A Day In The Life Of An OCD Patient

((It’s a long post, but I feel it’s worth reading. Also, I welcome and encourage other people with OCD to share their experiences as well.))

Obsessive-compulsive disorder is a widely known yet grossly misunderstood mental illness. The media would lead one to believe in the stereotypical representation of obsessive-compulsive disorder. If asked to describe the illness, the average person would likely give the following persona: a high-strung “neat freak” with an obsession over cleanliness and order. Some people with OCD may experience this, but they are not the majority. In actuality, there are two primary diagnostic criteria: the experience of obsessions and/or compulsions, and the amount of time spent on these obsessions and compulsions throughout the day. Obsessions are recurring and intrusive thoughts that cause distress to the patient. Compulsions are behaviors that the patient carries out in order to alleviate the stress caused by obsessions. These behaviors can manifest in countless ways. To illustrate, I will describe my own experience as an example of how OCD can present itself and how it disrupts daily life.

When I wake up and get ready for the day, my first obstacle tends to be brushing my teeth. I have always hated this task, and would often avoid it. When I brush my teeth, I always clean my tongue, or else I’ll have bad breath. When I clean my tongue, I have to be thorough or there’s no point- this results in me trying to scrub the very back of my tongue and triggering a gag reflex. Impulsively, I do this three or four times in a row, until my body is content, and then I finish up and move on. As I leave for class, I lock the door and check the doorknob. And then I check it again. And again. One more time for good measure? Okay, now I can go. I take a few steps forward, then pause. Did I remember to lock the door? I go back and check a couple more times. Finally, I’m on my way to class. Walking to class, I keep my eyes on the ground to be sure I don’t step on the lines in the pavement. I don’t know what would happen if I do- nothing, probably- but I’m worried nonetheless and do what I need to in order to alleviate the discomfort.

Classrooms are minefields. I don’t know what will be awaiting me, and what could set me off at any moment. Sitting down, I notice that the person next to me has their bag open and hanging over the edge of the table. My heart rate quickens and feel afraid. If that bag doesn’t move, it will surely fall off the edge of the table. I try to look forward and ignore it. There’s some writing on the board that hasn’t been fully erased. Haphazardly strewn fragments of marker taunt me, and I decide to just stare down at my notebook, trying not to think about the bag and the board. And then, of course, someone coughs. I tense up, wincing as I brace myself. They clear their throat loudly, then sniffle. They likely have a cold, making them a soundboard from my worst nightmares. It continues for a few minutes, and my body is shivering. Violent thoughts flood my mind, and they terrify me as I try to block everything out. I want to commit acts of great violence against the source of these noises. I’m upset, and on the verge of tears, so I get up and leave abruptly. Once outside of the classroom, I begin to calm a bit and wait around for my next class. On a bad day, this may happen during every class. During my next class, I keep trying to write a paragraph, but my handwriting doesn’t look how I want it to. I rip the barely marked page and crumple it up, having to start over until I am contented.

After all of my classes, I drive home. After parking, I lock my car and see the lights flash. I remove my headphones and lock it again so I can hear it lock. Then, I reach for the door handle and check as many times as I need to know it’s locked. I head back to my apartment and see the living room is still cluttered. I don’t bother to clean it, but I do putter around until nothing is unappealing to my eyes. Nothing over the edge of the tables, no misaligned papers, and so on. It’s about time to glue my dentures in again, as the sealant wore off. This means I have to go through the struggle of brushing my teeth all over again.

I make dinner, and suddenly I can’t remember if I locked my car or not. It gnaws at me, even though I’m pretty sure I locked it. But what if I didn’t? So I put on my coat and shoes, and I walk out to where my car is parked, a five minute walk from the apartment. I go and find that it was indeed locked, and then go through my cycle of checking before I go back inside. Dinner is ready, and I dish up my plate with absolute precision. No different foods may touch. At all. If the juices from a piece of pork dribble into my mashed potatoes, then I will dispose of the contaminated portion, wipe up the juices, and continue eating with an untainted meal. I take a sip of soda, then press my tongue to the sharp edge of the opening of the can. I don’t know why I do, but if I don’t then I become uncomfortable and nervous until I do. Some of these compulsions don’t make any sense, but here I am nonetheless. Throughout the evening, I notice various things to adjust and get up every time to fix it. I think about something that might be unsightly in another room. Is my plate hanging over the edge of my nightstand? I go and check. No, I didn’t. But I still had to check, of course. Every time I feel uncomfortable or nervous, I crack my knuckles. It doesn’t alleviate anything, it just feels nice. I used to bite my nails, but with dentures I can’t do that, so I make sure to trim them almost daily so they remain short. They’re kind of painfully short- I can’t open pull tabs very well. I keep them this way, though. That’s just how it is.

