Inside My Head During an OCD Episode

by Izzy Pedego

I’m pretty much an open book. I’ll talk about my insecurities and shortcomings the first day I meet someone. But mental health is a hard thing to discuss. Maybe that’s because it’s less of a discussion and more of a listen to me talk about what’s wrong with me even though there’s very little you or anyone else can do to help me sort of interaction. Or maybe it has more to do with the fact that there isn’t one solid definition for any mental illness. Every person is affected by every illness differently, so there aren’t many grounds for relatability. And sometimes relatability is unwanted and a bit frustrating. It’s all just so tricky to navigate. 

Despite my general openness, I had a really hard time coming to terms with my obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). It took me almost six months to understand my diagnosis and almost an entire year to tell my loved ones that it was something I was struggling with. While I wasn’t necessarily ashamed, I was definitely conflicted. 

I don’t fit the stereotype associated with OCD. My room is not neat or tidy, my daily schedule is a mixup every single day, and I’m not super uptight. Being diagnosed at sixteen years old confused me more than anything because it had never even crossed my mind that I might have that. 

Over the past year I’ve had a few episodes which have made me really come to terms with what OCD does to me and what it makes me do to others. Now that I’m comfortable with the label and most people who are close to me have at least a vague understanding of what’s going on, I think it’d be beneficial for others for me to share my experience with OCD. 

Before I delve too deep I want to clarify a few things: I’m seventeen years old, so I’m incapable of being a medical professional, and everything I’m writing about is simply based on my personal experience and what little research I’ve done. OCD will not present itself the same in everyone who has it, so my experiences should not invalidate anyone else’s experiences or encourage a self-diagnosis. 

The worst part of my experience with OCD is the inescapable loop of negative thoughts that runs through my mind nearly every second of every day. I’m constantly reminded of my past failures, what I could have done to make my current situation better, and how foolish I was to not see this coming. This makes me want to constantly occupy my mind with other things, so I’m a hyperproductive person. I can finish a massive book in a day. I do a week’s worth of homework in two days. I keep up with most of my friends on social media and watch more YouTube videos than I probably should. It’s gotten to the point where relaxing and doing nothing actually makes me feel anxious. 

I have rituals that I have to complete for basic tasks, or else wild intrusive thoughts take over my head. I don’t want to get too in detail about what those rituals entail, but they aren’t noticeable to most people who come in contact with me. I spent nearly every day with my best friend for three years, and when I finally told him about my diagnosis, he could only think of a few habits I had that were now more explainable given the context. 

That’s what OCD does to me, but I think the greater issue for me personally is how OCD impacts the way I treat other people. I find myself being defensive to comments that were never meant to hurt me in the first place, and if I really think about it, should not have hurt my feelings at all. I have spouts of hypersensitivity to nearly everything, followed by being nearly emotionless and allowing people to take advantage of me without me even realizing that there is a problem. The extremes always seem to win. I either feel nothing or feel everything. I take nothing personally to the point of feeling pathetic, or I take everything personally to the point of making my friends feel like they’re walking on eggshells around me. 

The most frightening part about this whole thing is that there is no concrete treatment. I’m currently undergoing a massive change in my life, and it’s making me relive the worst moments that lead up to this point again and again. It’s a form of self-torture; only I don’t know how to make it stop. It’s an incredibly lonely feeling, and I find it hard to remind myself that it’s only a small amount of time before I’ll start to feel better again. That’s how it always goes. Up and down, then up again. 

It’s taken me a long time to write out all of this, and after rereading it a few times it still doesn’t really have one straightforward purpose or reason for being written. I suppose this is more of a diary entry than a journalistic article, but I think sometimes vulnerability is worth sharing. Not only was this cathartic on my part, but maybe after reading this somebody will understand that it’s not necessarily their fault that they’re experiencing some of these symptoms, or maybe someone else will find the courage to apologize for how they have affected others and explain what their diagnosis means. It may turn out that nobody finds this relatable at all, and that’s okay too.