I'm coming up on the one-year anniversary of my Primarily Obsessional OCD diagnosis this weekend (on October 2nd). I still remember how I felt that day when the therapist I was working with at the time said the words Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was relieved because we had figured out the real problem, and that meant we could actually treat it. On the other hand, I felt scared of the OCD diagnosis, and I felt ashamed because I felt like having OCD meant I was crazy or that something was really wrong with me. A weight had been lifted that I had been carrying for years, but it was quickly replaced with a different weight that felt just as heavy.
A year ago, I didn't want anyone to know that I had been diagnosed with Pure O. I was afraid people's opinions of me would suddenly change or that they wouldn't see me for who I really was and who I wanted to be anymore. I felt like someone had slapped a Post-It on my forehead, and that the Post-It was all everyone was going to be able to see. I knew about the stigma associated with mental illnesses like OCD, and I also knew that OCD was ranked pretty highly on the list of most debilitating mental health conditions. I was afraid, then, when I had to come face-to-face with all those things.
I even had a little bit of a freak out. What if I didn't get better? What if this got in the way of my writing and getting published? What if no one wanted to date me because of the OCD? What if someone did want to date me and I let the OCD and anxiety ruin it? Did I still want to have children knowing that I could pass on the chemical imbalance in my brain that had made my life a silent Hell for so long? For some reason these concerns didn't hit me when I was diagnosed with Panic Disorder, but they hit me like speeding bullets when the OCD diagnosis came.
Now, a year later, I'm in a different place. I'm always aware of my OCD, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it felt a year ago. I'm not terrified of the OCD anymore because I know how my OCD works. I don't feel like I still have the Post-It slapped on my forehead, and I've managed to make some new friends post-diagnosis that don't care that I have OCD. I'm getting back to myself now, after a long and hard battle to hang on to myself with the OCD at its worst. I don't feel crazy (most days), and I don't feel like something is really wrong with me anymore. I realized that I'm just an imperfect human, and I'm no longer ashamed of that.
Over the past year, I have also stopped hiding my OCD. I talk about mental health and therapy. I talk about OCD with people when they ask. I mention the Pure O and therapy, if someone asks or brings up mental health, just like I would tell them about a weather report. I treat it like any other topic of conversation, and I mostly don't feel embarrassed about it anymore. (I haven't been embarrassed to talk about my Cerebral Palsy in quite some time, so I don't see why I needed to treat my mental health any differently.) Although, I don't discuss my obsessions with people that aren't my therapist or my mother, but I can talk about obsessions in a general sense if someone asks about them.
A lot of my questions have been answered over the past year. I'm getting better. The anxiety did get in the way of my writing over the last year, but I have recently been able to start writing the way I was able to write before the anxiety disorder. I still wanted to have children after I realized that I could manage my mental health condition with the right tools and the right help. (Maybe my freak out was a little blown out of proportion now that I look back on it.)
A year ago, I felt like being diagnosed with OCD was a HUGE deal, and I was afraid that it was going to impact every area of my life in a negative way. My mom even says that dealing with OCD on a daily basis is "something major". Now, I realized that being diagnosed with OCD was a big deal in some ways, but that in other ways it wasn't a big deal. It's a big deal in the sense that it is a chronic illness, and I had to make lifestyle (and cognitive) changes in order to manage it. It isn't a big deal in the sense that I've realized that it doesn't define who I am or what I can do with my life, and it hasn't changed who I am as a person.
I'll end with this: I wasn't sure I would ever reach this point in living with my OCD. I thought I might lose myself somewhere along the way, and sometimes I felt like I did lose myself in the battles with my mental health condition. Sometimes, all I could see was the label I felt I'd been given, but today, I can see more in myself than just what I struggle with. Coping with the diagnosis of a mental health condition, like any other chronic health condition, can be hard at first, but it gets easier over time. It's an adjustment, and it's okay to be scared. It might feel like your life is never going to be the same again, but that isn't exactly true. I'm surprised at how close to my normal that my life feels at this moment, a year after a diagnosis that I was afraid would change everything.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Another Ah-Ha! Moment
I usually contribute most of my anxiety to my OCD without looking too deep to see if there might be another problem underneath the OCD. Sometimes I contribute my unease to free floating anxiety that I can't explain. I thought it was impossible to really figure out the things that seemed to trigger my OCD to flare up randomly when I was in the middle of laughing at something or otherwise experiencing life as an average human.
