Let's chat about the common expression, "I'm so OCD".

What does someone mean when they say that?

I'm guessing they mean they're particular about things being in order or being clean. At least, that's what I've meant by saying it. We mean that there are certain things that really set our teeth on edge when we think they're not done right. We've all got something like that, yeah? I think so. But is that really "so OCD"? No. To have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is to live a life dictated by all-consuming, repetitive, almost paranoid thoughts and practices. Not just some petty annoyance we've developed out of habit (for more on OCD, check out the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, DSM-5).

An extension of this feverish intentionality (pet peeves) is one that many people suffer from at one time or another: perfectionism. I, having suffered from Generalized Anxiety Disorder for most of my life, have developed a habit of striving for perfection, whether be in the realm of school, body image, work, writing or really anything else. The constant strain of my anxiety was only ever quelled by the achievement of a goal to my standard of quality. However, if I ever felt that no matter how hard I tried I could never reach the ideal, my anxiety made me want to run for the hills. The idea of being less than perfect was so anxiety-inducing that I recoiled into myself and stopped trying altogether.

This, I assume, is why anxiety disorders and depression often come as a package deal. Anxiety makes you crave the total control you can never have, so depression seems to be the next step in the natural cycle of the disorder. Depression is the epitome of relinquishing all control and I believe (at least, in my case) my mind became so exhausted by fighting for control that isolation was the only way to survive. I became the poster child for living in the extremes.

I think that there are a lot of people out there who struggle with the impossible combination of perfectionism and depression and there's no feeling quite like it. I've always described it as having a roadrunner in my brain, but one who gets stuck in molasses. Her legs keep putting in the same energy they always would, but the viscous molasses won't allow her to make any headway. That's how I feel when I have anxious motivations that get bogged down by the heaviness of my depression, like I have all the possibilities in my mind, with none of the resources.

This stark contrast between what I want and what I'm able to do starts to feel very familiar, like all the times that I felt I had no control over my life. My perfectionism morphed into a toxic desire for something my depression would never allow me to have: satisfying productivity. Because, even when I was productive, the twisted thinking that often comes with depression made me believe that any effort was futile and, ultimately, not worth my time. I came to believe to be anything less than perfect was to be inconsequential.

I can explain what it feels like to fight an internal battle like this, but I can never even begin to explain the long-term effects it can have. When explanations fail me, I try analogies. So here goes:

Imagine you're running a race against yourself, and you have an idea of how quickly you want to finish. Here's the catch, though, you can only take steps the size of those of an ant. But you don't modify your expectations, you simply move slowly along, hating yourself all the way for not being who you hoped you'd be. You worry how this will affect your motivation to do things in the future. And it does. You stop caring to do things at all.

What's the point of trying if you can't be perfect?

For time's sake, I can't continue until I'm out of things to say. I am a perfectionist, after all, so I'd never stop until I thought I had put forth the most profound explanation possible.

So I'll leave you with that.