My OCD and Me: The Demons that Coexistent

It’s been months since I’ve written about my OCD. Often, painting a picture through words helps me cope. But I thought that if I picked up my pen this time, all I’d see — all anyone would see — was darkness.

Depression. It’s a common term that many use to describe sadness. To express the tears streaming down their face at night, or the crippling stress from piling bills, or the gutting heartache from a devastating breakup.

So, really, I wasn’t sure I even had it. Because, well, I didn’t feel that. I felt nothing, mostly. And when I did feel, it wasn’t sadness. It was terror. Fear — not of death, but of living. I couldn’t imagine waking up just one more day.

Don’t get me wrong: I wanted to wake up. I wanted to jump out of bed like I used to, excited to take the train to work and grab lunch with coworkers, to buy books at my favorite store and stay up too late drinking coffee at midnight while editing my novel, my boyfriend on the couch next to me. But I was petrified of doing so. Because life just…didn’t make me happy anymore. Or maybe it did, but only on unreasonable terms that weren’t being met. And that realization isn’t easy to accept.

I didn’t know how to talk to people. To my family. To my friends. I couldn’t even look my boyfriend in the eye without breaking down. And that only made it worse, of course, to see the desperation on his face and to know that I’d caused it. How selfish was I to burden him? He’d spent his days commuting to the city and working in the office, and there I was stressing him out as soon as he’d get home at eight o’clock in the evening. He had his own issues — real ones. All I had were superficial notions within me, crying wolf, disguised as detriment to my life.

I knew something was wrong with me, something different from what I was used to, yet still a close relative. Call it what you want; label it as you must. But when you’re dealing with thought after thought, obsession after obsession, fear after fear, it doesn’t seem to matter what the source is. That’d be like standing in a storm and staring up at the sky, trying to analyze which cloud each drop was falling from.

They all merged as one, and the point was, if I didn’t seek shelter soon, I would drown.

I could no longer find the desire to leave my bed. I stopped answering texts. Ditched plans with my friends. Avoided family members. Refused to let my boyfriend touch me. Quit writing for months.

There’s a reason so many people who struggle with mental health don’t open up, or lose the will to live: because often, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. It just is. You can’t put it into words, or find an explanation through a blood test, or even get support without hearing, “You’re stronger than this.” It feels like it’s all on you, because, at the end of the day, it is. And that’s a heavy responsibility, especially when you can barely get out of bed. When your heart is racing before you even open your eyes, and your stomach is sick from the night before, and your head is the host of a raging storm.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, dealing with mental health disorders, especially multiple at once, is complicated, to put it lightly. It’s like trying to reason with a brick wall that’s blocking your path.

But I’ve learned that you can either let it stop you from moving forward, questioning why it’s there and why you can’t see through it while the person next to you can; or you can knock it down and face the turmoil head-on.

Only you know how hard you’re fighting. Only you feel the sharp knife of each breath. But only you can tell your story — one that others desperately need to read. So, don’t let yours end. There are so many pages left to paint. And there are so many more colors than black and white.

Published by

sammicaramela

I am a writer. I have been since I can remember, creating stories on summer days as a child, reporting for my high school newspaper, singing poetry in my room at night. My life consists of scattered chapters and rash quotes. I struggle with OCD and severe anxiety, making me into an empath--someone who feels another's pain, cries another's tears. All I wish to do is help others, specifically through my passion and love for writing.

3 Comments

  1. Only you can tell your truths. And with it I hope it helps lessen your pain and brings others also suffering some comfort they are not alone in their struggles. You continue to write about what you know. Deep in my marrow I just know that one day it will clear for you and the demons will depart you’ll emerge focused and happy. Your writing will always help set you free. Continue your truths…

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  2. I really appreciate how vulnerable this post is. I would definitely encourage you to keep writing and to keep talking with others – especially if you’re open to talking with a therapist or psychiatrist. Those two options were a game changer for me.

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  3. After a traumatic experience, “sleeping badly and badly can aggravate the symptoms makes it more difficult to maintain emotional balance.” Therefore, it is good to rest enough. “Depressed Anguish Talk to a trusted family member or friend In addition to listening carefully, they can encourage you and give you the help you need.
    Think that better times will come.
    Remember: although it is possible that nothing will fill the void that you feel, it is worth living.
    example.
    Find comfort in music.
    “At night, when I could not sleep, I listened to music, that calmed me down, learn to play an instrument, discover that the harmony of music will help you to recover inner peace.
    Something that helped me a lot was my faith in God. Faith is very important to live, one of the reasons was prayer, asking for my problems, asking for help in my nocturnal silences, I discovered that if you are a sincere one of hearts, everything comes. and this message is my contribution after having read your publication. A hug from buenos aires argentina.

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