From a young age, I dealt with a range of quirky habits that often fueled my anxiety. I vividly recall obsessively rewriting school assignments until my handwriting appeared just right. I would dwell on trivial matters, and mealtimes transformed into a real challenge, as even the faintest sounds of eating could send me into a frenzy. Eventually, at the age of 19, I learned that these struggles had a name: obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).
Since receiving my diagnosis, I’ve explored numerous therapies with varying degrees of success. A consistent regimen of anti-anxiety medication has been beneficial, and after three decades, I’ve become more adept at identifying my triggers.
What often surprises people are the misconceptions surrounding OCD. Many of us have casually said, “I’m so OCD,” in reference to our preferences or quirks, but that’s not an accurate representation of the disorder. It doesn’t simply mean being overly tidy or organized. It’s often portrayed in movies and TV shows in a humorous light, but the reality is far from cute. OCD manifests as an overwhelming anxiety over situations that most people would find trivial. The impact can range from mildly disruptive to completely debilitating, depending on the individual.
Having children significantly shifted my experience with OCD. As my kids grew, I found myself fixating on everyday behaviors typical of childhood—messy hair, speaking with their mouths full, slurping drinks, or carelessly tossing school papers into their bags. Despite my efforts to separate my issues from theirs, I frequently struggle. I catch myself repeatedly saying, “Please chew with your mouth closed,” at the dinner table, and while I recognize the nagging tone, it feels like I’m on autopilot, unable to stop myself.
Our recent trip to Disney highlighted the challenges I face. The excitement was tinged with anxiety due to crowds, tight schedules, and potential hazards. One particularly overwhelming evening at a Halloween event led me to sit out a carousel ride with my children. I regretted that decision, but the anxiety became so intense that all I could focus on were my fears about the carousel’s mechanics—my mind spiraling into thoughts like “the Disney carousel is going to hurt you.” Not exactly the joyful experience I had hoped for.
Children create a myriad of messes and situations that can trigger my anxiety, often entirely innocently. I strive to embody the “chill mom” persona, but it’s an uphill battle, and I often fall short. Friends may suggest I “relax,” as if it’s a simple task. But the truth is, my body resists that very notion; the idea of letting my kids enjoy their popsicles without a mess or letting them ride a carousel seems daunting.
I understand it may be hard for others to grasp how something as minor as sticky fingers or slurping could feel catastrophic. The more I try to rationalize it, the more absurd I sound. My hope is that despite my quirks, my children will know they are perfect just as they are. I want them to understand that my occasional nitpicking stems from my inner battles, not from a lack of love. Each day, I aim to ensure that my struggles don’t encroach on their joyful childhoods.
When they look back, I hope they remember a mother who, despite her high-strung tendencies, encouraged them to embrace challenges, get messy, and explore their world. My OCD doesn’t define me as a mother; it’s just part of my journey.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the challenges of parenting with OCD, emphasizing the struggle to manage anxiety while raising children. The author’s experiences highlight the misconceptions surrounding OCD and the efforts to maintain a loving environment for her kids despite personal hurdles.