As a child, I vividly remember standing in the entrance of my elementary school, anxiously waiting for my mother to pick me up. When she was late by just ten minutes, an overwhelming wave of dread washed over me, convincing me that something terrible had happened to her. This feeling, inexplicably intense on that particular day, lingered for nearly two decades, gnawing at me with the fear that my loved ones were in imminent danger.
Fast forward a year, and that fear had escalated. On the first day of fourth grade, I clung to my mother, tears streaming down my face, convinced that if I let her go, she would have a fatal accident on the way home. After much coaxing from my teacher and the school principal, I was finally persuaded to part with her, but the anxiety persisted.
Night after night, I battled stomachaches, a result of my incessant worrying. My parents attributed it to the ice cream I loved so much, but the root cause was far deeper. I feared that voicing my anxieties would somehow manifest them into reality. When my fifth-grade teacher dismissed my fears, it solidified my decision to remain silent.
In my quest to control the uncontrollable, I began to bargain with the universe. If my father returned home safely from work, I would perform certain rituals like washing the dishes nightly or reading specific chapters from the Bible. I meticulously categorized utensils into safe and unsafe, and I believed that arranging my blankets in a particular order or wearing certain colors would maintain a delicate balance in the universe. I even documented my compulsions in an NSYNC notebook, hoping to keep my family safe.
This cycle of fear and compulsion consumed my life. The clothes I wore were dictated by past experiences—dark green was off-limits due to a traumatic event involving my pet rabbit. I became increasingly isolated, avoiding friends and activities, all while insisting on accompanying my parents on errands to mitigate any potential risks. In the car, I would block out music that mentioned leaving, associating it with loss and grief.
Eventually, I learned that what I was experiencing was obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). It wasn’t until my early twenties that I recognized my condition and understood that my life didn’t have to be governed by it. While anxiety has a genetic component in my family, my experiences were not typical; most people don’t have to endure such debilitating compulsions over mundane tasks.
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) proved invaluable in managing my OCD. This therapeutic approach, which emphasizes skills training, enabled me to confront the uncomfortable feelings tied to my fears. My therapist guided me through “testing” my obsessions until I realized my compulsions had no bearing on the safety of my loved ones. I learned that no amount of ritualistic behavior could control outcomes in life.
Though I wouldn’t claim to be “cured,” OCD no longer dictates my daily existence. I still remind the universe to protect my pets and occasionally avoid certain numbers, but I no longer believe forgetting those rituals will bring about disaster. I have come to accept that life is unpredictable, and I will navigate its challenges as they arise, free to wear any color shirt I desire.
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In summary, my journey through OCD was long and challenging, but with the right therapy and understanding, I learned to manage my fears and live a more fulfilling life.