From the top

December 6, 2010. It was a Monday night when my father called to give the news of my Nonna’s passing. I was 12 years old at the time. Oblivious to her apparent ongoing health condition, my initial reaction was numbness. I immediately ran to the music room and punched one of the pillows from the couch. Feelings of anger, sadness, confusion, and disbelief flooded my brain. My Nonna and I were very close. She took care of me while my mother stayed in the hospital for a complication after my birth. I was always at my Grandparents’ house. My dad would drop me off at their house on his way to work, and I got to spend the day devouring Italian food and watching Game Show Network nonstop. In the mornings after I had spent the night, I would join my Nonna outside on the patio. I never had any trouble understanding what she was saying through her thick Italian accent. Because of the strong bond I had with my Grandmother, naturally, I took her death extremely hard.

A couple of years prior, I lost my other Grandmother. Being that I was in third grade, it’s difficult for me to remember specifics. Although I took both deaths hard, the passing of my Nonna ended up being the beginning of a life-long mental battle.

I became obsessed with the idea of mortality. During the viewing for my Grandmother, I avoided touching anything because if I did, then I would die soon after. I refused to go up to the casket unless I absolutely had to. Eating meals after visiting the funeral home seemed impossible for me. As time passed, I started to have intrusive thoughts of my Grandmother’s funeral. Images of those days would stick in my head. I began to become obsessed with praying. I felt that if I didn’t pray this specific prayer before I went to bed, then something awful would happen to me.

Church and religion proved to be a struggle for me. If I didn’t recite the prayers with “good thoughts” in my head, then I would have to repeat them. Over and over and over again. I avoided touching anything deemed sacred in the church. I dreaded going to mass because of the huge mental toll it had on me, but felt that if I didn’t, then something bad would happen. The superstition of religion caused me to form the most peculiar thoughts, which turned into the most peculiar rituals.

Eventually, I became old enough to make my own decisions, and based on my personal beliefs along with the need to decrease my anxiety, I decided to step away from the Catholic Church and religion as a whole. But just because I got rid of religion didn’t mean I was mentally freed from these horrible thoughts.

Since my Nonna died, I had many other triggering incidents that led me to become even more compulsive. Everything I did had to be done with me thinking a “good thought”, or else something bad would happen. Imagine that everything you do, from picking up a pencil to getting into bed at night, has to “feel right” or else you have to keep repeating that action until it does. I’m now 20 years old, and still severely struggle.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Actually, even writing this is triggering my OCD. Although it was likely present at a younger age, it started to fully consume my life when I was 12. The passing of my Nonna triggered an influx of irrational and horrible thoughts that have been stuck in my head ever since.

OCD has, unfortunately, become such a conditioned part of my life. I will ritualize without realizing it. With anything I do, it’s as if my brain has trained itself to automatically produce a word or phrase that will counteract any bad thoughts. And when the bad thoughts overpower the good, I become a broken record repeating the action until I feel at ease.

My OCD tells me that if I want to feel safe and secure, then I have to walk in and out of a room 10 times. My OCD forces me to erase my name (however many times) on an exam or assignment so that I don’t die. My OCD insists that if I would have had a “bad thought” when accepting my admission into college, then my whole college career would be ruined. My OCD controls me. It controls how I think and feel. It controls how I act. Because of OCD, I’m wary of people I interact with. I’m afraid of the intentions of others. I’m afraid of getting sick. I’m afraid of failing. I’m afraid of being harmed. I’m afraid of everything. OCD stops me from living my life to it’s fullest.

After 19 years of struggling silently, I finally decided to get help. My family wasn’t aware of the severity of my OCD, but that’s because I tried so hard to appear “normal”. My sophomore year of college, I started seeing a therapist. It was nice to finally talk to someone about everything I was feeling and have gone through. After every session, I felt like a great amount of anxiety was lifted off my shoulders. Talk-therapy was a great first step, but what I really needed was to see an OCD specialist.

This past summer, I regularly saw a therapist who specializes in OCD, and have the cutest therapy dog. We practice Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) therapy, which is being confronted with different triggers that set off OCD, and having to fight through the anxiety without ritualizing. On top of ERP, I also met with a Psychiatrist, and was put on medication. It took a lot of courage to finally seek help, but once I did, I started to feel hopeful for my recovery.

Of course, I still have an immense amount of work to do. Exposure therapy is hard. I still have days where I feel trapped and suffocated by these awful thoughts.

I’m lucky to have a great support system and access to professional help. However, I know that not everybody has these luxuries. That’s why it’s so important to raise awareness for OCD and mental health. People need to see that they aren’t alone. And by sharing my story, I hope to educate the reader on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and hopefully encourage others to take care of themselves.