Then I noticed that, since I added an actual Mindfulness meditation to my daily routine four weeks ago, that it has become easier for me to take a step back and objectively observe my anxiety. I have found it easier to distance myself from my own mind in the past few weeks (with the exception of those days when my anxiety reaches panic attack level). Distancing myself and being objective has also enabled me to find my biggest trigger for my OCD.
Mindfulness meditation, in the short 4 weeks that I've been practicing every day, has also made me much more observant of my own reactions to things. As a result of that new awareness, I noticed that any time that I wasn't in a neutral or content emotional state, the volume would get turned up on my intrusive thoughts. If I got sad or frustrated or stressed or scared or even too happy, my intrusive thoughts would swirl in like a tornado. I even noticed when I had a brief moment of feeling inadequate over the past week the OCD flared up. As long as I was content or not feeling much of anything (unless confronted with my religious or other triggers in my external environment) my mind was relatively quiet.
This was another grand Ah-Ha! moment for me. I understood a little bit better. This moment of realization also drove home the point that I'm REALLY not good with all the feel-y things. I talked to my therapist about it, and she seems to think it makes sense considering I've spent the majority of my life attempting to shut down my feelings. (Why did I think that was a good idea?)
This latest realization has also changed the way I deal with my anxiety a little bit more. In a way, since its easy to spot my triggers, I am more prepared to deal with the free floating anxiety and the OCD. Now, when I notice that my intrusive thoughts are more frequent than usual, or if I notice extra anxiety hanging around when I haven't noticed any triggers in the environment, I stop and take a step back. I ask myself, "What am I feeling that might make this worse right now?" Then I take a breath, and I try accept the feeling and actually let myself feel it. It seems that once I become open to feeling something my mind quiets down.
Now, as a result of this new realization, I'm also more prepared to deal with the OCD spikes when they happen. I sort of expect them when I'm in a situation that I know might cause me to feel sad or frightened or stressed or too happy. (As I typed that sentence, I couldn't help but to think about how poorly I must have dealt with life up to this point.) When I expect them, it becomes easier to really believe that it is just an anxiety disorder, and I can brush them off. It's a relief any time I avoid the rumination that can take up hours or even days of my time.
I'll end with this: I never thought feeling things was so important, and I have realized that was a mistake. Hiding feelings, muting them, or convincing yourself that you're too logical for feelings can have long term, damaging consequences. Accepting all the feelings and letting yourself feel them really is the best way to deal with them. If you're distress intolerant like me, I encourage you to check out Mindfulness and try it out.
Then I noticed that, since I added an actual Mindfulness meditation to my daily routine four weeks ago, that it has become easier for me to take a step back and objectively observe my anxiety. I have found it easier to distance myself from my own mind in the past few weeks (with the exception of those days when my anxiety reaches panic attack level). Distancing myself and being objective has also enabled me to find my biggest trigger for my OCD.
Mindfulness meditation, in the short 4 weeks that I've been practicing every day, has also made me much more observant of my own reactions to things. As a result of that new awareness, I noticed that any time that I wasn't in a neutral or content emotional state, the volume would get turned up on my intrusive thoughts. If I got sad or frustrated or stressed or scared or even too happy, my intrusive thoughts would swirl in like a tornado. I even noticed when I had a brief moment of feeling inadequate over the past week the OCD flared up. As long as I was content or not feeling much of anything (unless confronted with my religious or other triggers in my external environment) my mind was relatively quiet.
This was another grand Ah-Ha! moment for me. I understood a little bit better. This moment of realization also drove home the point that I'm REALLY not good with all the feel-y things. I talked to my therapist about it, and she seems to think it makes sense considering I've spent the majority of my life attempting to shut down my feelings. (Why did I think that was a good idea?)
