CONTENT WARNING: This article contains themes and descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.
For years, I never really noticed the habits I had, though I’m sure everyone else did. They didn’t really bother me, either– probably because I had no idea they were abnormal. It started with smaller things, like the rearrangement of books on my glossy-wood bookshelf, or checking under each restaurant table for the placement of gum pieces stuck to the underside of the table, only to gross myself out. Then, the time-consuming habits progressed, into considering if an “e” needed to be added at the end of every word, and only answering Yes/No questions with “maybe”, out of fear that my nose would grow like Pinocchio if my answer wasn’t completely truthful. I’d touch the same doorknob 20 times in a row because it meant my family would be safe, or I’d pick up the same object and put it down until my brain reassured me that a fire wouldn’t start in my house that night. By this point, I have two sets of readers staring at the screen in front of them: those who understand exactly what I went through, and those who still quite don’t understand and have had the luxury of never experiencing either diagnosis.
I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and OCD when I was around eight-years-old, but I never thought too much of it. Despite locking the door six times every night, or 10 times if it was a Friday, I was about as ‘normal’ as I thought I could be. My two “friends”, however, had different plans for me.
It happened while I was watching an episode of Criminal Minds that I vaguely recall, when I was in eighth grade– suddenly I was short of breath, gasping for air and holding tight to a red velvet pillow, begging my mind to turn off. I was overwhelmed, almost like my brain was forceloading a bunch of information into my head, a bunch of “what ifs” that weren’t mine to worry about. I didn’t know what to do, so I started crying. I felt nauseous, but even with my head over the toilet bowl and fingers down my throat I couldn’t make myself throw up. I just kept crying. “Let me know if you need me,” my grandmother had said before she closed the door, giving me my space. At the time, I didn’t know what I needed. After a few minutes with my head tucked in between my legs while I sat on the cold tile floor, the overflow of emotions went away, as quickly as they’d come. For someone who had thought ten minutes prior that they were going to die, I went to bed that night completely fine.
You won’t be surprised to learn that the feelings were recurring. For four days, my parents and grandparents stared at me, wondering what was going on, trying to piece together the sudden freakouts.
“Maybe she’s having an anxiety attack,” they would say. An anxiety attack? I didn’t think I was anxious about anything. It wasn’t like I didn’t think I was good enough. It wasn’t like I even had a rough life, or did poorly in school. I bet you anyone reading this is probably sitting there thinking, “What could a girl who was given the world ever be anxious about?” Let me tell you, I could never explain it. I had no idea what triggered the way that I felt, but I knew that it was like a bad nightmare, a vicious cycle repeating over and over. Restlessness and changes of heart rate were two symptoms I had recognized, but I had no idea how to distinguish when the attacks would come about, nor was I familiar with them. It was a surprise when they happened, each one worse than the next. The worst was feeling out of control and out of tune with my emotions all the time. It was almost too much to handle.
The [anxiety] attacks got so bad that every night, on queue, I ended up waking up during the middle of the night in a cold sweat. For two consistent years, before I went to sleep, I would have to repeat the same sentence to my parents multiple times over and over, which most likely looms in the back of their minds to this day. “Will I be okay?” I asked. They’d tirelessly answer “yes,” before I dozed off into a slumber, with either my Mom or Dad perched on the end of my bed. The sleepovers that I used to share with my friends a distant memory, and I was scared I would never be the same again. Quite honestly, I thought there was something wrong with me. I made excuses to my friends and other family members, terrified that they’d call me “crazy.” I refused therapists left, right and centre, calling them “assholes” because they would just run to my parents immediately after I had confided in them. “Maybe I don’t want my parents to know how I’m feeling,” I’d say. For a lot of people, therapy might be the answer. Personally, I never felt like they were much help. My parents thought that since I loved reading, a book might be the answer. The book they got me was entitled Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder written by Veale and Willson. Although I never read it cover to cover out of fear of feeling pitied by my parents, I do recall being taught that OCD and anxiety are based off of being up against your own thoughts, and to consider those [thoughts] “monsters under the bed.” To regain full control of my emotions, I began with attempting to distinguish what gave me the most anxiety. I came up with a short list: stressful situations, planes, throwing up and illness of any sort. Then, I tried breathing exercises.
I wish I could tell you that I did more, but really, telling myself that I didn’t want to grow up like that was the way that I forced myself to get over my anxiety. I don’t remember at what age the feelings started going away. As I grew older, the anxiety attacks lessened. My parents got to sleep in their bed again and I stopped putting the toilet seat down every morning and didn’t cringe when the pasta on my plate touched my salad. It was a good change. I do recall that one way that really helped rid both my anxiety and OCD was by thinking counter-intuitive thoughts. Here’s how I can best explain the complicated process: If my brain was telling me to turn my light on and off five times if I wanted to get an A on my exam, I would think to myself “If you get out of bed and turn that light on and off five times, you won’t get an A on your exam.” Now, let it be known that this method only works if you have enough willpower to fight against the “demon, better known as anxiety, however the more that you comply with this method, the more your habits will diminish and become less relevant in your daily life. Between this and constantly telling myself that I’m better than these diagnoses that belittle me, I was able to almost completely overcome my anxiety attacks and the better part of my OCD.
*Note: This might not work for everyone. I’m not saying that if you snap your fingers and use the same method that you’ll be ridden of anxiety. I’m writing this article in hopes that you start believing in yourself. Now, back to the article:
Anyone who knows me, knows I pride myself on always doing my best. I spend my days hustling and I’ve made a promise to myself to excel in anything I do. A go-getter, for better sense of the word. If you looked at me today, despite twisting my necklace between my fingers when I’m nervous, you would never be able to tell how my life had previously been affected. If I had let my issues with anxiety and OCD overcome my life, I would not be where I am today. As cliché as it sounds, this is a success story. A real-life human being, just like yourself, who seems as though she has herself together, telling you that once upon a time, I wouldn’t have ever thought I’d make it through. The number of opportunities I would have missed out on if I had let these two disorders control my entire life would have been endless and for that, I don’t think I would have ever forgiven myself. I’m here to let you know that the only person I was able to rely on through this entire ordeal was myself, and to be quite honest, I’m sure I can count on one hand the people in my life that know how severe my anxiety once was. The reason being? It’s not because I didn’t trust anyone to tell them about it, but because at the end of the day the only person who truly understood how I felt was myself.
If you don’t try and make things better for yourself by focusing on what you really need, there will never be a light at the end of the tunnel. “Growing out of anxiety” like my mother claims that I have is rare. Oftentimes, anxiety symptoms are lifelong, but that does not mean that you have to let those feelings consume you completely. There are coping mechanisms and people like myself, who are here for you, who’ve experienced similar things. This story certainly did not begin picture perfect, and some days are still better than others, but the best advice I can give you is to try and become more at peace with yourself and your thoughts. Until you stand up to your anxiety or OCD (or at least try to!) there’s no chance of you living it down.
P.S. To this day, my closet is still colour-coordinated, but who’s actually keeping tabs?
Feeling anxious? Need someone to confide in?
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Helpline: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
Kids Help Phone: 1-800- 668-6868