As a small child, I sat and watched my mother sit for hours in front of a magnifying mirror, reading and poking fun at every imperfection on her face – perceptible or otherwise. At the time, there was nothing for him. His behavior was just what my mother described as “mashing bumps”. Mashing the bumps. Probably something every mother I figured you did.
My father was a curious doctor. Of individuals, not only diseases, but also historians, politicians, sports, and other various and various empty sciences. He just always thought he was smart and loved the little nuances of life.
These two are rolled into one, and you to me. When I was young, I was described with words of affirmation or flattery from my family and peers: “teacher pet attentionto details I kept my details well, I kept my room as neat and tidy as I could graduated fifth at my great high school, started college with 15 credit hours, and became valedictorian. I graduated with a 4.0 with a my master’s program.
On the less than rosy side, I was obsessed with the look. I think the OCD first manifested itself when I went from a chubby to a 100 pound 5’8, 100 pound, soaking me in my six month career. I was perfect, and I’m proud of my “willpower” to do whatever it took to get me there. Around the same time I started picking my skin like my mother. perfect skin, but I saw it as imperfect and in need of improvement. Ironically, reading it, I made it look horrible.
During the first job, my symptoms started to develop. I worked in my father’s doctor’s office and became a machine obsessed with catching disease. At one point, I even convinced my father to get me an AIDS test because there was a patient in his office who had the virus. I had not seen him, touched this patient, or even been in the same room with him, but I could not let go of my fears. It was a weakness, but it was getting worse.
I was raised in a devout Christian home, and I had to do well. I was just easy when I was under the shelter of loving parents, but when I entered college and was forced to make my own choice, I sometimes inevitably escaped. This led me to my biggest, scariest obsession: I didn’t have enough to go to heaven. This obsession terrified me so much that it led me to finally seek professional help for what I thought was depression.
My first experience with counselors and doctors was heart. but it is not very useful. In counseling, I was able to work through a lot of anxiety and depression, but they treated me primarily as a depressed/anxious patient rather than a victim of OCD. I went through many drugs in my early treatment, and I believe that the effects of these drugs was the most positive sedative. it was ruined in my mind. OCD is worse when suffering from anxiety, and sedation reduces anxiety in many cases. I felt better, but I didn’t care at all.
When I left the country, I was forced to find a new plan. He put me through a psychological testing machine, asking tons of questions and thoroughly researching my family and psychological history. In our second meeting he told me “I think you have OCD.” Suddenly a lightbulb went on in my head. OCD OCD! Of course!!! As with a degree in psychology college graduates, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought about it. first. Both of my parents have obsessive-compulsive personalities, but the difference between an OCD personality and true OCD is the degree to which it afflicts the patient. My mother and father did not care about their behavior; their behavior is idiosyncrasy to them. My obsessive and compulsive behavior caused me great grief.
Since my diagnosis about 10 years ago I have undergone a lot of cognitive-behavioral therapy, read lots of books on the subject (Ihighly recommend Brain Lock by Jeffrey M. Schwartz – so will Change Your Life if you live with OCD), and Luvox and Trazodone are taken continuously. I still have moments of intense anxiety from this disease, but usually call it OCD and move when day
If you live with OCD, take heart. If you get diagnosis and treatment properly, you can live and even flourish. I am!
