Walking On Eggshells With ME

Something I am always trying to think of is a way to best describe OCD to the person who doesn't have it and has never experienced it. I usually have zero idea of any way to best describe it. But in talking with my mother one evening, a way dawned on me. One can think of OCD as having to walk on eggshells with your self. Not eggshells with that easily angered boyfriend or eggshells with your in-laws or even eggshells with your ultra-conservative grandmother. Nope, I am talking eggshells with yourself. That is what every person with OCD is doing, walking on the eggshells, trying their damnedest not to crack one or make a sound to alert the OCD monster within their minds.


All of us with OCD have a line we feel we must tow. Actions that rule our everyday to keep a specific order so that we do not awaken the OCD monster. We fear that monster awakening. It is an abusive part of ourselves. It abuses us from within everyday. But everyday, we carry out certain rituals, compulsions, in order to try and keep that OCD monster happy or quiet or asleep. If we just wash our hands exactly twice each time, it will remain happy. If we make sure to tap the light switch three times or six times or twelve, then the OCD monster will not wake and lash out at us. That OCD can at times keep us scared for our lives, literally. It is like an abusive parent, spouse, or friend. Well, it's never a friend.


And somedays, for whatever reason, we are unable to tow the line perfectly. And because of this, our OCD monster awakens, grows grumbly, gets louder. It screams out in our head like a blow horn is attached to our thoughts. Like the images within our brain are being played out on a big screen in front of us. And in these instances, we hop to it, jump back in line, and work harder to carry out our compulsions. We exhaust ourselves in every way just to quiet the monster. We burn the circuits of our brain, wash the skin practically off our hands, fold and refold the clean clothes, open and close the refrigerator door, take shower after shower, check and recheck. It feels endless.


So, with that I simply say that having OCD feels like I am walking on eggshells with myself.

OCD...That Degenerate!!!

Lately I have been having a rather tough time with my OCD. Because of this I feel like coming on here and talking, or blogging, to get things out. I don't know that I really feel like talking about my current troubles too much. I am not really sure what I feel like talking about. One thing I was thinking was maybe helping you all to understand why, even though I have had OCD since early childhood, it is so much worse now. I have had treatment, right? I have found some proper meds, right? So, why would it be worse now. Well, to put it simply, OCD is a degenerative disorder. Left untreated, it grows worse and worse with time and then becomes harder to treat and change the behavior. (This site can tell you a little more: NAMI)

Thus, even though I am currently treated for my disorder, I was not treated for OCD until the late age of 25. This is unfortunately due to the facts of my not being aware of there even being a condition like OCD and from previous misdiagnoses from mental health professionals. I am thankful everyday I now have the help I need, but I sometimes find myself a tiny bit pissed, okay maybe a big bit, that it took so long to be helped.

Unfortunately, that is the case for most people. OCD is an extremely shameful disease. Not that folks should feel shame, it is simply that many of us who have OCD feel very, extremely ashamed everyday. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't at some point think I am some horrible, awful person. And many other folks with OCD are just like me. We shy away from getting help. We are scared to talk to those who can help us, for fear they will see this monster that we see. In the end, when we are finally able to get help, most of us can finally see that the monster isn't real. It is just a mask our OCD has created for us. But, that shame, even after being treated for many years, remains. It isn't as strong now. I know it isn't a reasonable shame. But it still remains.

We folks with OCD also tend to not get help until later in life, because we are so unaware of what is happening inside our brains. We know something is amiss, but not the what. We carry out weird, odd compulsions and people give us looks. We learn to cover up the compulsions. Everyday, many of us OCDers carry out compulsions that no one ever sees and that no one ever will see. To this day, my husband who I would tell anything and everything to, still hasn't seen all of my compulsions and probably never will. It isn't because I don't trust him enough to let him see. It is partly because I don't want to stress him with them, and partly because I don't even realize I am hiding them.

Finally, a reason that many of us, despite having good health care professionals on our side and wonderful medications to help us, have a hard time battling our OCD is because it is a constantly evolving disorder. It doesn't stay the same for many of us. What does that mean? Well, for instance, there was a time in my life where I was completely focused on prayers and having to say them exactly right, and an exact number of times, and with the exact words. Then there was another time where things had to be cleaned properly, where things had a proper placement. There have been many evolutions in my disorder, and along the way I have had compulsions come and go and sometimes come back again. And at this time in my life, I have too many obsessions to even list on this post and my compulsions have changed over the last 6 months and my OCD includes fears of praying properly and fears of cleaning properly and fears of how to speak things properly. It evolves all the time, and so many of us have to constantly evolve our treatment.

