grace obsessed

Up until a few years ago, I never talked about my diagnosis. I grew up in a place where very few people spoke about mental health. Very few. In fact, I can’t even remember anyone speaking about feeling anxiety or depression, some of the more common complaints. I’m not saying people didn’t feel anxiety or depression. I’m saying they didn’t speak on it. It wasn’t until college, really, that I remember friends telling me about experiences with their therapist or psychologist. That may sound strange to those of you whose relationship with mental health and ability to communicate about it freely has always been present. But isn’t that always the way? One size does not fit all.

My first memory of feeling a feeling of discomfort, because I had a thought that would not go away, was when I was quite young, though I honestly do not think OCD became a daily problem for me until my early 20s. That first memory is of riding in the backseat of my parents’ car on the way to the Uniontown Mall. I remember crying because it was cold outside, and as most parents would, mine had forced me to wear socks. I freaking hate socks. To this day, I do not wear socks, so you may not want to come near me after removing my boots at the end of a long day (or really a few hours, let’s be real). But I endure this stench because to wear socks would cause me to be unable to do anything else. It’s not even the entire sock that bothers me so, but rather that wretched little seam that runs along the top of one’s toes while wearing said sock. I have never, and I mean never, shared the thoughts that permeated my mind when I was that young and quite literally afraid of socks. But as I recall that time in the backseat of my parents’ car, they come back to me. “What’s wrong with you? You’re scared of little old me? I’m a sock seam, stupid. What is wrong with you?” As I recall that time and type those words, I cry.

My parents have loved me from the beginning and always will. No doubt. But they did not understand me in this way. I was a very agreeable young child, showing them deference at every turn. A rule-follower. I did as my parents told me to do. But all of the sudden, I physically couldn’t. And if I physically did (wear socks, that is), emotionally, I came undone. I don’t believe my parents ever actually believed in what was wrong with me until I had a panic attack in front of them for the first time. And by that time, I was in my 30s. It’s strange, right… The amount of years that go by when the people who are the closest to you have no idea who you really are.

So, what is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)? It is a mental disorder. But to go further would require a unique answer from anyone who has ever experienced it. I can try. But I speak only for myself.

Some of the more common manifestations of OCD include actions like incessant hand-washing or perpetual deep-cleaning for fear one cannot escape germs. Sometimes people are bound by the need to organize, to list, to repeat any number of seemingly irrelevant actions for the purpose of seeking a release from their anxiety, disgust, or discomfort. OCD traps a person. Imprisons the mind. For me, my obsessions have nothing to do with persistent cleaning. Nothing to do with repetitive physical actions. I have intrusive thoughts. OCD with intrusive thoughts, my doctor calls it. A record is playing in my mind, a record that never ends. And that record persists while I work a full-time job, raise my daughter, and live life, to put it simply. But it’s anything but simple. It creates a near constant separation between me and whatever I am attempting to accomplish, whomever I am attempting to love. Me and my record, we are tight. It never leaves me. I almost want to say it is me, but that would be a lie. My record is not me. But it prevents me from having a more intimate relationship with the people and things I actually care about. The things I want to care about.

If OCD then is a disorder where any thought(s) or action(s) that becomes an obsession and prohibits one from giving their all to what they choose to love or care about, how can a person who suffers in this way ever be free?

It would be overly simplistic for me to say Jesus. Though that’s the only answer. Jesus. Still, we are human beings. We need advice, strategies, ways to combat the obsession(s), and I think that’s normal. I think that’s OK. We need to clear the way to receiving and accepting the peace that passes understanding. I began with Jesus, because I asked Him to help me do it. Along the way, He put people in my path who have tried to help me (or are still helping me). I never forget the strategies. I use them daily. I hope to share them with you.