To Tell or Not to Tell

I want to be able to go somewhere, to be with people, and still be able to pretend to be who I used to be. It’s the only escape I have left. It’s the only connection to that girl I used to be. It’s my last piece of “normalcy”. But that means that I have to keep a huge part of myself from those people.

So who do I tell? How do I decide who to let into my “now” and who to keep in my “used to be”?

I can categorize my interactions with others into three groups:

  • Old friends who don’t know about my OCD. With them I can pretend to be the happy, less-burdened me. But it’s pretend. And no matter how good I am at hiding my fear in those moments, they can tell there is a new wall up. They can tell I’m not giving them all of me. There’s an added strain. And it hurts just a little bit, a dull ache, because I can almost get back to her, I can start to see that girl I used to be. But she’s just out of reach.
  • There’s the old friends and family who I have told about my OCD. Now that’s all they see; the girl with OCD. Every interaction we have, every moment we share, even if not overtly, is affected by that knowledge. OCD is sitting between me and them. And there is no space for the me that’s left. And it’s no one’s fault. It’s just that they love me and they’re trying to find me again and they’re trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. I desperately don’t want to be the girl with OCD, so it hurts. Because the look in their eyes reminds me of how far away I am from the girl I used to know.
  • And then there’s the new friends I’ve made who have only known me as the me with OCD. It’s a little terrifying, but it’s almost like a breath of fresh air. Because I’m not pretending. I’m not pretending to be the old me, I’m not pretending to be ok with the new me. I’m just me. To them I’m just me. They see me, and they love me.

So maybe it’s time to accept who I am. Maybe it’s time to stop hiding. But that’s easier said than done. Because no matter how determined I am to stop pretending, when I see my old friends, I long to just let them see me as the old me because I want to be her. And when I see my family I long to just let them see me as okay because they can’t fix me and because I want more than anything to be okay. These people are my only escape from this small cage of a world that OCD has created for me.

So I am hoping that eventually this blog will help me stop pretending and accept who I am. This blog scares me. I’m scared every time I click publish. But once I do, I feel a little more hope start to bubble to the surface. Because maybe I can learn how to be me. Maybe I can stop hiding. There’s no going back to who I used to be. But there is a way to go forward and grow into the person that I am now.

2

All I Do is Take

“OCD is a maniacally-laughing, uncontrollably disastrous imp bursting out of me.”

I have morphed into a black hole in the middle of the lives of those I love most, leaving a path of destruction and loss behind me. OCD is this maniacally-laughing, uncontrollably disastrous imp that bursts out of me and takes pleasure in knocking things over, pushing me down and controlling the people around me. OCD has lied and terrified me until there’s nothing left of me to give. It has taken away my sense of self, my sense of home, even taken away my belongings. It has told me to pack up my favorite copy of Wuthering Heights because it’s safer not to touch it. It has told me time and again that I can’t use those shoes, or those shoes, or those shoes… I don’t have things anymore. I don’t have place anymore. And it doesn’t just take from me. OCD took piece after piece of her house until she didn’t feel at home in it anymore. Until she could feel my OCD watching every move she made. Now it’s taking over our home, it took his favorite pair of shoes, and just last week it took his snacks for game night. It takes and takes and takes, and as it takes it just gets bigger. Until finally it takes me. It takes me away from them. OCD takes control of my mind and my body. It takes my sight and my sense of space. It can tell me I’ve touched something that I’m feet away from. It takes my reality. But worse of all it takes my connection to others. It took her sister. It took his girlfriend. It’s a black hole.

Even the areas that seem to have remained untouched by my mind are really scattered with OCD landmines. I can’t just walk down the hall, I have to dodge here, weave there, and turn sideways and scoot through a space that could truthfully fit two of me side by side, but somehow the walls have closed in so that now I can’t seem to fit. He looks at the house and sees a house. He has to get to the bedroom so he walks to the bedroom. I have to go to the bedroom so first I sit there and muster up the willpower just to get up out of my safe spot. I look at the path and I see the “narrow” space between the boots I can’t touch and the chair I can’t touch, and I see all the other previously harmless objects that OCD has taken from me. I see all the opportunities for OCD to take my reality and turn a simple walk to the bedroom into a draining trek that will usually end in frustrated tears and excess washing.

And after all of it’s taking, OCD continues to convince me that it’s me doing the taking. It’s me that’s slowly chipping away at their lives. All I do is take.

