I used to be free. I used to have a mind that belonged to me, and it felt good. It felt good to not worry, to ride the highs and lows of life, and to not get caught on one trivial thought. It felt good to spend time doing the things that I wanted to do. The things that you choose to do, and not to do, whenever you feel like it. In my opinion, having control over your mind is a remarkable thing. Having a clear stream of thoughts that flow in and out of your brain, without blockages and loops, is incredible. Making rational decisions about your actions and changing your behaviour when you so desire, is something even more extraordinary. Something that for now, and for the past 5 years, has become a fantasy that continues to slip further and further from my grip.
OCD didn’t happen instantly, it was a creeper that would sneak in without warning and fix its grip over time. It was not unwanted at first, why else would I let this entity into my mind? It did come to visit at a young age, but only briefly. It fed off anxiety and worry, and carefully selected the most appropriate time to visit, knowing full well that a parent’s grip would need to be matched by its own. It would enter at the right time, when anxiety was high. When that controlling parent would yell, scream or blame. When that sister would torment and isolate because she had her own way of dealing. Or when the father, who never wore that title, would spend countless hours in silence during custody visits, hoping to get even with a woman who was already on the edge.
It would alleviate feelings of despair and hopelessness, it would soften the edges of anxiety by momentarily detracting from reality. It promised you a moment of control and stability, and a way to react to an uncomfortable situation. It assured you that if you followed its lead, that you could feel normal, satisfied and free from worry. These were feelings that were far and few between, and like a gambler in the moment, you made decisions that you might regret for the rest of your life, you let the OCD beast in, you invited it, and while it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, the years ahead would show you a very different story.
ssPregnancy, a time when you can look forward to a new beginning, a significant and monumental change in your life, a new person that is connected to you in no other way a person has before. A special time for you your and partner to plan your future ahead, to map out your lives and get caught up in the excitement of it all. Or in my case, to be thrust back into the clutches of that oh so familiar OCD grip. But this time something was different. It didn’t breeze on in gracefully like it had before. No, all etiquette was thrown out the window, it came crashing through the walls of my mind, like a toddler tantrum, demanding a significant place in my head. There were no promises of stability and comfort this time, only doubt and uncertainty. The foetus inside my womb would not survive and I would be responsible. The message was loud and clear and it was as real and horrifying as the feelings that came with it. The punishing thoughts gripped me like no other force, they would frequent my mind, steal my sleep, destroy any speck of positivity and ultimately change me. I was at the mercy of this beast. I would succumb to its demands, and if I didn’t, then I would be forced to live with the guilt of letting this child slip away. These messages in my mind were broadcast day and night. They would override any rational thought, rejecting these as lazy, selfish and ignorant. Eventually there would be no place for these type of thoughts. Even entertaining these types of ‘logical’ thoughts became a grounds for melt down.
The demands were inconvenient at first, but could be managed. Boiling all foods so that any hint of listeria could be burned out of them, cleaning plates, bowls and cutlery several times before using them and avoiding any food that was not cooked under my watchful eye was a challenge that I could rise to. The sense of control or satisfaction I was awarded for these actions was never quite enough. But with every cleaning episode, crept in another doubtful thought. Did I miss something? Could that one spot host an army of listeria ready to assault the foetus within. How could I be so negligent? Did I use the right mix of bleach to kill all the bacteria? No more diluting, pure bleach will only do. The thoughts did not stop there. My entire body would become consumed with the intense feeling of guilt and grieving for a child that was not yet lost. Hours spent on the internet, searching for something that could go wrong, believing that the horrible truth lied deep within the web. Would it be a still birth? Would the cord tightly wrap around the unborn child’s neck because I chose to rest in the wrong position? Would I inhale the feces of the next door neighbours cat and contract toxoplasmosis. Could my anxiety cause a premature birth? Would this be the end of the foetus, and if it was, will this mean the end for me? The OCD grip tightened its hold. The struggle with this entity had only begun, yet I was feeling exhausted and depleted of energy by now. All the demands were weighing me down. The OCD had preyed on my greatest weakness ‘fear’, and had delivered generous servings of uncertainty, self doubt and soon self loathing. With every ritual came an intrusive thought. I could never get it right, no matter how hard I tried, repeated, adapted, sort assistance or modified. But never was it enough. These rituals would become more complex, difficult to explain to those who would witness and harder to achieve. They would interfere with my relationship, and so often would leave me like a broken mess, riddled with feelings of guilt and self blame. A prisoner in my own darkened mind, I would only be released for a short while.
With the birth of my son came a different perspective. It was hard to believe that my son was born alive. He entered the world full of life and brought joy with him. It was time to shake my OCD sentence. I had reached the release date, I had followed the OCD orders, like a brainwashed soldier, and now I could rightfully take back my own mind.
This relief was short lived. Distrust soon crept in, with an tsunami of questions asking how my own mind could betray me, how on earth it had been possible to produce such well fabricated lies. It seemed unimaginable that the trust you once had in your own self, your own mind, could lead you so far astray. Would this change me forever?
The OCD grip 