OCD is a continuous fight. It is a chronic disorder, it does not go away. But it can get better. And it does. If you can just get past the fear and shame, and sometimes the evolutions. 

The First Time My OCD Was Truly Severe...

In this picture I look really happy. I look like I am really enjoying the moment and taking it all in. If I look at this picture now I wish to be back in that very moment as happy as I appear. However, I know the TRUTH. I was happy on some level, but underneath, I was stuck in one big horrible OCD "episode". It was one, like many I have had, that I felt I couldn't climb out of...it was suffocating and lonely and scary. And, even though you can't see it here in this photo, my mind and spirit were in a horrific state. See, you really can't judge a book by its cover!

Before I go on, I want to explain that even though I can break up my life into various OCD episodes, this does not mean the OCD is not a part of my life between these episodes. Nay, it is a CONSTANT part of my life. I simply term these moments in my life as OCD "episodes", because they are times when I have felt I was completely out of control in my brain, that I couldn't get it to stop, that there was no help. The episodes are simply pockets of the worst.

Back in the Fall of 2003 I had one of the worst OCD "episodes" I have ever had. I had just finished my Master's degree the previous spring and moved in with my boyfriend (soon to be husband) in his grandfather's house. I was looking for work, not finding much, taking care of my new dog (a cute little pug named Oswald), and trying to fit into my new life.

I got a job, finally, working at a local college teaching a simple class on studying. To me it was a bit of a pointless class, but the college required their students to take it, and pass it with "Satisfactory" as the grade, in order to move past the first term of classes. It was a simple 3 day class that I would teach three weekends in a row. I had 3 different classes to teach spread over Friday and Saturday. I was so excited!!! I had always wanted to teach at a college and even though it wasn't the biggest job ever, I was doing it!!!

I did well. The students loved me and would write me all the time. But then the obsessive worry started. Almost out of nowhere it seemed. Another instructor pointed something out to me that I was supposed to be doing that I hadn't done. That was all. That was it. But it was enough to set wheels in motion. I then took it upon myself to make sure each and every student got the exact instruction I was "supposed" to give. There could be no leeway in any direction, I had to teach this exact way that I had failed to do in the first day of class.

The students had minor homework, something most instructors would hardly even worry about. But I had to get the students to do the homework precisely. I began calling each and every student on the telephone to ensure they had correctly heard me when I explained the assignment. I would pace back and forth in the back yard as I called them all. Smoking a cigarette, worrying that I was going to inadvertently cause these students to fail. And I will point out again that this was a simple STUDY class. Simply designed to teach students how to study. Something I should never have worried at all about.

However, in order to actually pass this class, the students had to do one simple assignment. Get onto a website called Blackboard and email me. That was it. And I told them that in the second class. The third class would be our last, and I reminded by both writing it on the board and emphatically stating it, that they MUST email me. Some did not. That sent me reeling into obsessive thought even more.

I called each and every student again making sure they knew that they had to do this. Some of them I could tell by their voice on the phone with me, were a bit freaked out by my constant calling them. I would have been too. I was slowly losing it. But I was certain in my mind that I was causing these students to fail by not helping them enough. Certain of it! Even though it was the farthest thing from the truth.

In the end, 3 I believe, just 3 students, did not pass the class. They did not do the work and they shouldn't have passed. But for the next few months I was certain it was all my fault they had not passed and would now be forced to pay $60 to retake the 3 class course. I began thinking for hours and hours on end about what I could have done to have helped these students more. How could I have messed up so horribly. I stopped eating almost altogether and lost 30 pounds in about a month. I smoked endlessly in the backyard as I paced and thought. I would go in the bathroom, stare at myself in the mirror, and think about how I could have done this to these 3 students. How I could have let them down so very much. Once again, I will state that this was a simple, $60 course on studying. Nothing more. Stupid to worry one second about it. But it was literally killing me.

When the starvation and smoking wasn't cutting the pain enough, I started cutting at myself with thumbtacks. Little scrapes across the skin. Maybe physical pain would take away the mental pain. My boyfriend would find me lying in the hallway of the house softly repeating words or just crying. He would make me meals and I would just sit and stare at them. I would lie on our bed and just cry staring at the wall. I was certain I had caused those students to fail and that it was my fault and that somehow this would ruin their lives. Finally, one day I was stuck in the corner of the living room, behind the couch, crying. Unable to get me out of the corner and fearful I was going to do something to harm myself, he called my parents. Within a couple days I was seeing a counselor. And very quickly we determined what was going on with me.

