MY PARENTS THOUGHT I’D NEVER HAVE A NORMAL LIFE

And I Can’t Remember Why

I don’t remember getting sick. I was only four years old and the majority of my childhood has been lost to whatever process eats up my memories faster than I can make them. But my parents remember. One memory in particular haunts my mother. I was upset about something and as she went to comfort me I screamed DON’T TOUCH ME and ran away. The interaction, however brief, filled her with dread that my severe OCD would prevent me from having anything close to a normal life. While other parents in our affluent neighborhood were likely worrying if their children would get into an Ivy league school or whether they would become a doctor or a lawyer, my parents simply hoped I’d one day have the capacity to build a regular life for myself.

I didn’t realize the extent of their concerns until I was an adult and the fears of how much my OCD would impact my development had subsided a bit. I’d managed to graduate high school despite a disastrous senior year, and I’d even moved to Los Angeles for college.  My mental health wasn’t exactly stable in my twenties, but my life looked a lot like other people my age.  I suspect this filled them with enough relief that they were finally able to acknowledge how sick I had once been.

But the thing is, that little girl they talk about, the one who would come home and do a series of compulsions that made me look like a third base coach giving hand signals, feels no more like me than a girl on TV. I know she existed, and I know she laid down in the middle of the road at one point—causing a doctor to tell my mother I either needed to be committed or she had to watch me 24/7—but I can’t find her within me. I feel like I’ve grown up with this lore of who I once was without having any proof outside of other people’s recounting. And that freaks me out.