This latest realization has also changed the way I deal with my anxiety a little bit more. In a way, since its easy to spot my triggers, I am more prepared to deal with the free floating anxiety and the OCD. Now, when I notice that my intrusive thoughts are more frequent than usual, or if I notice extra anxiety hanging around when I haven't noticed any triggers in the environment, I stop and take a step back. I ask myself, "What am I feeling that might make this worse right now?" Then I take a breath, and I try accept the feeling and actually let myself feel it. It seems that once I become open to feeling something my mind quiets down.
Now, as a result of this new realization, I'm also more prepared to deal with the OCD spikes when they happen. I sort of expect them when I'm in a situation that I know might cause me to feel sad or frightened or stressed or too happy. (As I typed that sentence, I couldn't help but to think about how poorly I must have dealt with life up to this point.) When I expect them, it becomes easier to really believe that it is just an anxiety disorder, and I can brush them off. It's a relief any time I avoid the rumination that can take up hours or even days of my time.
I'll end with this: I never thought feeling things was so important, and I have realized that was a mistake. Hiding feelings, muting them, or convincing yourself that you're too logical for feelings can have long term, damaging consequences. Accepting all the feelings and letting yourself feel them really is the best way to deal with them. If you're distress intolerant like me, I encourage you to check out Mindfulness and try it out.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
On Being Highly Sensitive
I've always felt like I was weird, and not in a good way, like something was wrong with me. I felt like I didn't handle things like disappointment, the death of pets or loved ones, or even something as simple as loud noises and strong smells as well as everyone else around me. I felt like I was too sensitive to things at best, and I felt like I was overdramatic at worst. I hated that the smallest things could make me cry, make me feel so overwhelmed that I needed to shut down, make me anxious, or make me feel terribly sad. I hated that it felt like I couldn't control my own emotions sometimes. Not only did I hate it, but feeling things so strongly tended to freak me out so that I thought I needed to shut it down to be "normal" and sometimes even to survive.
Then my second therapist had me do some research on Highly Sensitive People. It turns out that I'm not actually weird, too sensitive, or overdramatic. I'm just a Highly Sensitive Person, like around fifteen to twenty percent of the general population. It's not a clinical sort of thing. I don't need fixing because of it. Being a Highly Sensitive Person is just an innate trait, and some research suggests that it may be genetic, (Aron, 2016). (My mom is also a Highly Sensitive Person, and so was my grandmother.)
I know I've mentioned that I am a Highly Sensitive Person in previous blog posts, but it occurred to me that not many people may know what that really means. Basically, being highly sensitive means that I process things like my emotions and my external environment on a deeper cognitive level. That also means that because I process things on a deeper level, I feel emotions more intensely, and I react to things like being startled or repeated loud noises more intensely than someone who isn't a Highly Sensitive Person. (I'm jumpy, like a cat...) I can also become overstimulated quickly by loud environments, strong smells, lights that are too bright, and even just too many people talking at once while I'm trying to pay attention. I may also get overwhelmed and become anxious when I have too much to do in a rushed timeframe, which is why I was never a procrastinator in school. (That's called sensory overload, and it happens with anxiety disorders as well.) (Aron, 2016).
What else does being a Highly Sensitive Person mean? It also means that I am more susceptible to experience an anxiety disorder and/or depression, according to a Psychology Today post. I also mentioned in a previous post that I also muted my feelings whenever possible, which may have also contributed to my development of Pure OCD. That makes so much more sense now that I understand that I feel things more intensely. Not all Highly Sensitive People will develop an anxiety disorder or depression, but it does seem worth knowing that being Highly Sensitive might make someone more susceptible to something like that.
Why do I think it's important that I recognize that I am a Highly Sensitive Person? Because I felt like an overdramatic weakling, like I was too sensitive to deal with normal events before I realized that it was just an innate trait that I have. That was an unpleasant feeling. Realizing that I am a Highly Sensitive Person has also helped me to be more accepting of myself and my feelings. Even just understanding why I'm feeling something in a certain way, and why I have difficulty shaking off my feelings the way everyone else seems to, has decreased my anxiety related to my emotional state.
