As a young child, I sat and watched my mother sit for hours in front of a magnifying mirror, picking and poking at any imperfection on her face — perceptible or otherwise. At the time, I thought nothing of it. She described her behavior as only my mother could, “mashing bumps.” Mashing bumps. Probably something every mother did, I figured.
My father, a physician, was a meticulous man. He could recite detail after detail on not only disease, but also history, politics, sports, and various and sundry other bits of meaningless knowledge. I always just thought he was clever and loved the little nuances of life.
Roll those two into one, and you get me. When I was young, I would’ve been described in positive terms or backhanded compliments by my family and peers: “teacher’s pet,” “intelligent,” “thrifty,” “overachieving,” “organized,” “attentive to details.” My attention to details served me well back then; I got good grades, kept my room as neat as a pin, and followed all the rules. I graduated fifth in my large high school, started college with 15 credit hours, and became valedictorian. I graduated with a 4.0 from my master’s program.
On the less than rosy side, I was obsessed with my appearance. I think the OCD first manifested itself when I changed from a chubby tween to a 100-pound, 5’8″ teen over the course of six months by starving myself. I had to be perfect, and I was proud that I had the “willpower” to do whatever it took to get me there. Around that same time, I began to pick at my skin, just like my mother. The funny thing is, I had almost perfect skin, but I saw it as imperfect and needing improvement. Ironically, by picking, I made it look just horrible. That is how OCD works – your mind plays tricks on you.
During my first job, my symptoms began to evolve. I worked in my dad’s medical office, and I became a handwasher obsessed with catching disease. At one point, I even convinced my father to get me an AIDS test because there had been a patient in his office who had the virus. I had not seen this patient, touched this patient, or even been in the same room with him, but I could not let my fears go. It was crippling, but it got worse.
Having grown up in a devout Christian household, I was obsessed with doing what was right. Being righteous was easy when I was under the shelter of loving parents, but when I entered college and became forced to make my own choices, I inevitably screwed up at times. This led me to my greatest, scariest obsession: I was not good enough to go to heaven. This obsession was so overpoweringly frightening to me that it led me to finally seeking professional help for what I thought was depression.
My first experience with counselors and doctors was heartening, but not particularly helpful. With counseling, I was able to work through a lot of my anxiety and sadness, but they treated me primarily as a depressed/anxious patient rather than a victim of OCD. I went through many medications during early treatment, and I believe the sedative effects of these drugs had the most positive impact on my feelings. OCD is worse when a sufferer feels anxious, and sedation reduces anxiety in a lot of cases. I felt somewhat better, but by no means was I “cured.”
When I moved away from my hometown, I was forced to find a new counselor. He submitted me to a battery of psychological tests, asked tons of questions, and thoroughly reviewed my family and psychological history. At our second meeting, he told me, “I think you have OCD.” A lightbulb suddenly went on in my head. OCD. OCD! Of course!!! As a college graduate with a degree in psychology, I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of it myself first. Both of my parents have obsessive-compulsive personalities, but the difference between an OCD personality and true OCD is the degree to which it bothers the sufferer. My mom and dad were not concerned by their behaviors; their behaviors amounted to idosynchracies to them. My obsessive and compulsive behaviors caused me great pain.
Since my diagnosis about 10 years ago, I have undergone a lot of cognitive-behavioral therapy, read lots of books on the subject (I highly recommend Brain Lock by Jeffrey M. Schwartz — it will change your life if you live with OCD), and taken Luvox and Trazodone continuously. I still have moments of intense anxiety caused by this disease, but I can usually label it as OCD and move forward with my day.
If you are living with OCD, take heart. If you get the proper diagnosis and treatment, you can survive and even thrive. I am!
