Throughout my life, I have grappled with a variety of peculiar habits that have sparked significant anxiety. As a child, I felt an overwhelming urge to rewrite assignments until my handwriting reached a certain level of perfection. I could obsess over minor issues, and mealtimes often became torturous due to the sound of chewing, which could make me feel quite irritable.
At the age of 19, I learned that my experiences had a name: obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Since my diagnosis, I have explored numerous therapeutic options, with a consistent regimen of anti-anxiety medication proving effective. After three decades of living with OCD, I’ve gained insight into my triggers.
It’s interesting (or perhaps frustrating) to note how misconceptions about OCD abound. Many people casually say, “I’m so OCD,” to describe being meticulous about something, but that’s not what OCD truly entails. It doesn’t imply that someone is merely tidy or organized, nor does it mean I’m an exaggerated version of a character like Monica Geller. The disorder is often portrayed humorously in films and TV shows, but it’s not “cute.” For me, simple situations can evoke intense anxiety, leading me to believe that dire consequences could occur if I don’t intervene. The impact can range from mildly disruptive to completely debilitating.
Having children transformed my relationship with OCD. As my kids grew, I found myself fixating on typical parenting challenges: messy hair, talking with full mouths, and disorganized schoolwork. Despite my desire to keep my issues separate from their experiences, I often struggle to do so. I catch myself frequently reminding them to chew with their mouths closed, and while I hear my nagging tone, my reaction feels automatic. I feel compelled to intervene, even when I recognize the potential harm in my behavior.
Last fall, we visited Disney, a trip filled with potential triggers: large crowds, confined spaces, and tightly scheduled activities. While I managed most of the day reasonably well, the excitement of the Halloween party became overwhelming. The anxiety reached a peak, and I chose to skip a carousel ride with my kids, a decision I regret. My mind fixated on the carousel mechanics, leading to irrational fears that it could somehow endanger me.
Children naturally create a whirlwind of chaos and triggering scenarios, which has compelled me to strive to be a more laid-back mom. This isn’t an easy task, and I often fall short. Friends and family sometimes tell me to “just relax,” as if it’s a simple matter. But even though I wish I could easily let go, my body resists.
I understand it can be difficult to grasp how something like a bit of melted popsicle or a loud slurp could feel catastrophic. The more I attempt to rationalize my feelings, the crazier I may seem. My hope is that my children will recognize my love for them, despite my occasional overreactions. I want them to see that my struggles stem from my own issues, not theirs. I rise each day determined to ensure that my OCD doesn’t encroach upon their childhood.
My aspiration is for them to recall their upbringing fondly, even if I occasionally seemed high-strung. I want them to remember that I allowed them to experience life fully, even when it made me anxious. My OCD does not define my identity as a mother, and that’s what matters most.
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In summary, navigating the complexities of parenting while managing OCD presents unique challenges. Despite the difficulties, my love for my children and desire to support their growth remain paramount.