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I Tried

I went to a wonderful Holiday party on Saturday, one that I had really looked forward to. But what was my brain thinking about the whole time? Not the open bar, the Mac-n-cheese buffet, the live music, the 20’s themed ambience with huge sparkling chandeliers, the sequined dresses or the not-so-understated suits, and not even my handsome date. No, my brain was thinking about what I possibly walked on while going through the parking garage, what was on the wall that my sweater touched, whether I had bumped into that garbage can or touched the pile of trash across the street; my mind was tracking each time my favorite sparkling 3-inch heels touched my dress, his chair, my tights; my mind was making sure that my hands didn’t hang down too low and touch the sweater or the bottom of my dress, watching his hands and his jacket making sure they didn’t touch that chair, wondering if the hand I was eating with had touched that garbage can… I forgot to make myself smile and enjoy the party. I had to continuously pull myself out of my mind and remember that I was talking to someone and then try to figure out where the conversation had led us. I was trying to figure out the perfect balance between the open bar and the fact that I can’t use public bathrooms. I didn’t get to relish the rich and decadent desserts because while I was spooning the chocolate mousse into my mouth my mind was already back home, trying to figure out how I was going to get out of these tights that went all the way up to my bra, or out of this dress that was digging into my armpits, and get into the shower and clean my phone and wondering if there was any way that I could save my favorite, most painful pair of heels from my OCD (I couldn’t, they got left out in the garage with the rest of the shoe cemetery).

So I was planning to go to a magnificent party, but I didn’t go. Only a shell of me got to go, my mind was never really there.

I don’t regret it though. I’ll try again next year, and next year I hope that I can leave OCD and it’s annoying lies at home. I hope it will just be me and my hot date, an open bar, fancy clothes, and as much Mac-n-cheese as I can eat.

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Dreaming

Sometimes I wake up feeling like I’ve come back from far far away. I can’t explain the feeling, but it feels like my mom is close to me; not how he is close to me lying next to me in the bed. I can’t reach out and touch her. But it’s a familiar feeling; like the whisper of something I used to know. In these rare moments I feel that if I just tried hard enough I could go back in time and fix everything. I could be home again if I just try hard enough. The feeling is so strong that I can feel it. It pulls on me. And maybe that’s what she is trying to tell me. Just not in the way I’ve been imagining it. Maybe she’s telling me that I am home; if I just try hard enough to let myself be home. And in my case, trying hard means I need to stop trying so hard, I need to just let myself be here.

2

I’m Scared

I haven’t felt strong lately. And you have to be strong to fight OCD. Because to fight it, you have to face it. I have to face my worst fear. But I haven’t been able to and I feel my world getting smaller again. And I can see his world getting smaller because of it too. OCD seeps out of me, strangling everything around me. And maybe it’s because I’m so close to having everything I’ve ever wanted that I haven’t been able to fight. It’s happened before, when I got the thing I’d spent my entire academic career working for; I got scared that I would lose it. So I did. My world crashed around me for the second time. I’m scared. I’m frozen scared. I can barely get out of bed because I’m scared of what will happen today. Tomorrow. I’m scared of what I might lose. So I haven’t been fighting and OCD has been getting bigger and meaner. It’s constantly hovering behind me making sure I don’t make a wrong move and convincing me that I did even if I haven’t moved at all. And I believe it. I believe every word it says. So I’m tired. And I can’t be tired if I’m going to outsmart OCD. Because to beat OCD I have to be stronger than it. I have to do the thing it’s telling me not to do, the thing it’s telling me could take away my happiness. I have to do the scariest thing I can imagine. And then do it again. And again. Until I’m not scared of it anymore. Until I can show OCD that it has no power over me. But that’s exhausting and requires a lot of willpower. Willpower that I can’t seem to find. But I need to find it. This fight isn’t just about me. Because OCD seeps out of me. So it’s not just about me.

What are you most scared of? What would it take to get you to do that thing? Every day. For the rest of your life. What would it take?

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What I Want

I want to feel safe.

I want my mind to be quiet.

I want to do simple things.

Like put my shoes on with my hands.

Like do my laundry without showering after.

I want to make him happy. Not sad.

I want to stop crying.

I want to stop hurting.

I want to go outside.

I want to be home.

I want space to feel normal things.

I want space to feel sad about the things I used to be sad about.

I want space to miss my mom.

I want space to feel anything other than OCD.

