Actually, it's not
really a secret. It's just something
personal only those close to me know.....or more correctly, understand.
Why tell 18,000 of you then,
you're probably wondering…or much like the Mad
Hatter asked Alice in
the Wonderland, "Have I gone mad?"
See, that's the
thing. I am totally bonkers.
I suffer from a really
bad case of Obsessive Compulsive Order or OCD.
I have done so for the first half of my life and will continue to deal
with the diagnosis for the rest of it.
It's curious though, how most people don't really understand it. I bet you are imagining my clothes neatly
lined and color-coded in my closet; that there isn't one dust bunny on any of
my floors; that my hands are cracked from washing and my day planner is lined
with detailed notes and dates and times.
Not at all, because let’s
just say I’m the furthest thing from Type A.
My closet looks like the aftermath of a buy one/ get one free tag sale;
walking on my hardwoods feels like you have on a pair of cat fur slippers; and
my nail beds are cracked from obsessive nervous picking and I haven't seen my
day planner since 2005.
Who has time to remember
to load the dryer from the washer when you're constantly worried something very
bad can happen at any minute? You know,
like the world could end.
For me, my memories of
feeling off - not quite right- go back to when I was 9 or
10 years old. It was the early 80s and though we were in
the midst of an economic recovery, the Cold War loomed large and with it- the
ever present threat of nuclear devastation.
I remember watching a commercial or was it a TV series- I can't
remember. All I do remember was a group
of families playing on a playground. Next thing, a plum of atomic particles
incinerates everyone in a big wave and all that is left is a swing still
swinging- back and forth- empty.
Everyone is gone. I guess it was right then and there that I realized we
are quite simply lucky to be alive and that life as we know it could be
gone-poof- at any moment.
Now, most kids would
have been scared witless but would soon shrug it off and head out the door to
play kick the can down the street. Me, I locked myself in my room and hid under
my bed worrying any minute I could lose everyone I loved. Was life really that
fragile that it can be obliterated in mere seconds? Well- yes, it was…it still is. But it didn't seem fair. Weren't we supposed to have some, or at least
a little tiny bit of control over it?
So that's where I began
to try and manage the terrifying world around me with rituals and obsessive
thoughts. My lucky number was three, so
everything had to follow in that pattern; turning the door knob three times;
closing the kitchen cabinet; saying my nightly prayers. Three times. And if I walked into a room one way, I had to
walk out the exact same way. Crazy,
right?
Yes. And I knew it. But it didn't matter how irrational the
behavior because I was convinced if I didn't follow my rituals, my patterns, to
the “T” something terrible would happen to me or someone I loved. Talk about pressure.
This carried on into my
adult life- only rituals- my behavior- became more compulsive, more obsessive.
If my leg muscle
twitched, I had Lou Gehrig’s. I would shove my toothbrush down my throat before
bed- 3 TIMES- because the first sign is losing your gag reflex. My foot would fall asleep. Well, I had multiple
sclerosis. I would then spend my
evening poking my toes- 3 TIMES- just to convince myself I could feel them so I
could sleep at night. I spent hours
after hours on Wed MD and found out I was pregnant, not from my ob/gyn, but my
internist who had to convince me, THREE times, the peanut on my ultrasound was
not a tumor but in fact our daughter.
It got worse after I had
both my babies. I hated being around
groups of people. Surely, they would
figure me out. The gig would be up. They would know just by the sight of me….I
was a seriously flawed human being.
And then there were days
I didn't want to get out of bed because I was sick- not physically- but
mentally and emotionally I was sick- so sick and tired of the daily battle I
picked with my brain. I would laugh it
off. I would tell myself you're a
rational, irrational. I mean only really
crazy people don't know something is wrong with them. Right? So I thought… and
I blew it off.
Until one day eight
years ago, I didn't want to any longer.
I remember calling my mom, crying telling her I can’t take it
anymore. She said what she always says. It's in my head. Think happy thoughts. You have two healthy, happy children and a
husband who adores you. Let it go. You're fine.
You are more than fine. You’re
terrific.
But I wasn't.
