My name is Mary, I’m 19, a lover of critters and cartoons, and I have lived with obsessive compulsive disorder for as long as I can remember.
Manifested at a young age, as I meticulously organized my things, obsessed over natural disasters- to the point of having a backpack stuffed with my most valued possessions at the ready- and isolated because of a fear of sickness and germs, I don’t remember a time in my youth where I didn’t feel trapped by my illness. I distinctly remember keeping receipts for everything I ever bought, worried that I had stolen something. Of course I hadn’t, but what if I just didn’t remember doing it? If I couldn’t find evidence that I had paid for an item, I assumed I was a criminal. Countless items were given away in garage sales or simply thrown out because I couldn’t even stand to look at them.
It became normal, as I had never learned that there was such thing as mental illness. And, if I did, it was something that I would never encounter.
The lack of education toward mental illness never fails to astound me. It becomes such a hushed topic, and it does not do justice for a growing number of youth that are suffering from various mental ailments.
It wasn’t until middle school that I realized that I was different. None of my peers would have to leave sleepovers before the night began because of the fear of foreign germs, bring entire bedspreads when going to hotels, or diligently organize themselves and their possessions. It seemed that these obsessions had taken over my entire life and no one else felt this way.
High school gave me a name for my illness and a therapist I would visit weekly confirmed it: obsessive compulsive disorder.
There is something empowering about finally having a name for something that has plagued your existence for so long. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was a relief. But, also, I was embarrassed. It was something that was out of my control, but somehow I felt that it tainted me; that people would look at me differently and treat me differently.
There is a sense of being fragile that comes with the labels, and in no way did I want to be viewed that way. I didn’t feel fragile. I was not my illness, it was simply a part of me. There are things I had to work through, but I was not volatile. I knew I had to find myself before I could move out of hiding.
Therapy is a wonder. It’s a chance to talk about you. And, somehow, they just know how to find the root of your illness and how to help you overcome it. It’s a talk that can’t be had with your best friend or loved ones in the late hours of the night. There is nothing worse than feeling like you are drowning, but they act as your lifeguard when you do feel that way. The added professionalism is just added comfort.
These people go to universities for years to be able to help you. It’s their job. Do yourself a favor and take advantage of the knowledge they have obtained. They are there to help you. Let them.
Don’t ever believe that you are less of a person for seeking help. Everyone falters and everyone will need emotional and mental help at some point in their lives. There is nothing wrong with it, there is nothing selfish about it, and I wish there wasn’t such a strong stigma against it. Talking to someone who knew exactly what I was saying saved my life.
Antidepressants are another sensitive topic, but a necessary entity for anyone with chronic mental illness.
My illness will not cease. I can only reduce my anxiety and work through the worst of my obstacles, but they will always exist. Of course, it grows worse and better as my life grows turbulent and then calm, but it is always there. If finding some relief in a safe way with medication is an option, I won’t hesitate to do it. I used to be embarrassed by this fact, but I have really come to know myself more in the past years…enough to know that I am the same person with them, just in a much more stable place.
There is no shame in relying on medication to exist in daily life. It’s the same as someone taking medications for physical ailments. If someone breaks their leg, no one judges them for taking painkillers. It’s a shame that such a strong stigma must exist for something that really is so necessary.
That isn’t to say that medicating yourself is a cure, it is simply an addition to a daily regiment of working through your complications and improving yourself. Medicating mental illness is meant to stabilize, not be a quick-fix. That could very well mean a period of time will pass that involves some trial and error, but it’s possible to find a correct dose and prescription for you. It’s important not to let this time be discouraging to growth and healing.
There will of course be moments of despair and helplessness, but each time you feel that you won’t be able to pull yourself out of that rut will be a time that you look back and realize that you are so much stronger because of it.
I’m sharing my story because I know now, I am not alone. So many people struggle with their own demons and the only way to know that this struggle is real and valid is to end the stigma against mental illness. I do not face my sickness every day for society to tell me that what I am experiencing is not real. It’s time for this to end.