I'll end with this: We live in a culture that tends to prize developing a thick outer skin instead of sensitivity, but that definitely doesn't mean that being a Highly Sensitive Person is bad thing. Getting to know and understand yourself is super important, even if you aren't trying to learn to deal with a mental health condition, because you have to know and understand yourself before you can accept yourself. If you're interested in learning more about Highly Sensitive People, or if you think you might be a Highly Sensitive Person, I encourage you to check out the work of Elaine Aron online or to buy her book on Amazon. You can even take a self test.
Sources:
1. Aron, E. N. (2016). Retrieved from http://hsperson.com/
2. https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/sense-and-sensitivity/201210/coping-anxiety-hsp
Then my second therapist had me do some research on Highly Sensitive People. It turns out that I'm not actually weird, too sensitive, or overdramatic. I'm just a Highly Sensitive Person, like around fifteen to twenty percent of the general population. It's not a clinical sort of thing. I don't need fixing because of it. Being a Highly Sensitive Person is just an innate trait, and some research suggests that it may be genetic, (Aron, 2016). (My mom is also a Highly Sensitive Person, and so was my grandmother.)
I know I've mentioned that I am a Highly Sensitive Person in previous blog posts, but it occurred to me that not many people may know what that really means. Basically, being highly sensitive means that I process things like my emotions and my external environment on a deeper cognitive level. That also means that because I process things on a deeper level, I feel emotions more intensely, and I react to things like being startled or repeated loud noises more intensely than someone who isn't a Highly Sensitive Person. (I'm jumpy, like a cat...) I can also become overstimulated quickly by loud environments, strong smells, lights that are too bright, and even just too many people talking at once while I'm trying to pay attention. I may also get overwhelmed and become anxious when I have too much to do in a rushed timeframe, which is why I was never a procrastinator in school. (That's called sensory overload, and it happens with anxiety disorders as well.) (Aron, 2016).
What else does being a Highly Sensitive Person mean? It also means that I am more susceptible to experience an anxiety disorder and/or depression, according to a Psychology Today post. I also mentioned in a previous post that I also muted my feelings whenever possible, which may have also contributed to my development of Pure OCD. That makes so much more sense now that I understand that I feel things more intensely. Not all Highly Sensitive People will develop an anxiety disorder or depression, but it does seem worth knowing that being Highly Sensitive might make someone more susceptible to something like that.
Why do I think it's important that I recognize that I am a Highly Sensitive Person? Because I felt like an overdramatic weakling, like I was too sensitive to deal with normal events before I realized that it was just an innate trait that I have. That was an unpleasant feeling. Realizing that I am a Highly Sensitive Person has also helped me to be more accepting of myself and my feelings. Even just understanding why I'm feeling something in a certain way, and why I have difficulty shaking off my feelings the way everyone else seems to, has decreased my anxiety related to my emotional state.
I'll end with this: We live in a culture that tends to prize developing a thick outer skin instead of sensitivity, but that definitely doesn't mean that being a Highly Sensitive Person is bad thing. Getting to know and understand yourself is super important, even if you aren't trying to learn to deal with a mental health condition, because you have to know and understand yourself before you can accept yourself. If you're interested in learning more about Highly Sensitive People, or if you think you might be a Highly Sensitive Person, I encourage you to check out the work of Elaine Aron online or to buy her book on Amazon. You can even take a self test.
Sources:
1. Aron, E. N. (2016). Retrieved from http://hsperson.com/
2. https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/sense-and-sensitivity/201210/coping-anxiety-hsp
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
New Hope
This past week, I had a sort of Ah-Ha! moment. I'm not sure exactly what made something click into place in my mind, but it happened. I was reading online about mental health topics, and this particular night I was reading about anxiety disorders and intrusive thoughts. (I was having a rough day, and reading about people with similar experiences to my own makes me feel less alone.)
Intrusive thoughts on any frightening topic imaginable happen with any anxiety disorder. I read about a lady with Generalized Anxiety Disorder that had intrusive thoughts about murdering her children. I read about someone with Panic Disorder that also had to deal with equally catastrophic intrusive thoughts. I was already aware of the OCD intrusive thoughts, but I read about a couple of those recovery stories as well. (You know...if those people can recover and learn to dismiss their scary intrusive thoughts, surely I can do the same.)
