It’s well past 8 p.m., and my son should be tucked in for the night. On this rare occasion, my husband is home, and I should be relishing a moment of peace while our baby daughter sleeps soundly. But as is often the case on these rare “bedtime free” nights, my toddler has been throwing a fit for the past 40 minutes, resisting sleep while my husband tries his best to calm him down.
Finally, the house goes quiet, and I feel a sense of relief for my husband’s success. But then, from the top of the stairs, I hear the sound of the baby gate moving, followed by my son’s anxious voice: “Mommy?” I hold my breath, anticipating the familiar sound of my husband’s footsteps guiding him back to bed. Instead, my son calls out again, this time with more urgency. My heart races as I see him wobbling down the stairs alone, using the wall for support. Panic sets in, and I yell for my husband, urging my son to stop.
In a heartbeat, my husband appears, scooping our son into his arms. The door closes behind them, and I feel a moment of relief. But my mind doesn’t follow suit. A relentless loop of disturbing images fills my thoughts—my child tumbling down the stairs, suffering a terrible fate. I shake my head, desperate to rid myself of the vision, but it lingers. To cope, I resort to a childhood ritual of hitting my temple, hoping to reset my mind, even though I know it won’t help. The peaceful evening my husband envisioned crumbles as I sit on the couch, overwhelmed with anxiety while he sits stiffly beside me.
Living with obsessive-compulsive disorder has been my reality for most of my life. Before becoming a parent, my intrusive thoughts revolved around my own mortality. Now, however, they are amplified by the intense love I have for my children. Everyday activities, like cooking, become fraught with fear that I might inadvertently harm them. I often find myself trapped in a cycle of rituals—if I don’t perform them, I feel that something dire will happen.
When my daughter cries and manages to soothe herself, I have an overwhelming urge to wake her, convinced that if I don’t, something tragic will befall her. Even benign health issues turn into catastrophes in my mind; a blocked duct while nursing becomes a source of panic, leading me to fear the worst. I obsessively check and massage, worrying about my children’s futures without me, even when reassurance from specialists brings no comfort.
The joy of motherhood is frequently clouded by these intrusive thoughts, and I find myself battling my OCD every day. As a mother, the thought of potentially passing this mental illness onto my children is almost unbearable. How do I love them if they inherit this burden? Do I embrace their OCD as part of them, or do I continue to fight against it? If I struggle to accept this part, does that mean I can’t love them unconditionally?
Tonight, I’m grateful that nothing happened to my son on the stairs, and I’ll take that small victory. For more insights on parenting, check out this post on our blog.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the challenges of living with obsessive-compulsive disorder as a parent. It examines the fears that arise from the overwhelming love for one’s children and the struggles to manage intrusive thoughts while trying to be a supportive caregiver. The piece encourages seeking support and understanding resources while embracing the joys and challenges of motherhood.