It’s time for bed, and as usual, I can’t get comfortable until I crack my back, crack my neck, crack my knuckles, stretch, lay on both sides, crack my knuckles again, crack my back again, and then lay down… and do it all again in a few minutes until I eventually pass out.

That’s my average day, every day. It used to be worse, but medication certainly helps a lot. I wish that more people know about this side of OCD; I’m fairly open about it with others because I want to dispel the myths and stereotypes. Even if it’s sometimes difficult to talk about, they are necessary conversations that will help us, as a society, strive towards the better treatment of mentally ill people.

justaprinceofthegalaxy:

The thing about anxiety and panic disorders is that you usually know exactly how irrational your fears and triggers are. Typically, you’re completely aware that many of the things you fear happening are simply impossible. Yet you’re still terrified out of your mind, unable to shake off that sinking feeling as the thought of it comes back again and again.

Three years later, and tbh it’s still relevant.

I don’t have the receipt but is it too late to get a refund for my body?

So, I’m going to an intensive in-patient treatment center.

When I first heard about it, I thought about the stereotypical mental hospital. However, as I’m going through the process of setting up my admission and it definitely seems a hell of a lot different (in a good way) than my first impressions.

Anyways, what I’m thinking is that I might keep a detailed journal describing what it’s really like. For a long time, I feared being locked up or admitted. That prevented me from reaching out to the full extent of what I was struggling with.

I wonder if a firsthand, in-the-moment log of my experience may help others who fear needing that level of help. What do you all think?

Well, it’s official. I will be offline from July 10th to August 5th because I’m being admitted to a partial-hospitalization program. There’s a lot of stigma surrounding needing to be hospitalized ((partially or fully)) due to mental illness. It brings thoughts of mental wards and people fucked up beyond repair. Because mine is partial, it just runs from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. then I stay in dorms at the facility like any other dorm. I guess a better term is in-patient, since the word “hospitalization” is the key word that there’s a stigma against.

I don’t know how I feel. To be clear, I am 100% going of my own volition. I’ve been struggling with all sorts of mental illnesses and issues since age 13. Over 7 years, no therapy or medication or both has only helped. At this point I just want to get better. I flunked out of college and moved back in with my parents, and I’ll only spiral down further if there’s no intervening. It’s just a lot to take in, and a lot to think about.

Me when someone even remotely starts to raise their voice at me:

Don’t forget to celebrate the small things.

To some people, it feels like you’re doing the bare minimum. However, if you’re doing things even when they extremely hard for you (in regards to taking care of yourself), you need to remember that you’re a fucking badass for doing it and you’re doing amazing.

Today, I ate before noon for the first time in weeks. My mom smiled and congratulated me, saying I did good. My girlfriend was proud of me and let me know it. It’s hard for me to love myself or affirm myself for doing these things I feel like I should be able to do easily, but those simple words of praise made a big difference.

There is not shame on relying on others for help.

I have trouble accepting this, and I probably always will to some degree.

It’s not easy. It’s one of the hardest things to do, but if it’s what helps you get better, then it’s worth it.

Life pretty much never goes as planned. It looks like I’m almost certainly going to be admitted to an in-patient facility for a month starting at the end of this month. I have mixed feelings, but ultimately I just want to get better.

Hey, no offense, but can we stop making up childhood cartoon conspiracy theories? Let’s be real; they’ll all basically the same. That’s not the problem, though. What ticks me off is that almost all of them involve trying to prove a character as mentally ill. Now, I love to headcanon mentally ill characters, but in conspiracy theories, it’s usually thought up by an NT who knows nothing about mental health and thinks it’s okay to use mental health to creep other people out and ‘ruin’ their childhood. If you can’t make a decent theory or creepy story without throwing mental illnesses under the bus, you’re a shitty author.