I went to my weekly therapy session, and I discussed the prevalence of intrusive thoughts across the board of anxiety disorders with my therapist. She nodded. Then she said, "Everyone has intrusive thoughts at one point or another." Everyone in the world has thought something blasphemous or violent or something equally frightening and repulsive at least once in their lives, but they choose not to pay attention to that weird thought. I knew that logically, but for some reason that idea just recently sank into my mind that they were able to choose what thoughts they paid attention to.
I also talked to my therapist about my meditation practice, and I told her that thoughts would pop up about what I wanted to wear the next day, or about my friends, or some scene from a movie. She informed me that those were also considered intrusive thoughts simply because I didn't want to be thinking about those things while I was meditating. I just brushed those thoughts away, though, and went back to focusing on my breathing. I said, "But those don't count. They don't bother me." She said something like, "Exactly. Other people treat the thoughts that you don't like that way and move on, too."
Then something just clicked, and an idea seemed to take root in my mind. I can actually choose what thoughts I pay attention to. I knew that already, but I had never realized it could happen to me. I didn't realize that I did it every day already with certain thoughts. (I'm not saying that I do that with my OCD thoughts, but I'm saying that I realized that I could get to that point eventually.) I felt like a new, sunshine-y ray of hope had peeked out from behind the clouds.
For somebody trapped by OCD into being sensitive to certain thoughts and being forced into paying attention to them, the idea of having a choice in the matter almost felt like a foreign concept. I often feel like I don't have a choice but to pay attention to every repulsive thought that rolls through my mind because I hate the thoughts. It's like a lightbulb moment to actually take to heart the idea that thoughts are junk, that they don't matter, and that I can be still considered a good person if I don't freak out about the thoughts that I don't like.
I'll end with this: Thoughts don't matter. It's how you react and treat the thoughts that matters, and actually realizing that is a big deal. I encourage you to read some recovery stories online if you're having a bad day. If somebody else can recover from something similar to what any one of us has going on in our minds, then so can we.
Intrusive thoughts on any frightening topic imaginable happen with any anxiety disorder. I read about a lady with Generalized Anxiety Disorder that had intrusive thoughts about murdering her children. I read about someone with Panic Disorder that also had to deal with equally catastrophic intrusive thoughts. I was already aware of the OCD intrusive thoughts, but I read about a couple of those recovery stories as well. (You know...if those people can recover and learn to dismiss their scary intrusive thoughts, surely I can do the same.)
I went to my weekly therapy session, and I discussed the prevalence of intrusive thoughts across the board of anxiety disorders with my therapist. She nodded. Then she said, "Everyone has intrusive thoughts at one point or another." Everyone in the world has thought something blasphemous or violent or something equally frightening and repulsive at least once in their lives, but they choose not to pay attention to that weird thought. I knew that logically, but for some reason that idea just recently sank into my mind that they were able to choose what thoughts they paid attention to.
I also talked to my therapist about my meditation practice, and I told her that thoughts would pop up about what I wanted to wear the next day, or about my friends, or some scene from a movie. She informed me that those were also considered intrusive thoughts simply because I didn't want to be thinking about those things while I was meditating. I just brushed those thoughts away, though, and went back to focusing on my breathing. I said, "But those don't count. They don't bother me." She said something like, "Exactly. Other people treat the thoughts that you don't like that way and move on, too."
Then something just clicked, and an idea seemed to take root in my mind. I can actually choose what thoughts I pay attention to. I knew that already, but I had never realized it could happen to me. I didn't realize that I did it every day already with certain thoughts. (I'm not saying that I do that with my OCD thoughts, but I'm saying that I realized that I could get to that point eventually.) I felt like a new, sunshine-y ray of hope had peeked out from behind the clouds.
For somebody trapped by OCD into being sensitive to certain thoughts and being forced into paying attention to them, the idea of having a choice in the matter almost felt like a foreign concept. I often feel like I don't have a choice but to pay attention to every repulsive thought that rolls through my mind because I hate the thoughts. It's like a lightbulb moment to actually take to heart the idea that thoughts are junk, that they don't matter, and that I can be still considered a good person if I don't freak out about the thoughts that I don't like.