I described to her how I
knew I had a so-called perfect, beautiful, blessed life. I could see it. Clearly. Bright as day. It was all right there right in front of
me. Mine for the taking. But I felt on the outside looking in, as if
there was a piece of glass separating me from it. I could place my hands on the glass, knock
furiously, cry and beat on it, but it wouldn't give. I just didn't want to be on the outside
looking through anymore.
I wanted in.
Thank goodness for my
husband, Charlie.
When you finally go see
someone and they tell you what's wrong with you, it’s liberating. Like, that's it. You get it.
That's ME. You are describing
ME. You figure out slowly but then with
increasing speed and comforting sincerity that you’re not really crazy or
different, after all. If you have high
blood pressure, you see a doctor. If your
brain is a little wonky or wobbles a bit off balance more times than not. Well okay, you go see a doctor, too.
I have been on
medication for OCD for 8 years now. It
still surprises me to this day how I can go weeks and even months without one,
single obsessive/compulsive thought. I
honestly never thought that would be possible.
My life is so much more focused on the “living life to the fullest”
parts than the “bury your head in the sand and try to pretend nothing bad will
ever happen” gig I used to subscribe to.
I am lucky too- for my incredible support system- like my best friend
Alicia- who can tell within 5 minutes flat if I haven’t been taking my meds and
won’t let up until I prove otherwise.
(She’s even given me my own “nut case”- a silver acorn that’s attached
to my key chain which holds a few of my pills.
This way I can never use the excuse that I forgot to take them with me
and then get the evil eye and the “I told you so.” Gotta love her.)
See, I have come to
learn that my OCD is just part of me like my hair color and my cracked heels
and creaky knees. I look at it like I’m
missing a bridge in my brain that processes information. Most people have a thought, ponder it, then
file it away. I don't have a direct route
to my filing system. Without my meds, it’s like a rush hour traffic jam- my
thoughts just ping back and forth in the front part of my brain, never moving
far, never really going anywhere. It’s a
20- car pile-up without 24-7 towing or an easy re-route off a major highway. It’s exhausting.
I still go back
sometimes and think of myself as that little girl....hiding under her bed, counting
over and over and over again. I think of
myself like our Alice, a girl who is growing up but feels uncomfortable in her
own skin….who gets frustrated when she finds out that nothing really makes
sense in life. And probably never will.
So why? Why am I telling you all of this now? There is a lot of dialogue out there about
medicating our children, even ourselves.
As if it’s just commonplace. The
whole idea out there is that if we have a problem. We don’t solve it. We medicate it. And it’s wrong…it’s a cope out. Leave well
enough alone-it’s just part of growing up.
I don't buy into
this. I am not a mental health
practitioner but I can talk from experience.
A lot of moms have asked me about this very subject and it's a legit and
necessary problem that needs honest discourse.
But let's face it; there is a stigma to it. Just as there are no easy answers.
But there are young
people out there – ones you know- who are cutters, bulimics, anorexics, drug
abusers because they-like me- have to find some way, any way, to get rid of the
pain they feel in being part of a world they don’t understand….and conversely,
feels doesn’t fully understand them.
The National Mental
Health Association reports that:
1 in 5 adolescents
suffer anxiety disorders.
2/3rds don’t receive the
help they need.
1 out of 33 young people (and some reports site 1-8) are clinically depressed.
Suicide is the 3rd
leading cause of death in the US for young people between the ages of 15-24.
An estimated 118,700-
186,600 youths in the juvenile justice system have mental health issues.
“You’re fine.”
“You’ll grow out of
it.”
“We all have our own problems.”
“Suck it up.”
“Get over it & move on.”
“Life is tough.”
So instead, think about Alice in her dream
Wonderland and how frustrated she was getting small, then bigger, her body
changing all the time. And just remember
how our kid’s cognitive skills, along with puberty, do the very same
thing. They are stretched and challenged
and expected to do things at an early age (college prep courses, SATS, sports, workloads)
that their brains might not be truly ready for yet. Some can handle it seamlessly, some cannot.
Alice asked herself this very question: “Who in the
world am I? Ah, that’s the great
puzzle.”
We might not be able to figure out the puzzle for
everyone.
But we can listen to the clues.
And maybe help shatter, or make the smallest of
cracks, in the glass.
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