If you’ve ever endured a tough period in your life — which, let’s face it, we all have — you probably understand the impact support has on a person or situation. The people in our lives, those who value and foster real human connections with others, can offer a sense of comfort and encouragement that helps diminish a mountain to a hill.
But sometimes, no matter how much someone cares for you, they lack the means to be there 24/7. Other times, it’s difficult just to admit you need help — and even more difficult to actually accept it.
That’s how Nicholas Emerson-Mazzone, co-founder of Supportful, a crowdsupporting platform, felt when his father was diagnosed with and later passed away from Stage 4 lymphoma.
I’ve always lived my life in shades of gray, leaning neither toward black nor white. Life is too complicated to subject yourself to a one-track way of thinking.
But this isn’t always easy. From a very young age, I’ve felt a tremendous amount of pain for simply being human. And I always thought that I was wrong. I always thought that, somehow, I was actually a bad person for feeling things so deeply.
People told me I wanted attention. That I craved sympathy. That I needed to be everyone’s best friend. That I was nosy and dramatic. Soon, these became things I told myself, too.
Many people assume they know what obsessive-compulsive disorder is: Making your bed a certain way every morning. Always being early to class or work. Organizing your toiletries so they’re color-coded in the bathroom closet.
But society doesn’t understand the things they cannot see – the things that people with OCD feel, the obsessive thoughts we cycle over, the guilt and shame we sleep with.
It started when I was in preschool, after a particularly traumatic experience with a boy who was three years older than me. He locked my bedroom door, tugged me into my own closet, and pulled my pants down.
He threatened me not to tell my parents what he made me do, and what he did to me. From that point forward, I felt I needed to tell them everything – every thought I had, even the crazy fleeting ones, the judgmental ones, the panicked ones.
“I just had a thought of putting a knife in your back,” I cried to my mom one evening. I was six.
These past few weeks have been tough. Scratch that. My entire life has been tough. But whose isn’t?
In July, I went to a concert to see Panic! At The Disco and Weezer, and after eating and drinking all night, I didn’t feel too well. My stomach was in so much pain that as soon as I got home, I collapsed onto the floor in the hallway upstairs, sprawled out on my laundry I was supposed to put away earlier. I couldn’t move without a dizzy spell and felt like I was somehow months pregnant from the bloating in my stomach. Suddenly, my heart dropped.
I hate throwing up more than most things in this world. It’s remained one of my phobias since the first grade, right before I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Now, 15 years later, I still cringe at the thought.
So when I felt that intense nausea and pain while lying on my floor, I panicked. I really, truly panicked. I ran up and down the stairs, pacing and crying and pulling at my hair, yelling at my parents that I felt sick, gagging over the toilet, dry-heaving for fifteen minutes before finally throwing up my entire night in the bathroom sink downstairs.
That was all it took to send me into a downward spiral.
I woke up the other morning feeling extra self-conscious. I skipped the gym all week because I was so focused on my academics and felt sick. I slept too late and had plans to go out, so there was another gym session out of the window. Of course, I could’ve made time if I really wanted to; but I was so looking forward to adventuring and spending some time in the sun that I decided not to–again.
Now, I usually make certain I go to the gym at least four to five days a week. So naturally, I was feeling guilty and gross for skipping yet again. Not only that, but every time I opened my Instagram, I saw another skinny girl with a perfectly flat stomach and toned everything, a girl who I couldn’t help but be jealous of–which I hate admitting to.
I struggle in this area–comparing myself to others. Whether it’s about my physical appearance, like my hair, body, skin, whatever, or about my personality, intellect, interests, I always, always, always compare myself. It’s such a terrible habit to fall in to, but a common one at that.
Here are 6 reasons to stop comparing yourself to others:
I harbor guilt. Lots of it. In fact, that’s basically all I feel 24/7. Having OCD makes it even worse; I dwell on my mistakes (ones that most people wouldn’t even consider mistakes in the first place) and obsess over them until my stomach is in knots. I wake up every morning with painful cramps from the shame and anxiety. It is not a good feeling.
I am sure I’m not the only one with an over-active conscious. We all mess up, say words we don’t mean, start petty arguments, allow our feelings to take control. Why? Because we are human. We feel. We love. We hurt.