I'll end with this: Thoughts don't matter. It's how you react and treat the thoughts that matters, and actually realizing that is a big deal. I encourage you to read some recovery stories online if you're having a bad day. If somebody else can recover from something similar to what any one of us has going on in our minds, then so can we.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
The Reality of Recovery
During my most recent bout of extremely high anxiety, my mom and I continued to discuss my mental health. A few of our conversations brought up my recovery from my Primarily Obsessional OCD. We both agree that I have made progress. Yet, sometimes I still am not doing as well as my mom and I both wish. I still have really bad days during which I am either hysterical, medicated, or sleeping with no moments of naturally occurring peace in sight.
Sometimes, when I'm really struggling, my mom will say something like, "I can't wait until you don't have these thoughts anymore." She may also say something like, "There has to be a way to get better faster." I think the same things sometimes, especially on my bad days. It would be great to just suddenly not have my intrusive thoughts, and it would be great to change the way my brain functions more quickly. I have discovered that those are not realistic ideas or expectations.
These ideas are pretty common in our society. I know when I went to my intake appointment these were my expectations, even though I studied psychology in college. I assumed the recovery process was going to be moderately quick and moderately painless. I assumed that recovery meant that I would no longer have intrusive thoughts, and that I would no longer experience symptoms of OCD or anxiety. I assumed therapy and medication could be this quick and magical cure.
The reality of my recovery from OCD is that, according to my research, I could be in therapy for around 2 years, and even then my OCD won't be cured because OCD doesn't have a cure. I will probably always have anxiety symptoms and intrusive thoughts. The goal of treatment isn't even to eliminate intrusive thoughts but to change the way I react to them. The goal is to accept the thoughts and not to become anxiety-riddled, hysterical, and to not get sucked into ruminating on the thoughts. The goal is to treat intrusive thoughts the way I treat other random thoughts, like the non-OCD population does when they have the same thoughts. (Some days I can do that now. Other days I can't.)
The reality of recovery from any chronic illness, like a mental health condition, is that symptoms may always be present, but managing the symptoms can become easier. There is no quick fix for something like anxiety disorders or depression or eating disorders or PTSD. Recovery takes time because it's actually hard work full of learning, homework, lifestyle changes, and changes to our very thought patterns that we have to intentionally implement. Medication can help if you choose medication as part of your treatment, but the reality of medication is that it is a trial and error process until you and your doctor find the one that works best for you. The process is completely worth it when you find something that enables you to function at your desired level, though.
The reality of being recovered is that being recovered doesn't mean that I'll be done with therapy (or medication if you choose medication). I may need to go back to therapy throughout my life to maintain my recovery, just like any person dealing with a chronic physical illness continues doctor visits to maintain wellness. (Medication may always be part of maintaining wellness as well, and that is okay.) I may also still have some bad days after being considered recovered, but (hopefully) the way I manage the bad days will make them feel less severe so I can shake them off sooner. (Sometimes I'm in a place where the bad days can be shortened to a bad few hours or something like that, but not always.)
The reality of my recovery looks a lot different from the ideas I had about recovery when I first had my intake appointment. I can't say that I wasn't disappointed by the reality check my therapist served up, but I can say that I am much better at working toward recovery because of that reality check. I have a better picture of what recovery from my mental health condition looks like, and I think that makes it easier to recognize progress. I also think the idea of recovery that I have now has done a lot to help me not be so hard on myself during my journey toward wellness and recovery.
I'll end with this: Recovery from any chronic condition, especially mental health conditions, takes a lot of time and effort, and the process looks different for everyone. Recovery may not look the way that you pictured in your mind in the beginning, but that's okay. You wouldn't expect someone with asthma to never have asthma symptoms just because they were being treated for their asthma, so you shouldn't expect yourself to never have symptoms of whatever mental health condition is part of your life.
Sometimes, when I'm really struggling, my mom will say something like, "I can't wait until you don't have these thoughts anymore." She may also say something like, "There has to be a way to get better faster." I think the same things sometimes, especially on my bad days. It would be great to just suddenly not have my intrusive thoughts, and it would be great to change the way my brain functions more quickly. I have discovered that those are not realistic ideas or expectations.