I want him to love me forever.

I want to be me again. I miss me.

I want to stop fighting.

I want to be safe.

I want to be home.

I want to be happy. Just happy.

That’s all I want.

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I’m Still Here

Whenever I see pictures of myself now, I don’t see me. My face looks empty. It’s like I don’t exist in a physical form anymore. It explains the way I’ve been feeling lately, like I’m not really here, like I’m just a whisper of a person. A whisper of who I used to be. Like I’m screaming to be heard, and all they hear is the breeze. I always feel like I’m fighting to earn my presence, to convince myself that I deserve to be here. And that curtain that is separating me from my life, that curtain is OCD.

Sometimes I feel like I disappeared too; I lost my self when I lost her.

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I Want to Live in the Now

How many lives do we live in one lifetime?

My lives feel more disjointed than they should be. I don’t recognize my past self. I long to know her again, I envy her life, and I wonder where she went.

Have you ever wondered how much of our lives are ruled by our past and our fears from the past, and how much by the hope for our future?

We live so much in the past. I think this habit can be a dangerous one. It can prevent us from growing, from accepting who we are now. We shouldn’t forget the past, that would be dangerous too. And some nostalgia is good; of course I want to remember everyone I’ve loved and all of the wonderful moments, as well as the not-so-wonderful moments that have made me who I am. But my life has become ruled by the loss I have felt and the fear that I will feel that loss again. I expect it, making me feel as though somehow I deserve it. It means I can’t fully appreciate what I have in the moment because I am waiting for it to all slip away. Nothing feels permanent because of it. The moment my mind starts to feel my heart relax and be happy it begins to retreat, bracing itself for the next loss. To the point where now, those losses are my own fault. I’m taking away my own happiness by not allowing myself to fully feel it, by expecting the worse.

That thing I’m searching for. That thing I want most of all, that thing I’m fighting for, it’s already here. I already have it. But my own fear is preventing me from letting myself truly feel it. My fear of losing it all means I miss out. I know this. But I’m not quite sure what to do with this knowledge.

I want to recognize myself again, I want to know who I am, and I want to reconcile this life with who I used to be.

 

 

0

Sisters

I grew up next to you

I found my strength with you

We watched each other fall

And rise

And fall again

 

Your presence holds me on this earth

And without me, you wouldn’t be you

We watched each other fall

And rise

And you had to watch me not get up again

 

So what do we do now

When our faces have changed

And our minds have gone

And I’m all that you have left

But I’m not really here

You can see right through me

 

My knees ache from trying to stand

Your arms hurt from holding me up

 

I grew up next to you

I found my strength in you

But I took it all

And now we fall

0

Thank You

It is so frustrating and defeating to be so desperately afraid of something that no one else can see or comprehend. That’s the way that OCD exerts its power over you. By taking away everyone else’s power to make you feel safe, by taking away your trust. Your trust in others, in simple logic and in your own mind.

In fact the more they try to logically explain away your fears, the more your OCD resists. It feels diminishing; your OCD convinces you that they’re just not listening to you, that they don’t believe you and you therefore cannot trust them.

I wish others could understand the incredible amount of energy it takes for me to carry on a conversation sometimes, or to perform a simple task. When around most people I have to keep my fears to myself. I will be out in public or with a group of people and my OCD will find a trigger, but societal expectations mean that I can’t react, I can’t perform a safety behavior. So my brain must split in half.  Half of my brain is still trying to be me, to listen and respond, while the other half is controlled by the OCD, trying to think ten thousand steps ahead; how I’ll contain the contamination and what I’ll do once I get home to stop the spreading of this invisible fear. It’s exhausting. Sometimes impossible.

I’ve slowly started to build a support group of people who love me, and who have enough of an understanding of mental illness that they know there’s not always a logical explanation. I can’t explain my fear. It’s one of the most frustrating things about my OCD. I know my fear is not logical, but my OCD is strong and insistent.

She can’t understand it. But she does.

He can’t see it. But he doesn’t belittle it.

They don’t require an explanation. They accept that the fear is real and that I don’t know why, but that it doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

They begin to anticipate my fears, look for the things that only my OCD is able to see. I’m afraid that I’ll pass on my fears to them, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But at the same time, I wouldn’t be able to make it through the day without them.

I love them for it. For being brave enough to not understand and being ok with that. Thank you for being there without expecting what I can’t give you; an explanation.

 

 

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