This week's mental illness awareness topic is one that hits close to home for me, and my family: obsessive-compulsive disorder. Probably pretty cathartic to write for myself, I hope this article opens the eyes of those who think OCD is just raw hands and cleaning (though sometimes, it is). I suppose this could double as an open letter about my OCD, seeing as only my mother, sister, therapist and a few close friends know about or have witnessed the aftermath-compulsion-panic of an obsession. If anything, let this demonstrate that I'm willing to talk the talk and walk the walk. I am coming to terms with the fact that my OCD is not something to treat as taboo, and I encourage everyone to continue this conversation whether it be in regards to OCD or any other mental illness.
"When my Nana dies my parents don’t tell me until it is Thursday. At her funeral, I am an eight-year-old broken record reciting Psalm 23 like it is a scab that I can't stop picking - 10 years later I am melting into the tiles of another bathroom floor wondering why my blood is made of lead, my hands are dead weight shuffling between the sinks turning them off and turning them on - and I'm still trying to find a poetic way to say that I missed my uncle's funeral."
Alright, folks, if I know anything, I know OCD. Why? Since as far back as I can remember, I've suffered from a severe psychiatric disorder, without actually knowing I had a severe psychiatric disorder. While I was worried about the teacher down the hall kidnapping my little sister, I thought it was completely normal. And I'm not talking, cutesy-scared-of-an-authority-figure-worried, no. I can remember the anxiety as the sweat on my little five-year-old neck as I worked up the courage to barter for my sister's life. I had the entire weight of the world on my shoulders at five, and until the summer before my freshman year at college, I was the Atlas to my family's dysfunction.
"There is no art in OCD, only coloring outside of the lines and paint smudges in the corners of the canvas - In my mind, I am the sculptor of my sister's kidnapping. I can just see her wrists kneaded together in the backseat of a van, the news tickers are my pulsing temples; the breaking news animation on your TV is my guilt."
OCD has two components: the obsessions, or the unwanted and repetitive thoughts, words, or images; and the compulsions: the rituals or tasks completed to relieve the anxiety caused by the obsessions. People with OCD generally realize their thoughts are irrational, and that what makes them terrifying. If a loved one you know suffers from OCD and feels guilty from their obsessions, emphasize this: The thing that distinguishes OCD obsessions from actual suicidal, homicidal and morally questionable thoughts is the fact that they are unwanted and unprompted. Society plays up the compulsions component of this disorder, only, of course, if it involves cute colored pencils all lined up in a row or this specific pillow on this side of the couch. What is left in the dark, however, are the scabbing hands, the sleepless nights filled with mantras and prayers, and the relentless calculator in the minds of those who suffer.
Though I've come a long way since I began therapy, I still have quite the uphill climb ahead of me. Fifteen years of unlearning how I taught myself to cope, and I'm four months in. That being said, if you would have asked me to say, "OCD" out loud, let alone write an article about my own OCD narrative, I would've told you to F*** off, honestly. It's amazing how the brain works, though. Picture this: for 19 years, the neurotransmitters in my brain have been running wild and off their designated paths, creating the DNA train wreck that is my OCD. Because my neurotransmitters are all out of whack, my brain has associated irrelevant tasks, such as turning on the sink 60 times, with means of protection, or control, such as keeping my mom alive or passing the semester. The way therapy works is by re-directing and training the neurotransmitters in the brain to travel the correct paths, and this is achieved through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT for short) and/or medication. It's a process, but nothing changes if nothing changes. The summer before my freshman year in college, I knew it was time to make some f***ing changes.
Pain is just a pretty word for the combat between my head and my heart. My obsessions and compulsions are hate-f***ing on my frontal lobe because I want to be well! I want to control these thoughts that have controlled me since birth, but... it just feels so good to ritualize.
It sinks like a dagger into my gut when I hear someone toss around 'OCD' like it's an adjective. If I hear, "My OCD is kicking in" one more time I'm gonna kick someone's f***ing teeth in. I know ignorance is bliss, but ignorance is combated with education - don't be ignorant. I'm not writing this to vent, or to call out anyone who has either indirectly or directly invalidated my illness, I'm writing this so that others with psychiatric disorders don't have to wait countless years to seek help. I'm writing so that parents read this article and know what to look for and how to help their children. I have intrusive thoughts I get confused with real memories because they are so vivid and tangible to me. That was bad enough, but hiding this further perpetuated the intensity of the thoughts and eventually transformed me into a ticking, Right with a capital 'R' broken record, counting every step I took so that my mother wasn't murdered in her sleep.
My bones are rusted with this illness. I am copper but coping the best way I know how - my therapist once told me, "We're only as sick as our secrets." And I am tired of feeling sick.
I always kept my OCD hidden away in the darkest parts of myself. I wasn't afraid of what others would think, I was ashamed. And to be ashamed of my own body? This vessel I can paint winged eyeliner on like it's nobody's business? This physically healthy body that got me from point A to point B looking fierce as F? I regret the time I spent not inviting the world to accept my full self, OCD and all. Like I said, I wrote this article mainly for two reasons: to further this conversation on invisible illnesses, opening up the topic of OCD, but also, I wrote it to come clean. I'm slowly but surely gaining the tools to overcome my OCD. I may not be able to cure it, but I can manage it. And for the first time in a long time, I'm not doing it for someone else. I'm doing it for me, and even when it's hard, I am so proud of myself.
"It's not supposed to be easy, that's why it feel's so f***ing good." -AWOL
(Italics: CUPSI 2016 Poem "On Having A Rare Manifestation of OCD" by Ashley Arsenault) (Neil Hilborn's 2013 performance of "OCD", just because it's good for ya.)