For most of my life I have exhibited signs of OCD. But for most of my life up until that point, OCD had not caused me major trauma. That episode brought out the worst of my OCD, and the worst has remained with me to this day. That was a painful time in my life and it actually took quite a long time to get past it, but that was far from the worst. It is easy to pass OCD off as just being anal or orderly or clean-freakish...but it is so much more than that. It is an inner turmoil that cuts down to a person's heart and soul and if not caught and treated, can lead to major physical harm or even death. OCD is serious and the only reason I am glad this episode occurred is because it helped me gain the tools I need to fight through each day and survive.

Being Pregnant, Being OCD

This is a picture of me the night before I was due to give birth to my son in July of 2009. Of course, it would be a few more days before that birth actually happened, but I was happy and I was ready to let this kid out of my belly. Having OCD while you are pregnant presents a level stress unheard of by most.

First off, let me state how many times I saw my doctor during my pregnancy. Some of you may be kinda shocked, but for me it was necessary I see him this many times. I found out I was pregnant when I was about 5 or 6 weeks along and from that day forward I saw my doctor about every other week and many times once a week or more throughout the entirety of my pregnancy. This is not the usual course of care for a pregnant woman. I was only scheduled to see him once a month throughout, but I found it "necessary" to continuously check in with him. If I didn't have a reason to do so, I would find a reason.

The first half of my pregnancy was spent vomiting several times or continuously throughout the day. I felt there would never be a day when I could eat a piece of food and it would actually stay in my stomach long enough to be digested. I distinctly remember vomiting all over my car door, on the inside, driving to work one day at 6:30am. Thank goodness for the container of disinfectant wipes I had forgotten about in my back seat. You would think with all the time I was spending being sick, I wouldn't have found time to obsess over anything. Nope, not the case at all.

My doctor made an unwitting comment at one of my first appointments regarding the dreaded bacteria toxoplasmosis sometimes found in cat litter and potentially devastating to unborn children. My goodness, that set me off. The cats were each checked by the doctor, there litter was changed daily, Steve was made to put a door into the doorway of our bedroom to keep them out of it, I followed the cats around with disinfectant wipes. I can tell you, our house had probably never been so clean. If the cats came near me, I cringed in horror. If they made the mistake of trying to jump in my lap for a innocent pet, they were tossed to the floor. To me they were no longer my pets, they were infested vermin out to hurt my unborn child. Ridiculous in many ways, as I had had them each tested and they were simply fine. But all I could see in my mind was the potential of what they could be carrying. 

As the days and weeks carried on, my horror regarding toxoplasmosis spread to become an overall horror of germs. I remember quite clearly being in the restroom at work once and seeing one of the cleaner bottles used by the maintenance team. It stated on the bottle that the cleaner killed this many diseases and that many forms of bacteria, and I remember HIV popping out of that list and my eyes feeling like they would pop straight from my head. What if I accidentally touched something tainted with HIV and somehow pass it to myself or my child. The horror was real. It was palpable. It was a horror so severe and thick, you could cut it.

Somehow I got through the weeks and months of stressful cleaning and rules that had to be followed in order to keep things uncontaminated. My husband was worn out, exhausted. He did his best to keep up with my "rules", but sometimes just couldn't do everything. In those instances, I hate to say, I would many times go emotionally batty on him. I had no rationality concerning contamination during that time period. None. When I put on my undergarments each night, my foot could not touch the inside of the undergarment. If my foot did touch the inside, the undergarment was contaminated and could not be worn. I would go through several undergarments before I put one on that my foot didn't touch the inside of and contaminate. This got even trickier the bigger my belly got.

Later in my pregnancy, just as I was starting to not get sick all day long and learning to enjoy food once again, I lost much use of my hands. I already have severe carpal tunnel syndrome. During my pregnancy, the swelling of tissue in my arms caused the carpal tunnel to be extreme and nearly required a surgery during my second trimester (but they deemed it too dangerous). My husband at times had to cut my food for me and help me dress, for my lack of being able to hold the silverware and grasp the buttons. It truly sucked!!! But, my fears continued through this. I would still clean with the disinfectant wipes the best I could. I would still have to keep my foot away from the inside of my underwear, I would still have to sit properly on the couch over and over until it "felt right", I would still follow my husband around with disinfectant wipes as he cleaned the litter box each day. 

But then July 17, 2009 arrived. I went to William Beaumont Hospital in Troy, Michigan for a routine non-stress test. My son's heart rate dropped dramatically and my induction began a day early. For the next couple days I was wrapped up in a zone of determination...a determination to safely deliver my son into this world. During these few days, my OCD was obliterated by that determination. I was focused. Alas, soon after giving birth to my son and resting for a mere few hours, the OCD returned and has remained. As it ever will...