There I was, a lonely little kid in my elementary school’s entryway, anxiously waiting for my mom to pick me up. She was running ten minutes late, and for some inexplicable reason, a wave of dread washed over me, convincing me that something terrible had happened to her. This wasn’t just any ordinary day; it marked the start of nearly 20 years of anxiety and fear about the safety of my family and pets.
Fast forward a year, and I was still trapped in my own mind. On the first day of fourth grade, I clung to my mom, tears streaming down my face. I was convinced that if I let go, she’d drive off, get into an accident, and never come back. After an hour of emotional turmoil, the school principal and my sympathetic teacher finally reassured me enough to let her leave.
Worry became my nightly companion, often manifesting as a stomach ache. My parents blamed it on too much ice cream (spoiler alert: it was never the ice cream). I felt unable to voice my fears, convinced that merely speaking my worries would summon disaster. After my fifth-grade teacher dismissed my concerns as silly, I clammed up for good.
Desperate to keep my loved ones safe, I began negotiating with the universe. If my dad arrived home without a scratch, I would tackle the dishes for a week or read three chapters of the Bible. I created elaborate rituals around my utensils, convincing myself that certain forks were “safe” while others were not. I meticulously arranged my blankets, wore only certain colors, and avoided “untested” socks, thinking that maintaining such order would somehow stabilize the universe. My NSYNC notebook became a catalog of compulsions, chronicling the lengths I went to for peace of mind.
As time went on, my list of clothes I couldn’t wear grew longer than those I could. Dark green? A no-go—my pet rabbit passed away when I wore that shade. I wore turtlenecks daily for nearly a year, and my alarm clock had to end with a zero or five, while the microwave timer was strictly forbidden from doing the same. Even the slightest rearrangement of my desk could lead to a meltdown, as I feared it might disrupt the cosmic balance.
Friendship? What’s that? I was too busy worrying about my parents getting killed driving me to a friend’s house. I accompanied them everywhere, pretending to enjoy grocery shopping while actually blocking out songs on the radio that spoke of leaving—because, in my mind, that equated to death.
Eventually, I discovered that what I was grappling with was obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). It took until my early 20s to understand that life didn’t have to be this way. I learned that while anxiety runs in my family, most people don’t live in such fear. Wearing new socks shouldn’t be a life-altering experience.
Enter cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), a game-changer for managing my OCD symptoms. With the help of a skilled therapist, I learned how to confront the uncomfortable feelings tied to my obsessive thoughts. She guided me through “testing” my compulsions, helping me realize that no amount of utensil policing could ensure my loved ones’ safety. I think I already knew that on some level, but professional guidance was essential to break free from my compulsions.
I wouldn’t say I’m “cured,” but my OCD habits no longer dictate my life. I still send a little prayer for my cats’ safety as I leave home and sometimes avoid numbers that end in zero or five, but I understand now that forgetting doesn’t spell doom. Life may throw curveballs my way, but I’m learning to deal with them in stride.
I can’t control everything, but I can find comfort in coexisting with my fears—while rocking any shirt color I desire.