OCD Awareness

This is a hard post for me to write. This is not something I want to share with the whole world and all of the people who know me. It's embarrassing and uncomfortable. But it is a topic that I believe needs to be discussed to spread awareness. I want to thank my friend Sarah for one of her recent posts that gave me the courage to come out in the open about this.

I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).

When people hear OCD, they think of someone who is a perfectionist. Someone who keeps their home and work space very clean and organized. It's something people just throw around casually when they refer to someone who pays attention to the little details.

This could not be more wrong.

We need to spread the word! OCD is an overpowering, life changing disorder that affects every aspect of day to day life. It is miserable. And depressing. And painful emotionally.

And it often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed.

My whole life I knew I was different. I knew it wasn't normal the way my brain worked. I just decided I was special. That I just had a unique way of thinking and that was ok with me. I remember as a child, always being concerned about hurting or offending other people. When my parents would give us their share of a treat and go without just so we would be happy, I would get very depressed and feel like I was a terrible person and my parents would be so upset because they didn't get to eat the treat. I had to sleep with all of my stuffed animals because I  was afraid of them feeling left out or unwanted and leaving me. I had trouble concentrating and found myself reading and re-reading things in school just to make sure I had read them correctly. I was an extremely slow tester because even though I knew all the answers, I would check over and over again to make sure I filled in the right bubble or checked the right answer because I didn't trust that I had done it correctly and was too afraid of failing the test.

In jr high I went to see my doctor and was diagnosed with ADHD and put on medication. I didn't like the way the medication made me feel. I didn't have any emotions and didn't care about anything. I was basically a zombie. So I stopped taking the medication and just started taking caffeine pills or drinking caffeinated beverages. I don't remember ever feeling like they really completely helped.

As I got older, I started worrying more and finding myself more concerned about not being able to control all of the bad things that could happen. I started unplugging all of the lamps and other electronics in my room because I was convinced if I didn't they would start a fire. I checked all of the locks on the doors and windows multiple times every night because I was convinced if I didn't someone would break in to our house while we were sleeping. I started clearing paths to any exits in my very messy room because I was concerned they were a safety hazard in an emergency. I wouldn't put anything on top of a vent because I was convinced the hot air would catch something on fire. And when I said my prayers each night I would repeat things over and over because even though I knew I had already said it, I was convinced I was remembering wrong and if I didn't say it again, God wouldn't hear me asking to keep us safe that night and something bad WOULD happen. If I didn't do all of these things every night, I couldn't sleep because it was all I could think about.

When I met my husband and we started dating and got engaged, things got worse. By then, I had decided that I couldn't trust anyone to take care of themselves and I had to do it for them. I was very controlling and would get upset when people wouldn't listen to me. I was convinced he couldn't remember things himself and that it was my responsibility to remind him or else something terrible would happen and it would be my fault. This caused many fights and arguments because I might as well have been his mom. I didn't want him to do anything without me because then I wouldn't be able to control the situation. Whenever he would leave, I would wait by the window for hours at a time and call him every few minutes if he was even a minute late getting back from work. If he didn't answer, I told myself he had either got in an accident and was dead on the side of the road, or he was leaving me and I would never see him again. I kept pushing him further and further away with my worrying that eventually, he and my parents approached me and told me I needed to get help.

I started seeing a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with severe seperation anxiety and OCD. I was again put on medication, this time to control the anxiety and it helped until I got married and lost my health insurance and had to stop taking the medication because I couldn't afford to see my doctor and get a new prescription. When we did finally get health insurance again, I was pregnant and didn't want to be on any medications during my pregnancy, and I felt like I had everything under control. I still had anxiety but it didn't seem to be too bad until after I had my son. Then things slowly started getting worse again.

I didn't want to go back on medication or see a doctor because I felt like that made me crazy. That it meant there was something really wrong with me. As I continued trying to cope with my anxiety I noticed new symptoms popping up all over the place. I continued with the compulsions from my teenage years but also started new compulsions. I struggled with having my son in his own room because I couldn't see him and was terrified of multiple bad things happening to him. I didn't let him sleep with anything but one blanket and would check on him multiple times at night to make sure he hadn't suffocated or stopped breathing. I couldn't sleep with my door closed because I was worried I wouldn't be able to hear if something was going on, like a fire, or someone kidnapping him. I was afraid to take him outside because I didn't want him to fall and get a scrape, or touch a bug, or get dirty, or even walk on the grass without shoes on because he might be allergic or might  get dirty and stain an item of clothing. Every little bump or spot had me convinced he had a disease or sickness and needed to go to the doctor. I didn't take him to nursery for several months because I was afraid he would catch a sickness from another child and get a staff infection (he was hospitalized from one at a young age).

In addition to fears over my son and husband, I also started worrying about things that would affect myself or anyone in general. I couldn't leave time remaining on the microwave because I was afraid it would catch on fire or explode if it got started without something in it and I would check the oven and stove over and over to make sure they weren't left on. I would pick up everything off the floor every night before I could sleep because I was afraid someone might slip on it, or my dog might eat or chew on it. I started worrying about having or catching multiple sicknesses and diseases and would obsess over them. Because of an accident I got in a few years earlier, I struggled with riding in the car with others driving since I wouldn't be in control. I didn't even trust my husband, a long time FedEx driver, to drive because I was worried he wouldn't see a car and hit it or not see some other danger coming that I was sure I would see. At every turn, I would see a terrible accident in my mind. Over. And Over. And OVER. These were just a few of the obsessive thoughts and compulsions I dealt with. They followed me everywhere. I couldn't sleep. I didn't like leaving the house. I was a mess.

Eventually in a meeting with my bishop, he suggested I go see a counselor at LDS services to get some help. After seeing her for several months, I started to see some improvements and started feeling a little more in control. She suggested I go back on medication but I insisted I didn't need it because I wasn't crazy. When she decided that I didn't need to visit her anymore because I was "doing better" and should start going to couples counseling to help us work through my mental disorders together, I stopped going to my appointments. I was so afraid I wasn't better and that moving on from seeing her was a mistake so I just stopped seeing a counselor altogether.

I started getting worse again and was struggling with daily activities and things I should have been able to do. My mother suggested that I should go to a doctor and get on medication again but I kept putting it off. Then one night as I was lying in bed restless and anxious, I realized that my disorder was keeping me from being a good mother and wife. I was putting strain on my marriage, and not giving my son the nurturing and attention he deserved. I decided right then and there, that I was going to get back on my medication. Not just for myself but for my family.

I am now taking an SSRI to help manage my OCD, and it helps, but every day is still a fight to resist obsessive thoughts and compulsions. I am speaking out about this because I want everyone with OCD to receive the help they need to get better. Not 15 years later... but now. You can find more information and ways to help with OCD awareness at http://www.ocfoundation.org/index.aspx. Please spread the word!

Mariasha