At the age of seven, I found myself pacing up and down the stairs repeatedly, seeking that elusive feeling of “rightness.” My best friend thought it was amusing, proclaiming I had a unique style of dancing up the stairs. But that fleeting sense of satisfaction lasted only seconds, quickly giving way to the compulsive ritual of flicking the light switch on and off, over and over again. Tears were my constant companions during those years. My parents, unsure of how to help, eventually took me to a psychologist. But in 1980, finding the right therapist was tricky, and the best I could get was a brief evaluation that labeled me a “sensitive child.”
Anxiety was a shadow that loomed large in my childhood. I vividly recall my mother leaving for grocery shopping, and I would envision horrific car accidents, convinced they were my fault for failing to express my love to her precisely three times. Two would be careless; four would be unfathomable. The torment was relentless.
As I grew older, things seemed moderately manageable (by “manageable,” I mean enduring my older brother’s superstitious chants about impending doom). However, everything changed during my sophomore year of high school when I experienced a panic attack so intense that I began to sense nonexistent smells. My poor mother was on the phone with the ER, exclaiming, “She’s smelling cinnamon rolls now, and before it was Chop Suey! WHAT IS GOING ON?”
The ensuing months were marked by a cycle of anxiety, filled with moments where I wished for relief from my own mind. A second visit to the same counseling service led to a recommendation for a psychiatrist after they determined I had no history of abuse or trauma. The psychiatrist swiftly diagnosed me with OCD and clinical depression, and I felt an immense sense of relief in finally understanding the reasons behind my compulsions: “This is why you count to three in your head,” “This is why you can’t read without re-reading ‘and’ multiple times,” and “This is why painful images invade your thoughts.”
Now, as my two-year-old struggles with a rotini noodle and expresses her frustration while I juggle the chaos of lunch for my three biological and two foster children, an adrenaline rush of anxiety creeps in. It feels like those mean girls from my school gym class who thrive on making me stumble as I navigate life’s challenges.
I often reflect on my childhood in the 1980s, visiting my grandmother in a local psychiatric ward after her shock treatments. She was always the epitome of optimism, yet here she was, stripped of her usual cheerfulness, crying and feeling hopeless. I now identify with her struggles, wishing she could see that I understand her pain, that the legacy of our shared genetics includes both our strength and our vulnerability.
In the whirlwind of motherhood, I am often plagued by thoughts that I’m missing the mark. I fear my children might remember the times I succumbed to sadness and neglect, rather than the cherished moments filled with laughter and creativity. I worry they will think, “Remember how utterly unfit our mother was?” These thoughts spiral into self-loathing, isolating me even further from friends who wonder why I haven’t reached out.
When pregnant with my second child, I chose to forgo anxiety medication after my first child faced serious health issues. I assumed my medication had caused her struggles. This decision led to a harrowing experience filled with anxiety and obsessive thoughts about my baby’s safety. I found myself consumed by fears and rituals, believing that if I could just check things enough, I could prevent disaster.
At 37 weeks pregnant, after a long stretch of neglecting household chores, I broke down, sobbing as I confessed to my doctor that I couldn’t cope anymore. The following day, I delivered my son. The moment the umbilical cord was cut, clarity washed over me.
Over the years, I’ve learned to navigate the waves of OCD. Some days are tougher than others, especially when fatigue sets in. I’ve come to understand that confronting my OCD is like dealing with an itch that demands scratching—the more I ignore it, the more insistent it becomes. There are mornings when I need to take a deep breath and seek comfort in my husband’s embrace to ease the anxiety.
I’ve realized that every mother faces her own unique challenges. Comparing myself to those who seem to effortlessly manage their families only deepens my struggle. I’ve accepted that sometimes just making it through the day is a victory in itself.
There’s a lyric from a Mumford and Sons song that resonates with me: “If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.” This feeling is all too familiar in my parenting journey, where I often feel inadequate. However, I also recognize that there is immense power in acknowledging my struggles rather than hiding them.
Fellow mothers, do you understand this feeling? I tremble as I share these thoughts, fearing judgment from others. Yet, I know that revealing my truth also offers a profound sense of liberation.
Summary:
Being a mother with OCD is a journey filled with challenges, anxiety, and moments of clarity. From childhood struggles with compulsions to the overwhelming demands of parenting, the path is often fraught with self-doubt and fear of judgment. However, embracing and acknowledging these challenges can lead to empowerment and connection with others who share similar experiences.