Updated: Aug. 1, 2016
Originally Published: May 28, 2016
As I stood in the entrance of my elementary school, anxiously waiting for my mother, I felt a surge of panic when she was ten minutes late. That day, a sense of dread wrapped around me, making me believe something terrible had befallen her. For nearly 20 years, this fear of losing my family or pets would haunt me.
The following year, I found myself clinging to my mom, tears streaming down my face, on my first day of fourth grade. The mere thought of her driving away filled me with certainty that she would be in a fatal accident. After almost an hour of distress, my compassionate teacher and the principal managed to persuade me to let her leave.
My nightly routine became a source of torment, as I developed stomachaches from excessive worrying. My parents attributed it to the ice cream we had, but they couldn’t understand the fear that gripped me. Voicing my worries felt like inviting disaster, and after being dismissed by my fifth-grade teacher for crying over my mom’s lateness, I resolved to keep my fears to myself.
I began to bargain with fate. If my dad returned home safely from work, I would do the dishes for a week or read several chapters of a religious text. I believed that saying my prayers an even number of times would keep everything safe. The utensils I used became a matter of life and death, and my clothing choices were dictated by past events—certain colors I deemed “unsafe” because of past associations.
My wardrobe was limited, and I wore turtlenecks almost daily for an entire year. My alarm clock needed to be set to specific numbers, while the microwave timer couldn’t follow the same rule. Even minor changes, such as rearranging my desk, could trigger a meltdown. I avoided visiting friends out of fear that my parents might be harmed during the drive, opting instead to accompany them on errands, all while pretending that grocery shopping was enjoyable.
Now, I understand this experience as obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). It wasn’t until my early twenties that I realized my struggles were not how life was meant to be lived. While anxiety runs in my family, it was clear that most people didn’t experience life in this way. Wearing a new pair of socks should never have been a source of anxiety.
That’s when I discovered cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), which proved invaluable in managing my OCD symptoms. Through working with a skilled therapist, I learned to confront my fears and gradually assess my obsessions and compulsions. I began to understand that no amount of controlling my environment could ensure the safety of my loved ones. While I had some awareness of this, I needed professional help to break free from my compulsions.
I wouldn’t claim to be completely “cured,” but my OCD no longer dictates my life. I still wish for my pets’ safety as I step out of my apartment and occasionally avoid certain numbers on the microwave, but I no longer believe that forgetting will bring doom. Life has its surprises, and I’ve grown to face them with resilience, choosing any shirt color I desire.
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In summary, my journey through OCD was long and challenging, but with help, I learned to manage my fears. Life is about confronting the unknown, and I am learning to embrace it.