It was a chilly November evening around 8:30 p.m. when I decided to sit down with my partner, Jamie, to share some news: I had been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Our kids were already tucked into bed, a rare occurrence that left us a moment to talk.
“I saw a therapist, and she told me I have OCD,” I began, trying to keep the mood light. “Well, I did. I’ve figured out how to cope with it over the years. I still have a few quirks—what she calls ‘tics’—but I pretty much manage to lead a normal life.”
I referred to my therapist as “The Doc” not out of disrespect but to ease the tension of what could have been a heavy conversation. She’s actually a brilliant woman with a PhD, but somehow calling her “The Doc” made it feel a bit more approachable.
After a particularly tough time at work, I decided to seek help for the first time in 15 years. I’d long avoided therapy due to a sense of embarrassment—like admitting I needed professional help made my struggles too real. But now, I finally had a label for my ongoing battle, and while that brought some comfort, it also left me grappling with how to explain it to Jamie.
Looking at me with genuine concern, Jamie asked, “What does that really mean?”
It’s true that the term OCD gets tossed around a lot. People use it to explain their tidiness or their preference for organized DVDs. But the reality of my experience was far different. I’m not the cleanest person; my desk is a mess, my car is cluttered. I don’t obsessively wash my hands or count my steps like a character from a movie. When I learned about my disorder, it felt like a misfit label.
Explaining OCD is tricky because it often doesn’t make sense, even to me. But when I’m in the midst of a panic attack, it’s undeniably real and utterly terrifying. I told Jamie that OCD is deeply intertwined with anxiety and control. I shared how my sleep issues can spiral into anxiety if I don’t stick to a certain routine.
If that doesn’t sound too intense, you’re right—it isn’t. But 15 years ago, if I didn’t adhere to my strict bedtime and a four-hour exercise routine, it could trigger a panic attack. I was stuck in a miserable cycle, even contemplating suicide at times.
As I opened up to Jamie, I felt a wave of fear. Mental illness isn’t something that simply vanishes. It’s not a problem you can solve with a quick fix or a pill; it’s a constant presence. I had lived with this disorder throughout our marriage, but putting a name to it made it feel heavier and more daunting. I worried she might think about leaving me because there’s no clear resolution in sight.
I’m not sure how common this fear is. Many with mental illness probably grapple with similar anxieties. The hardest part is the pervasive misunderstanding. I wish society could view mental health issues like diabetes—long-term but manageable. Unfortunately, that’s still not the case.
It often feels like the expectation is to just get over it—move on and live a “normal” life, as if it’s all in your head or just a ploy for attention. While I was fairly certain Jamie didn’t see it this way, I was still uncertain about her reaction, which terrified me.
“What do you think?” I asked, my voice shaky. “Does this frighten you?”
Jamie leaned back, crossed her legs, and shrugged. But it wasn’t an indifferent shrug; it was more like a “We’re in this together” kind of gesture. She didn’t utter many words, but that simple body language reassured me more than I expected.
Living with OCD means you often magnify minor issues, so Jamie’s calm response was a comforting reminder that our marriage remained strong, regardless of my struggles. In that moment, her unspoken support was just what I needed.
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In summary, discussing my OCD diagnosis with Jamie turned out to be less dramatic than I anticipated. Her supportive response reassured me that we would face this challenge together, highlighting the strength of our relationship amidst the complexities of mental health.