As I compared notes with a girl sitting near me before class, I couldn’t help but admire the neatness of her work. When I confessed my appreciation to her, she said “Oh, I can be so OCD sometimes,” and laughed. For a moment, I wondered if she had a secret similar to my own, but I quickly realized she only meant she was very organized. I managed a small smile back at the unknowing girl before I turned back around in my seat and attempted to ignore the small annoyance I couldn’t help but feel in the back of my head.
When I was in the sixth grade, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. What had begun as a somewhat small aversion to physical touch had turned into full-blown panic attacks when something as simple as the volume in the car was on an uneven number. At first, my parents thought it was just a phase, but as my symptoms progressed and my frustration grew, it became evident that this wasn’t going away on its own.
For most people, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is something that develops as an outlet for stress. It was the same for me, although I am still not sure what exactly I had anxiety about at only twelve years old. I had several different “rituals” or obsessions that I had to acknowledge or I was immersed in a sense of panic. A few of my compulsions included an incessant desire for order, the need for all of my schoolwork to be meticulously written, and an inability to ignore anything that was an uneven number, whether it be the volume on the television or the amount of times I chewed my food. Although I was completely aware that my fears were irrational, it was something I couldn’t ignore.
After a year and a half of counseling sessions with a therapist who repeatedly tried and failed to find the underlying reason for my anxiety, I began to cope with the truth I didn’t want to see. My disorder was something I had to come to terms with and accept. At first I was embarrassed and did everything in my power to hide my compulsions from anyone outside of my immediate family, although when I flipped the light switch multiple times before I left a room people tended to ask some questions. Still, the thought of having to explain a part of me that I didn’t even completely understand myself to another person wasn’t something I was eager to do.
It took quite a while to come to terms with my disorder and learn to become comfortable with it being a small part of who I am. Over time I have learned how to cope and ignore the desire to give in to subconscious compulsions that still bother me.
Talking about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder used to be a subject I readily avoided, and hearing other people use it to describe themselves was offensive to me because it was a struggle I dealt with for so long. I have learned that most people don’t realize the extent to which psychological disorders can rule someone’s life, and when people use OCD to describe themselves they don’t mean it in an offensive way. It’s just something not many people know about. Although I am guilty of occasionally still feeling annoyed when I hear people discuss OCD in such a carefree way, I’m not as sensitive about it as I used to be. Most of the time, I just fight the urge to smile, look them in the eye, and say, “You don’t know the half of it.”
