From a young age, I found myself caught in a cycle of compulsions. At just seven years old, I would ascend and descend the stairs repeatedly until I achieved a sense of calm—a fleeting feeling that evaporated almost instantly. My childhood friend thought it was amusing, referring to it as a dance, but for me, it was anything but. As night fell, a familiar ritual ensued: flicking the light switch on and off, over and over, with tears streaming down my face. My parents, unsure of how to help, sought guidance from a psychologist. It was the early ’80s, and mental health resources were limited, leading to frustration rather than answers.
As a child, anxiety loomed over me like a dark cloud. I vividly remember my mother leaving for grocery shopping, and my mind would conjure up horrifying images of her in a devastating accident—all because I hadn’t told her “I love you” three times before she left. The thought of saying it twice felt dangerously negligent, while four times was unthinkable. It was torturous. The counselor I saw labeled me a “sensitive child,” unable to grasp the gravity of what I was experiencing.
Fast forward a few years, and I entered high school, where I encountered a panic attack so severe that I started to hallucinate. My poor mother was on the phone with the ER, exclaiming, “She’s smelling cinnamon rolls now, and before it was chop suey! What is happening?” The months that followed were a blur of anxiety attacks, breathing into grocery bags, and a persistent feeling of hopelessness. Eventually, I was referred to a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with OCD and clinical depression. Hearing those words was a profound relief; they provided a framework for understanding my compulsions, my obsessive thoughts, and the violent images that intruded into my mind.
Now, as my two-year-old daughter struggles to spear a rotini noodle with her fork, I find myself overwhelmed by an adrenaline surge—a familiar anxiety creeping in. It’s as if anxiety and depression are the mean girls of my life, tripping me up when I try to navigate motherhood. Just like quicksand in a fairy tale, they threaten to pull me under, leaving me gasping for air.
I often think back to my grandmother, who spent time in a psychiatric ward after undergoing shock treatments. Her sunny demeanor had always been a source of comfort, but seeing her vulnerable and broken was heart-wrenching. I wish she could know that, 25 years later, I understand her struggles on a deep level. The genetic thread connecting us is powerful, and so is our resilience.
As I juggle the chaotic demands of lunch prep for my three biological children and two foster kids, feelings of anxiety and inadequacy bubble to the surface. There’s a lyric from a Mumford and Sons song that resonates deeply with me: “If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.” This sentiment rings true in my parenting journey, where I’m constantly aware of the boxes left unchecked and the doors ajar. I worry about what my children will remember: “Do you remember how mom was always sad and just sent us outside?”
These thoughts spiral into self-doubt, leading me to withdraw from friends who reach out. During my second pregnancy, I made the difficult decision to stop taking my anxiety medication, convinced that my previous choices had caused my daughter’s health issues. The ensuing months were a nightmare of obsessive thoughts about my unborn son’s safety, leading me down a path of dark research into stillbirths.
When my little boy finally arrived, a wave of clarity washed over me as soon as the umbilical cord was cut. Over the years, I’ve come to accept that some days my OCD will be more pronounced than others. There are mornings when I can’t read a single sentence without rehashing it multiple times in my head. It’s like an itch that becomes unbearable if ignored.
I’ve learned to embrace the fact that every mother faces unique challenges. For me, the journey from point A to B is often more difficult than for others. I’ve stopped comparing myself to those perfect moms who seem to have it all together, remembering that victory lies in the small daily battles. I’ve come to understand my own depression and anxiety, allowing them to exist without judgment.
Do you relate, fellow mom? There’s a certain freedom in sharing these experiences, even if I tremble at the thought of judgment. What I’ve discovered is that there is immense power in telling our stories.
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Summary:
Navigating motherhood with OCD can be a daunting journey fraught with anxiety and self-doubt. From childhood compulsions to adult responsibilities, the struggle is real, but there is strength in sharing our stories. Acceptance and understanding of our mental health challenges can lead to greater freedom and resilience in parenting.
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