Updated: Aug. 1, 2016
Originally Published: May 28, 2016
I remember standing in the entrance of my elementary school, anxiously awaiting my mother’s arrival for what felt like an eternity. When she was ten minutes late, a wave of panic washed over me, and I couldn’t shake the dread that something terrible had befallen her. I couldn’t pinpoint why that day felt so different, but it marked the beginning of a nearly twenty-year struggle with anxiety, fixating on the safety of my family and pets.
Fast forward a year, and my fears escalated. On the first day of fourth grade, I clung to my mother, sobbing uncontrollably. I was convinced that if I let her leave, she would get into a fatal accident. After much coaxing from my teacher and the principal, I finally let her go, but the anxiety didn’t subside.
Every night was plagued by stomach aches that my parents attributed to too many sweets. I couldn’t articulate the depth of my fear, as I believed that voicing my worries would somehow manifest them into reality. The turning point came after my fifth-grade teacher dismissed my fears, telling me to “stop being ridiculous,” which sealed my silence and pushed me deeper into my compulsions.
To cope, I began making bargains with the universe. If my father returned from work safely, I would do chores or read chapters from religious texts. I developed elaborate rituals involving my belongings, convinced that certain objects were “safe” while others were not. I even maintained a list in my NSYNC notebook, chronicling the compulsions I believed were necessary to safeguard my loved ones.
My life became a maze of restrictions. I had more clothes that I couldn’t wear than ones I could. Dark green was off-limits due to a traumatic memory associated with my rabbit’s death. I wore turtlenecks daily for nearly a year, adhered to strict numerical patterns on my alarm clock, and rearranged my desk items meticulously—every little change felt catastrophic.
Friendships took a backseat as I avoided visiting others, paralyzed by the thought of my parents dying on the way. I accompanied them on errands under the guise of enjoying outings, yet I often blocked out music in the car that mentioned leaving, as it equated to death in my mind.
It wasn’t until my early twenties that I discovered I was grappling with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). I learned that my experiences were not normal and that many people didn’t live in constant fear. Simple acts like trying on new socks should not feel like monumental challenges.
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) was a turning point in my journey. This skills-based approach helped me confront my fears about losing loved ones. With the support of my therapist, I gradually tested my obsessions and compulsions, realizing that no amount of control over my environment could guarantee safety. I understood that my childhood fears were a disease affecting my mind, not the reality I had constructed.
While I wouldn’t say I am completely free from OCD, its grip on my life has lessened significantly. I still whisper daily affirmations to the universe for my pets’ safety and occasionally avoid certain numbers on the microwave. However, I now recognize that forgetting these rituals won’t doom anyone. Life has its unpredictability, but I’ve learned to navigate it with a sense of acceptance, allowing myself the freedom to wear any color shirt I desire.
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Summary:
The author recounts a childhood dominated by obsessive-compulsive disorder, revealing how anxiety and compulsions consumed nearly two decades of her life. Through therapy, she learned to confront her fears and navigate life with a newfound sense of balance, realizing that she could not control the universe but could find comfort in living alongside her worries.