As a child, I often found myself waiting alone in the school foyer, anxiously anticipating my mom’s arrival. One day, when she was ten minutes late, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me, convincing me that something terrible had happened. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my family or pets were in danger, and this fear lingered for nearly twenty years.
The following year, as I stood sobbing on my first day of fourth grade, I clung to my mom, convinced that if I let go, she would drive home and suffer a fatal accident. It took nearly an hour for the school principal and my compassionate teacher to persuade me to stay. That day marked the beginning of a long battle with anxiety that would manifest in various compulsive behaviors.
Every night, I was plagued by stomach aches, and while my parents attributed it to too much ice cream, it was really the anxiety that churned within me. I felt unable to express my fears, convinced that voicing them would somehow make them real. A dismissive comment from my fifth-grade teacher about my concerns only solidified my silence.
To cope, I began negotiating with the universe. If my dad returned home safely from work, I would wash the dishes for a week or read several chapters from a book. I developed strict rituals around my belongings—certain forks were deemed safe, and I wore specific colors based on their associations with my fears. My wardrobe was limited, and I wore turtlenecks for almost a year because they felt safer. I developed a routine where my alarm clock had to end in zero or five, while the microwave timer could never do the same. Even the slightest change in my surroundings could trigger a meltdown as I feared it would upset the balance of everything.
Friendships took a backseat to my anxiety. I avoided visiting friends’ homes, fearing that the journey would result in a tragic accident. I accompanied my parents on errands, masking my discomfort with enthusiasm for the grocery store. Car rides were torturous; I covered my ears to block out songs about leaving, which I equated with death.
Eventually, I learned that what I was experiencing was obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD. It wasn’t until my early twenties that I understood I didn’t have to live in constant fear. With anxiety running in my family, I realized my experiences, while intense, weren’t completely unique. Simple things, like wearing new socks, shouldn’t be a source of dread.
Through cognitive behavioral therapy, I began to address my OCD symptoms. My therapist equipped me with the skills to confront my fears and challenge my compulsions. I gradually learned to “test” my anxieties, discovering that my rituals didn’t control the universe or ensure my loved ones’ safety. While I always suspected this, it was the guidance of a professional that helped me to break free from my compulsions. Reflecting on my adolescence, I realize it was overshadowed by fear, a disease that distorted my perception of reality.
While I wouldn’t claim to be “cured,” I can say my OCD no longer dictates my life. I still remind the universe to protect my pets each day as I leave home, and I occasionally avoid using certain numbers on the microwave. However, I now understand that forgetting these rituals won’t doom the world. Life is unpredictable, but I’ve learned to navigate it alongside my fears—wearing any color shirt I choose.
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Summary:
This article recounts a personal journey through obsessive-compulsive disorder, detailing the struggles faced from childhood through early adulthood. The author reflects on how fear governed daily life and the eventual realization that therapy could help manage OCD symptoms. The narrative emphasizes the importance of understanding mental health and seeking help while encouraging readers to embrace life’s unpredictability.
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