head and a loving family." I knew that. I know my privilege and I'm so lucky to have what I have. I wasn't worried about that, just everything else. Some kids were so laid back, and there I was, worrying that I hadn't put my slippers in the exact spot, the exact way the night before, so today was going to be awful and it was all my fault. I spend 15 minutes doing that once. I stopped halfway through to cry in frustration. I felt like an idiot for doing it, but I felt too weak to stop. It sounds ridiculous to spend such a long time on such a simple task, and I think that's why it took so long to get help, because I was so embarrassed by it. It's the same for many people, I'm sure. One of the hardest things to do is to ask for help.

I can't remember exactly how old I was when my mum first took me to the doctors. Maybe 11? It doesn't really matter. I remember, though, hating it when they asked about my "compulsions" or "rituals." I'd never thought of them like either of these things before. I hated it because of the way it made me sound mad. That an actual doctor was diagnosing me as mad at 11. I didn't like the word OCD either. I wanted someone to tell me that this was just a phase, that it would go away, that it was something all children had. I wanted to be reassured that I was OK, that I was normal. Reassurance is a huge part of having OCD. You need to be told again and again and again that it's going to be OK and even then you don't really believe it.

It had a name now and I could no longer run away from it. At some point, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was ill. Not physically ill, something I worried about often, but my mind was ill. You couldn't see that from the outside, and I liked that because then people didn't know, couldn't use it against me. Talking about all my rituals and my OCD was really hard. I had never really spoken about it in detail to anyone, and so to share it with someone else took its toll on me. It was then that I truly realised how bad things had gotten. I remember crying a lot because I was finally realising how messed up I was. It hurt a lot to acknowledge what I was doing to myself. I was angry at letting it go on for so long, for being weak, for all the precious time I'd spent on my rituals that I would never get back. I was angry at how my behaviour was affecting my family, how hard I made their lives. It's guilt I feel here.

Despite visits to several psychiatrists, many of whom basically told me to take deep breaths as if I didn't already know to do that, the OCD followed me all the way through secondary school. I will admit that I'd have good days where I felt in control of my mind and I wouldn't do any of my compulsions. This is when I truly felt happy and free, but it wouldn't take long for another worry to come around the corner and eat away at me.

I hate myself for letting it get so bad that medication was the only answer. I thought at first that this was just another sign of weakness. In reality, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. It has made me feel human again. Has allowed me to remember what really living feeling like. To not have to be controlled by my compulsions or worries but to be able to have the power to say, "I don't need to do this." I have been given my time and my will back. It has allowed me to do things that years ago, my fears and worries would stop me doing. I know this is not the solution forever, but it has shown me that I never, ever want things to be how they were before. I'm willing to work harder than ever to stay away, medication or no medication; I will fight for my future self because she deserves to be free from the pain of the past. The truth is, medication does not work for everyone. I'm lucky that it does for me, but for many they can make things worse. Always listen to the doctor, because they know what's best for you, personally.

It takes a long time to embrace your mental illness, and longer for those you love. It is worth every minute, though, if it means that you'll finally be at peace with yourself. Admit you need help, for this is not an admittance of weakness but an act of resilience. You and your life are worth fighting for, so please don't give up. If you love someone with a mental illness, don't walk away. You don't understand how important support and understanding are when someone is at their lowest. Be there for them as they find themselves again, as they recover. So many people suffer alone, surrounded by people who don't understand or who simply don't want to. Take the time to listen, to simply be there, to be a shoulder to cry on or that reassuring voice. My OCD might never go away because it truly is a part of me now, but I embrace it. I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I am a survivor.