Last November, around 8:30 p.m., I found myself sitting down with my partner, Sarah, to share something deeply personal: I had recently been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). We were in our living room, an unusual moment of quiet since our three kids were already asleep, giving us a rare opportunity to connect.
“I’ve been diagnosed with OCD,” I began, “though I’ve learned to manage it on my own over the years. I still experience some ‘tics,’ but for the most part, I lead a pretty normal life.” We affectionately refer to my therapist as “The Counselor,” not out of disrespect, but because it lightens the mood around a heavy subject. She’s a qualified professional with a PhD, yet calling her “The Counselor” brings a bit of humor to what can often feel like a daunting topic.
After years of avoiding therapy out of embarrassment, I finally sought help a few weeks prior, following a particularly stressful episode at work. It felt daunting to make my mental health struggles official, but finally having a name for what I’d been battling for years brought a sense of comfort. Explaining this diagnosis to Sarah, my spouse of 12 years, was another challenge altogether.
With concern etched on her face, Sarah asked, “What does that mean exactly?” The term OCD is often misused and trivialized; people associate it with being overly tidy or having things in perfect order. Yet, my experience is far from those stereotypes. I’m not exceptionally clean, and I don’t obsessively count or wash my hands like many portrayals in media.
What I face is a complex interplay of anxiety and the need for control. I reminded Sarah of my struggles with sleep—how a simple change in my routine can trigger overwhelming anxiety. Fifteen years ago, if I deviated from my bedtime or my meticulous exercise regimen, I would spiral into panic. I once spent nearly three years adhering to this routine, feeling trapped and miserable, often contemplating darker thoughts.
As I shared this with Sarah, fear gnawed at me. Mental illness doesn’t just vanish; it’s a companion that remains. I’ve lived with OCD throughout our marriage, and now that it had a name, it felt heavier and more real. I worried she might be overwhelmed by this revelation, questioning our future together.
I pondered if my fears were common among those with mental health issues. The reality is that mental illness is often misunderstood. I wish society viewed it as they do physical conditions like diabetes, but that’s not the current narrative. Many assume that individuals can simply “snap out of it” or that it’s merely a call for attention. While I believed Sarah wouldn’t think this way, I couldn’t shake the uncertainty about her response.
“What do you think?” I asked, my voice tinged with anxiety. “Does this scare you?”
She leaned back, crossing her legs, and shrugged—not in a dismissive way, but rather with a sense of solidarity. Her body language conveyed, “We’re in this together,” and “This doesn’t change how I feel about you.” She didn’t need to say much; her reaction brought me a surprising amount of comfort.
For someone with OCD, it’s easy to magnify small issues, and Sarah’s reassurance that our marriage remained strong despite my news was exactly what I needed. In that moment, it felt like a weight had lifted, and I realized that sharing my diagnosis, while daunting, led to a deeper understanding between us.
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In summary, opening up about my OCD diagnosis was an unexpectedly calm experience. The support from my partner transformed what could have been a heavy conversation into an opportunity for connection and understanding.