Don't Look Back in Anger: Living with OCD

Don't Look Back in Anger: Living with OCD

How is it that I, a sufferer of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, can never leave a room or walk through a door without looking back? Why must I always glance back, checking and rechecking, like I might have left part of my soul behind? The answer is tangled up in a web of compulsions and fears, weaving a fabric so tightly around my life that even breathing feels restricted at times.

Picture this: you're about to leave your home, keys in hand, but something gnaws at you until you turn back. You fluff the cushions on your couch—again. You jiggle the door handle once more, then twice, because the first check didn't quite quell your anxiety. The gentle glisten of water on the draining board calls your name, insisting it must be wiped away. The rug, somehow askew, demands straightening. The TV, a thin film of dust clinging to its screen, whispers for your attention. It doesn't matter how exhausted you are; peace of mind, even if fleeting, feels like the most unattainable yet essential prize.

For those of us living with OCD, these rituals are our twisted version of Feng Shui. While traditional Feng Shui seeks to harness prosperity and luck through the precise placement of objects, our habits are not about welcoming fortune or abundance. No, our compulsions are desperate bids for peace and contentment, however elusive they may be.

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, recognized as a disability, ranks among the top ten conditions that inflict profound physical and mental torment. Over five million individuals in the U.S. alone either live with or will develop OCD. Yet, what's most frightening is not the staggering statistics, but the tangible, invisible chains binding each sufferer, rendering even the simplest task a colossal challenge.

Fatigue is the silent companion of those with OCD. Our minds, overwhelmed with the constant clamor of unfinished tasks, leave our bodies languid and our spirits weary. Before we've even tackled the first chore, the next one looms, an endless succession of demands stripping our energy layer by fragile layer.

Children aren't immune to this insidious disorder. They exhibit their compulsions through seemingly innocent rituals, like meticulously arranging their toys. Teenagers, too, find themselves ensnared, their developing minds grappling with the trap that OCD sets so surreptitiously. Parents, please, if you notice changes in your child's behavior—rituals that disrupt their peace—seek help swiftly. Left unchecked, this disease doesn't just linger; it spreads its roots, making every escape an arduous endeavor.

There may not be a definitive cure, but glimmers of hope exist in the form of therapies and support. OCD is lethal to the mind, a silent murderer clothed in the guise of order and perfection. Early interventions can make all the difference. For children, especially, the preschool years are crucial. Recent research shows that the seeds of OCD often take root during these formative years, embedding themselves deep, only to reach full bloom by the tumultuous teen period.

Repetitive thoughts and behaviors—the hallmarks of OCD—might appear bizarre to an outsider. Yet, these obsessions and compulsions are the lifelines we cling to, making life bearable in their own paradoxical way. It's ironic, perhaps, that in our relentless pursuit of peace, we often find ourselves teetering on the brink of sanity. The urge to repeat actions isn't just a quirk; it's a response to the unbearable anxiety threatening to engulf us.

OCD is part of me, an unwelcome but ever-present companion. Imagining life without it feels like trying to picture a sky without stars—each ritual, each compulsion forming a constellation that guides my every move. If, by some miracle, this condition were to loosen its grip, what then? Would I, could I, embrace life fully, walk the road of freedom and promise myself never to look back?

I think I would. I'd savor each step on that road, feeling the weight lift from my shoulders. I'd breathe deeply, inhale the liberation, and exhale the remnants of fear. I'd revel in the ordinary, in moments untethered by compulsion. To live life to the fullest, for me, would mean embracing simplicity, reveling in spontaneity, and allowing myself the grace to be imperfect.

Yet, there's a duality to this dream of freedom. While I yearn for release, there's a strange loyalty I feel toward the rituals that have defined so much of my existence. They've been both captor and comfort, tormentor and solace. To live without OCD would be to reinvent myself entirely—a prospect as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

So, here I stand, at the threshold of this room, looking back once more. The cushions are fluffed, the door checked, the draining board dry, the rug straight, and the TV dust-free. In these small victories, I find a semblance of peace, however fleeting. It's a peace hard-won, yet ever so fragile.

But there's hope threaded through this turmoil. Help exists, in therapy, in community, in understanding, and in moments of clarity where we glimpse the life we could lead. It's these sparks of hope that keep us going, that whisper to us in the darkest of times that liberation, though distant, is not beyond reach.

And so, I dare to dream, to walk that road of freedom, vowing that if I ever get there, I will not look back in anger. Instead, I will look forward with a heart full of gratitude for every step taken, every battle fought, and every inch of ground gained against this relentless foe. The journey is arduous, but even in its shadows, the promise of light keeps us moving forward, one step at a time.