What If...?

I'm a very private person, so this post is going way outside my comfort zone. For those that follow me on Twitter, you might be thinking, "But you totally overshare!" I do, but it's not generally about feelings. 

This week during therapy I was given an assignment to think about what my life would look like without OCD. My brain, functioning the way it does, decided to make it into a writing prompt. 

Last week I talked about OCD and what it was like having it—I thought I did a good job of describing what it was like, exposing myself and my journey. But really what I was doing was giving everyone the likable authenticity of OCD. The bits that still make me feel like I'm being real, but instead I'm making it shiny for everyone so no one sees how bad it is. 

This isn't that.

“We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” –Franklin D. Roosevelt

OCD is fear itself. At least, once it reveals itself—but by then it’s too late.

OCD starts as gentle hands helping you up, telling you it can keep you safe, and it will teach you how. You can get through this together. That first coping mechanism, done hand in hand, brings you such relief that you’re eternally grateful. You’ll keep doing it to keep the anxiety at bay, OCD proudly smiling on at your side. But it’s a trojan horse of safety, and once you’ve opened yourself to it with gladness, desperate to make the fear and anxiety stop, it finally reveals itself. Those gentle hands are now vice-like, its unwavering grip taking more from you the longer you don’t pull away.

That’s when you find out its innumerable names. Captor of Time. Poisoner of Joy. Thief of Happiness. Breaker of Relationships. Amplifier of Fear. Exterminator of Hope. Denier of Logic. Annihilator of Courage. Destroyer of Trust.

Destroyer of Me.

He, she, it—me. Worst of its names is me because I am the creator of my own mental torture chamber. I am the perpetrator of the behaviors, unable to fight myself. Unable to disentangle myself from the unwanted possession. The only way to cope—to reason with yourself that this is happening—is to make it a disembodied voice. To make it a separate entity from yourself.

OCD is a master manipulator, taking bits of your courage until there’s nothing left but it. What would it even look like to break free from the shackles of my captor? I don’t know.  

What if instead of panic, a touch ignited heat?

What if going out with friends didn’t take days of build-up to convince yourself to go, and you didn’t constantly worry about what you might do wrong to trigger your OCD?

What if you could go to the store to get a forgotten ingredient for dinner and not have to take a shower over a six-minute trip?

What if you were normal?

What if, what if, what if…?

What if is the most used phrase in my life now, never with hopeful anticipation. Never looking at anything other than how your anxiety can affect you, how you will cope with the OCD side effects. How you’ll panic and curl further into yourself with OCD there to comfort you with its coping mechanisms.

What if it’s dirty? What if someone coughs on me? What if my husband forgets to wash his hands before touching something? What if I accidentally touch something? What if I accidentally touch me? What if I can’t get out of this OCD spiral?

What if, what if, what if?

But really, what if?

I could cook dinner without washing my hands twenty times. I could not hold my arms out to my side for fear of touching myself with something contaminated by nothing. I could gain my courage back.

I could just be. No fear, no worry, no anxiety over nonexistent contamination. No looming entity waiting for me to take a single misstep so it can swoop in and save me with its taught fear. No fear of my own home, my sanctuary where I’m most safe.

I could regain the implicit trust in my husband, no longer allowing OCD to whisper doubts in my ear. I could regain the trust in myself, knowing I can take care of myself and that I’m capable of handling whatever life throws at me.

I could find my joy in the little things again—picking up my cats and smooshing their little faces against mine, making gifts for my friends with my own two hands, making things just for me because I enjoy it, have people in my home for dinner. I could have relationships again, unafraid to let people in. Unafraid to let people touch me. Unafraid of what they might bring inside, what they might contaminate. Unafraid.

I could whisper, “What if?” in hopeful anticipation once more.

So, what if I didn’t have OCD?

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