Almost a year ago, I started going back to therapy after ten years to learn how to manage my severe anxiety. The problem was getting so out of hand that I no longer felt I could do it on my own; this was one of the hardest conversations I've ever had with my mother because I was terrified of the stigma of seeking help for my mental health. But, as it turns out, it was one of the best decisions I've ever made--despite the negative opinions some people might still have.

During my sessions--which have become more and more spread out, as the months go on--it was suggested that, maybe, my anxiety was beginning to manifest itself as OCD. At first, I was shocked--and mostly in denial. I didn't keep my room spotless, germs didn't freak me out, and, although my notes for school are pretty well kept, I was sure I was far from being obsessive.

After talking to her more about what exactly OCD was and how it manifests, I realized maybe she was right. My dad was diagnosed with OCD, so I guess it wasn't such a far-fetched idea after all. Months have passed since that appointment, and I've had some time to think about it and figure out exactly how it affects me. This is a poem I wrote about my thoughts on the matter.

Disordered

I tend to get

Obsessive

about things that matter

and things that don’t

like the fact that my notes are written

in a different shade of purple

from one page to the next

or the fact that my text has gone

unanswered in a group chat

yet again

because I’m always afraid that

people don’t really like me

as much as they say they do

because I don’t even know

if I like myself

as much as I say I do

But when I obsessively pine

over things that matter

and things that don’t I start

Compulsively

rubbing my eyes

and itching my wrists

because those things I’m obsessing over

have turned into tiny hands

inside of my eyelids

and I know how disgusting

and disturbing

and absolutely freaking psychotic this sounds

but I swear I can see them sometimes

little black lines in my vision

that I need to rub away

until my vision is cleared again

until the anxiety turns to the burning in my wrists

in those thin white lines on my skin

from a time when I was younger

and more impressionable

and more easily broken than I am now

And I would never turn to a blade

for comfort again

but my god, do these faint white lines itch

and I don’t know how to make them stop

because my mind is

Disordered

and I’m still trying to figure out

exactly what that means

when my therapist tells me

my anxiety may have turned into OCD

or when my old psych professor

told me in class

that I have a panic disorder

and I mean he’s not wrong

but what does that mean?

Am I always going to be disordered?

Have I always been disordered?

And if I have always been disordered

who will I be when I’m not?