When I was just a child, I found myself pacing up and down the stairs repeatedly until everything felt “just right.” My best friend would join in, thinking it was a fun game, but for me, it was anything but. That fleeting sense of “rightness” would vanish in mere moments, often replaced by the relentless need to flip the light switch on and off until bedtime. Tears were my constant companions, and when my parents took me to see a psychologist, it was clear they were as lost as I felt. Welcome to the 1980s, where mental health was still a mystery wrapped in a riddle.
As a kid, anxiety loomed over me like a dark cloud. When my mom went grocery shopping for our large family, I envisioned horrific car accidents happening to her, convinced that forgetting to tell her “I love you” exactly three times was somehow to blame. Two? Inadequate. Four? Unthinkable. The agony of my thoughts was unbearable. My counselor dismissed my worries as those of a “sensitive child,” but I felt anything but understood.
Fast forward a few years and, during my sophomore year of high school, I was hit by a panic attack so intense that I began to smell things that weren’t even there. My poor mom was on the phone with an ER nurse, frantically exclaiming, “Now she’s smelling cinnamon rolls?!” The months that followed were a blur of anxiety attacks that left me wishing for relief, not knowing then that my mind was battling OCD and clinical depression.
Years later, after a proper evaluation, a psychiatrist confirmed my suspicions, revealing that my compulsive counting and obsessive thoughts weren’t just quirks but symptoms of a real disorder. Hearing someone say, “This is why you can’t read without re-reading the word ‘and’ three times,” was oddly liberating. It felt like I’d been given permission to be me.
Now, as I watch my two-year-old grapple with a rotini noodle and yodel in frustration, I can’t help but feel that familiar surge of anxiety creeping in. It always threatens to take over. Depression and anxiety are like those mean girls in gym class, teaming up to make life harder, and I often find myself slogging through the emotional quicksand without a prince to rescue me.
Reflecting on my childhood, I remember visiting my grandmother in a psychiatric ward. She was always the cheerful type, the one who could find the good in everything—even when she was struggling. It broke my heart to see her so vulnerable, and I wish she knew that I understand her battle now. The genetic link between us was strong, but so was our resilience.
As I navigate motherhood with three biological and two foster children, I often feel overwhelmed. The anxiety whispers that I’m not doing enough—like I’m leaving a list of tasks unchecked. I fret about how my kids will remember their childhood: “Remember when Mom was too sad to play with us?” Those thoughts spiral into self-doubt, making it even harder to reach out for support. Friends wonder why I’ve gone quiet, and I can only shrug, unsure why I retreat into my shell.
During my second pregnancy, after a tumultuous first, I decided to ditch my anxiety medication, fearing I was to blame for my first child’s health issues. That choice plunged me into a pit of dread, where I spent hours fixating on potential tragedies. Pregnancy became my prison.
At 37 weeks, while tackling a long-overdue kitchen floor mopping, I found myself sobbing uncontrollably, convinced my baby wouldn’t survive. I called my doctor, pouring out my fears, and she helped me through it. The moment my son was born, I felt a weight lift, my mind finally clear.
Over time, I’ve learned that some days are just harder than others. On particularly tough days, even reading feels like a chore, with my eyes skimming over the same words repeatedly. Living with OCD is like having an itch that demands to be scratched—ignoring it only amplifies its intensity.
I’ve come to accept that every mother faces her own challenges. While I might struggle to keep up with Pinterest-worthy crafts, I celebrate the small victories. I’ve learned to embrace my journey, allowing my anxiety and depression to exist without judgment. Some days are about simply getting through the motions, and that’s okay.
To all the fellow mothers out there battling your own demons, know that you’re not alone. There’s a certain freedom in sharing our truths.
In conclusion, motherhood with OCD is a unique journey, filled with ups and downs, and it’s essential to acknowledge and embrace the challenges along the way. For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the CDC. And if you’re considering at-home insemination, you can find valuable information on that topic too.