Living with OCD: the dictator of the mind

OCD. Those three bold letters. I know what you’re thinking: Clean. Tidy. Dirt-free.

This is a classic misconception of what is otherwise known as obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s time we spoke about OCD and what it’s really like to live with.

The term is thrown around more than the Pope says his Hail Marys:

“Ah mate I’m so OCD, I have to have all my shirts in colour coordinated order.” Yes. There is an element of the obsessive in everyone’s life, but it’s not all colour coordinated, even numbered and spotless surfaces. Like a tree, OCD has many different branches, each one with its own story to tell.

I’m not clean, I’m not tidy and I’m not going to elope in a fit of rage if I see a speck of dirt.

It began very young and progressed through my teenage years – if hormones weren’t enough to deal with, this all consuming THING decides to jump on the band wagon, the icing on the cake. I was about 14 when it emerged in full force. I was always disruptive at school, but it became even more of a problem when I would have to perform unwanted tasks at the mercy of the dictator in my mind. “Touch that door at least six times or your family will perish”. Surely I’m a rational person? Surely an inanimate object, such as a door can’t decide the fate of my beloved family? The anxiety kicks in. “If I don’t do this I’m a bad person, I’m potentially putting my family at risk and if I ignore this, I’ll go to hell”. The rational me begins to reason with my dictator…he’s having none of it. I actually gave him a name: I called him Winston. No, I’m not schizophrenic, but having a label did help.

Wake up. Get dressed. Trousers on. No, that doesn’t feel right. Trousers off. No, still not right. On again. “Okay it feels right now”. The start of the day was the biggest obstacle, and I wasn’t even outside yet. Winston was hungry and he needed feeding. He would feed, and on anything he can get his lurid eyes on.

FEAR – one sniff of the stuff and Winston would latch on like an unwanted parasite, suckling on your conscience until breaking point.

Time after time. Day after day. I started taking medication at about 15/16 to reduce the anxiety and try and slow my frantic thought processes. Often, I would leave school to go and see a CBT specialist to give me coping tools to suppress the OCD. I found myself frustrated and patronised, like another anonymous number of the National Health Service, contributing to yet another statistic model – ‘1.2% of the population will have OCD’. DELIGHT! How special I am. But that’s what you have to think. Turn those bold three letters into positivity. Yes, I often used to lament at the fact that I had to take medication to help me cope (medication isn’t for everyone). But a great friend suffering with diabetes once said, “I take insulin to get through the day so why should you feel any different about your medication?”. C’est la vie. Such is life.

It doesn’t just go away; you just have to make room to accommodate it in your life. Count your blessings. I have a loving and supporting family and group of friends who helped me live with my ‘condition’ and use it to my advantage. I can now wander down the road freely without being hounded by violent images and feelings of guilt. It’s all easier said than done, but talk about it, share your experience and latch onto positivity wherever you can.

This is only a small fraction of the strange world of OCD, but in the wise words of Tesco, every little helps.