Last November, around 8:30 p.m., I found a rare moment to sit down with my partner, Sarah, and share some significant news: I had been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Our three kids were already tucked away in bed, a rare lull in our usual chaotic schedule, which felt like the perfect time for a serious conversation.
“I’ve recently learned from my therapist that I have obsessive-compulsive disorder,” I began. “At least, that was the diagnosis. Over the years, I’ve discovered ways to manage it on my own. I still have some of what she refers to as ‘tics,’ but generally, I lead a pretty normal life.”
We affectionately call her “The Therapist,” not out of disrespect—she has a name, a PhD, and is genuinely kind and competent. But there was something about the term that lightened the gravity of our discussion.
A few weeks prior, work stress had driven me to seek therapy for the first time in 15 years. I had long avoided it, feeling embarrassed as if acknowledging my mental health struggles would somehow make them more real. But now, I finally had a term for my experiences, which was oddly comforting, yet I still grappled with how to communicate this to Sarah, my partner of over a decade.
Looking at me with genuine curiosity, Sarah asked, “What does that mean exactly?” The term OCD gets thrown around casually, often mischaracterized by people who associate it with mere cleanliness or the need for order. I had lived with this condition for many years, and despite my disorder not aligning with the stereotypical image of OCD, it felt surreal to share my journey with her.
As I tried to articulate my experience, I struggled to explain the anxiety and need for control that often accompany OCD. I recalled how my challenges with sleep could spiral into anxiety if I didn’t adhere to my routines, emphasizing how serious it once was.
For context, fifteen years prior, my life revolved around strict schedules and obsessive routines. If I deviated from my bedtime or missed a day of my exercise regimen, it would trigger intense panic attacks. I had spent nearly three years adhering to these rituals, which left me feeling miserable and, at times, contemplating suicide.
As I laid it all out for Sarah, I felt a wave of fear wash over me. Mental illness isn’t something that simply vanishes; it’s a persistent companion. Even though I had shared this aspect of my life with her, the weight of putting an official label on it felt daunting, and I worried she might reconsider her commitment to our marriage.
I wondered if others with mental health issues share this anxiety. It’s disheartening how misunderstood mental illness can be. I wish people could view it similarly to chronic physical ailments like diabetes. Instead, there’s an expectation to simply “get over it,” as if it’s all in your head or a ploy for attention. While I felt secure that Sarah didn’t think this way, I still feared her response—a fear that nagged at me.
“What are your thoughts on this?” I finally asked. “Does it worry you?”
Sarah leaned back, crossed her legs, and shrugged—not in indifference but rather in a way that conveyed solidarity. It was clear to me that her feelings for me hadn’t changed despite what I had shared. Her nonchalant response provided me with more reassurance than I anticipated.
Living with OCD often magnifies small issues, but Sarah’s calm demeanor reminded me that the strength of our relationship remained intact. In that moment, her relaxed approach was exactly what I needed to feel supported and understood.
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In summary, sharing my OCD diagnosis with Sarah turned out to be a surprisingly uneventful yet reassuring experience. Her supportive reaction helped alleviate my fears, reminding me that our relationship can withstand the challenges posed by my mental health struggles.