This is probably the hardest thing I've ever written. It's one thing to tell your deepest secret to your loved ones, but it's another thing to publish it for the entire world to know.

I am an optimistic yet extremely sassy individual with a laugh that sounds like Wheezy from "Toy Story." I am a hardworking college student who enjoys political satire and is addicted to coffee. But there's also something about me that many do not know: I suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder and depression.

OCD is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive and obsessive thoughts and compulsions are done as a temporary way to relieve yourself. The cause for OCD isn't entirely known, but research has shown that often there is a chemical imbalance in one's brain that triggers it. A person with OCD lives in constant anxiety, and as a result, depression often comes hand in hand.

OCD is not "omg, I need everything to be organized I'm so OCD" or "I need to make sure my hands are always clean I'm so OCD!". There are many different obessions and compulsions that can manifest on the person who suffers from OCD, and it's a legitimate disorer, not the butt of a joke.

Personally, I'm the most disorganized person you'll ever meet. At times, I'm pretty much on par with a pig, yet I have OCD. It's extremely difficult to put into words what living with this disorder is like; I'm often at a loss of words when I have to describe my experience.

I've shown symptoms ever since I can remember, but it wasn't until I was 9-years- old when it all blew out of proportion. At the age of 9, I became majorly depressed and every day I suffered from anxiety and panic attacks. Everything from riding in a car to going to school gave me severe anxiety. The worst part was that I thought I was crazy; I had no idea what was happening to me, and it kept me from ever saying anything. I discovered that I could put on a facade and be the happy-go-lucky Caro when inside I was falling apart. I cannot count the amount of sleepless nights I endured, nor can I explain how utterly alone I felt growing up.

I didn't become diagnosed until I was 12, and that's when things started to get better. Unfortunately, by the time my freshman year of high school rolled around, it all came back. This time, I didn't have any compulsions. Instead, I spiraled into an even worse depression with anxiety that truly took its toll on me. By my junior year of high school, I had recovered once again, but the depression still lingered. Today I am a college sophomore, and although I'm recovered, there are days and instances that I'm overwhelmed with anxiety.

I was exceptionally lucky for my parents' support. Without their desire to help me get better, I wouldn't be where I am today. One of the most painful things about having a mental illness isn't just your own suffering; it's the suffering that you make your family feel. I still cringe at the thought of my father's crestfallen face when I told him that I was feeling depressed again.

It's a cliché, but it's one I hold to be very true: I am who I am today because of the battles I've fought and because of all the battles that I have won. Sometimes I feel that my childhood was limited because of my obstacles, but that's when I remind myself that everybody has their own battle. The only thing I would change about my experience would be the lack of understanding from those around me. I want the world to know that OCD and any type of mental illness is just as important as a physical illness. Just like your heart and blood might need treatment, so does your brain. A mental illness is not something you can "snap out of." You cannot cure a bacterial infection by yourself, and you can't cure depression by yourself either.

Recovering was one of my biggest challenges. It is still a challenge I live with every day. There are days that I wake up ready to take on the world, and then there are days that I wake up with unexplainable anxiety. The difference is that I know I'm not alone, and I know that I am a strong person, and I wouldn't have my life any other way.

I would like to finish this article off with a poem I found online written by Cherry Pedrick. His poem explains what living with OCD is like better than I ever could.

I’m not crazy, not really.
I know I act strange at times.
I know I ask too many questions.
I know the door was locked, and you watched me turn the car around . . . again . . . to check the lock . . . again.
But I’m not crazy.

Her hands are red and raw.
She hides them in her lap or behind her back.
But still, she wonders if they’re really clean.
"I did touch the door knob, not with my hands, of course, with my sleeve.
But now I’ve touched my sleeve."
She needs to wash her hands again.
But she’s not crazy.

"Don’t come in. Well, okay, come in.
But don’t look around. Don’t judge my house."
He knows he has boxes of paper, magazines,
And newspapers cluttering the rooms.
But he knows where his taxes from 1962 are . . . and the utility bills . . . and the canceled checks.
But he’s not crazy.

She walked through the door, but she didn’t do it right.
She knows it was the eighth time.
"One more time, I’ve got to get it right."
If she doesn’t do it right, something may happen to her mother.
But she’s not crazy.

My mind wanders when you’re talking to me.
When you look at me strangely,
I pull my thoughts together and try to concentrate on your words.
But I can’t quite give you my full attention.
My mind is filled with worries and fears I can’t seem to release.
But I’m not crazy.

We’re not crazy, not really.
We know these behaviors and thoughts aren’t normal,
That they’re irrational.
But we do them anyway.
Do "crazy" people know they’re acting irrational?

No, they act and think with ignorance of their strangeness.
They don’t see your stares or hear your whispers.
They don’t hear the other children laugh.
They don’t see their families’ worried faces.
Oh, the bliss of not knowing, of not caring,
Of not longing to stop checking, washing, hoarding,
Ritualizing and worrying.

But of course, we do want to stop,
We do want to be "normal" like you.
We dream of a day without these tortured thoughts.
I will leave my house without worrying about the lock.
And she won’t have to go through a door more than once.
His house will be clean and her hands will be healed.
My mind won’t be filled with worries and fears.

It’s not a dream.
With therapy, medication, prayer and putting my life in God’s hands,
My dream has come true. Well, almost.
I have a few strange behaviors and I still worry at times.
But doesn’t everyone?

I remember the stares, the whispers, the worried faces and the laughs.
Each day, the memories fade a little more.
But I remember so well, the kind support, the gentle encouragement,
And the firm insistence that I resist my temptation
To quit trying and give in to my compulsions.
I remember the times my loved ones laughed with me

When I was finally able to see the humor in my behavior and thoughts.
They rejoiced in my success, even my small steps toward success.
Most of all, I remember the love and prayers.
They prayed when I couldn’t.
They loved me when I couldn’t love myself.

I think I speak for many with this strange illness called OCD,
"Thank you who have supported me and others with OCD.
Without you, our recovery would be slower.
We might not see the need for recovery, we might lose hope."
To those who laugh and stare and whisper – to you I say, "I’m not crazy."