Self-Stigmatizing Myself

I’ve had OCD since I was four years old. I am in graduate school for psychology. I make most of my current living writing and talking about all things mental health. And yet, I still have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that sometimes I am not in charge of my own brain. I often find myself surprised that I am mentally ill, and I sometimes do a lot of mental gymnastics to convince myself otherwise. It’s like I have this story in my head that I used to be “crazy” but I’m not anymore. But then something happens that makes me realize, “Oh, this is still very much a part of my life.”

The something that happened recently was returning home from the airport.  Airports are one of my biggest contamination triggers and I’ve always insisted on wiping everything down that’s been in a carry-on and not letting airplane clothes touch anything in my home. It’s pretty easy to give in to these compulsions when I’m traveling alone, but this time John was returning with me. I had to not only monitor my own movements and actions but also his. As soon as we walked in the door, I instructed him on what to do and where to put things. I made him strip so I could immediately wash his clothes. I freaked out when his “contaminated” t-shirt touched the kitchen counter by accident. And I spent a good amount of time Clorox wiping everything he had in his backpack, while trying to convince him to let me throw it in the washing machine despite the fact that he had never washed his backpack before. I even offered to buy him a new one if it got ruined in the wash because losing money was worth not feeling the discomfort of having that contaminated thing in my home.

As I stood exhausted in my foyer, wiping and wiping, I apologized to John for my behavior. I assured him that in a half-hour or so regular Allison would be back. I just needed to clean everything so I could be released from the grips of my mental illness and then I’d be me again. He nodded and assured me it was all fine. But I still felt mad at myself. Here I was 32 and completely at the whims of my OCD. I have spent thousands of dollars in the last few months working with an exposure and response prevention therapist so that things like this wouldn’t keep happening. I thought about trying to resist my compulsions and live with the discomfort, but the idea sickened me. I didn’t have the energy or even the interest to fight my OCD in that moment. I just wanted to do what I needed to do to feel safe in my home again. And that’s when it hit me that I am still mentally ill. And furthermore, that’s perfectly okay.

It is an interesting balance to be a mental health advocate who struggles with her mental health. I talk so much about the importance of putting in the work, that when I don’t put in my own work, I often feel guilty or like a fraud. I constantly feel like I am “failing” exposure therapy and it frustrates me that I have been able to make great strides in every area of my mental health other than my contamination OCD. Does this discrepancy mean that I am “lazy?” Does it suggest that I’m not really as “strong” as I appear online and that I am only willing to tackle the parts of my mental health that change more easily? Or, is it possible that OCD is a real bitch of an illness? And even though my symptoms are on the mild side, does it makes sense that I am struggling? That my inability to properly tackle my OCD isn’t a character flaw but instead proof of how freaking hard it is to live with this disorder?

Even as I write this, I feel a voice in my head pushing back. It is a scary thing to admit that something has control over you even if you’ve already been living with it for almost your entire life. It is hard to not blame yourself for “losing” the battle. But then I think about all the work I’ve already done on myself. And while my contamination OCD is definitely draining, I don’t think it has the same negative impact on my internal world as the other things I have been able to work through. I am no longer a constant web of anxiety who is unable to emotionally regulate and always assumes the worst. I no longer hate myself and want to die. I no longer rely on other people’s approval of me in order to find value in myself. Maybe working through those things was “easier” than trying to come home from the airport and not shower right away, but the impact of those changes has a much farther reach in my life.

I’m realizing that it’s okay for me to be proud of the work that I have done and still acknowledge I am mentally ill. I don’t need to be done with my journey to help other people with theirs. And I can show myself self-compassion instead of judgment as I figure out how much energy I want to devote to battling my OCD versus how much time I want to spend simply living my life. Because, despite my cleaning compulsions, I have finally figured out how to enjoy it.

xoxo,

Allison