These ideas are pretty common in our society. I know when I went to my intake appointment these were my expectations, even though I studied psychology in college. I assumed the recovery process was going to be moderately quick and moderately painless. I assumed that recovery meant that I would no longer have intrusive thoughts, and that I would no longer experience symptoms of OCD or anxiety. I assumed therapy and medication could be this quick and magical cure.
The reality of my recovery from OCD is that, according to my research, I could be in therapy for around 2 years, and even then my OCD won't be cured because OCD doesn't have a cure. I will probably always have anxiety symptoms and intrusive thoughts. The goal of treatment isn't even to eliminate intrusive thoughts but to change the way I react to them. The goal is to accept the thoughts and not to become anxiety-riddled, hysterical, and to not get sucked into ruminating on the thoughts. The goal is to treat intrusive thoughts the way I treat other random thoughts, like the non-OCD population does when they have the same thoughts. (Some days I can do that now. Other days I can't.)
The reality of recovery from any chronic illness, like a mental health condition, is that symptoms may always be present, but managing the symptoms can become easier. There is no quick fix for something like anxiety disorders or depression or eating disorders or PTSD. Recovery takes time because it's actually hard work full of learning, homework, lifestyle changes, and changes to our very thought patterns that we have to intentionally implement. Medication can help if you choose medication as part of your treatment, but the reality of medication is that it is a trial and error process until you and your doctor find the one that works best for you. The process is completely worth it when you find something that enables you to function at your desired level, though.
The reality of being recovered is that being recovered doesn't mean that I'll be done with therapy (or medication if you choose medication). I may need to go back to therapy throughout my life to maintain my recovery, just like any person dealing with a chronic physical illness continues doctor visits to maintain wellness. (Medication may always be part of maintaining wellness as well, and that is okay.) I may also still have some bad days after being considered recovered, but (hopefully) the way I manage the bad days will make them feel less severe so I can shake them off sooner. (Sometimes I'm in a place where the bad days can be shortened to a bad few hours or something like that, but not always.)
The reality of my recovery looks a lot different from the ideas I had about recovery when I first had my intake appointment. I can't say that I wasn't disappointed by the reality check my therapist served up, but I can say that I am much better at working toward recovery because of that reality check. I have a better picture of what recovery from my mental health condition looks like, and I think that makes it easier to recognize progress. I also think the idea of recovery that I have now has done a lot to help me not be so hard on myself during my journey toward wellness and recovery.
I'll end with this: Recovery from any chronic condition, especially mental health conditions, takes a lot of time and effort, and the process looks different for everyone. Recovery may not look the way that you pictured in your mind in the beginning, but that's okay. You wouldn't expect someone with asthma to never have asthma symptoms just because they were being treated for their asthma, so you shouldn't expect yourself to never have symptoms of whatever mental health condition is part of your life.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
No One is a Lost Cause
My mom and I were talking about my mental health recently. My mom usually says something like, "I wish you would have told me that you thought you needed a doctor." Or, "I wish you would have told me what was happening instead of hiding it so I could have gotten you counseling." She seems to not understand how deeply terrified I was of my own mind at the time it all started and for years after. Looking back, I wish I would have just told her what was happening because if I had, I would be in a completely different place mentally than I am right now.
I know it doesn't make sense that I wouldn't seek help to most people who have been to therapy for something or who have never struggled with a mental health condition. I also know I only did more damage to myself by not seeking help. I had always been pro-counseling. I even suggested that other people get counseling when they felt like something wasn't quite right.
When it came to myself and the type of OCD I was (unknowingly) dealing with and the thoughts I kept hearing in my mind, I just couldn't seek help. I felt like no one could help me. I thought whatever was happening inside my mind was my fault, like I had opened the door and let the bad things in, and that no form of modern medicine or therapy would be able to silence the demons I had accidently welcomed into my life. I didn't even think my problem was a mental one. I thought it was a soul problem.
My mom, throughout my repeated episodes of the worst of the Pure O, asked me, "Why don't you let me make you an appointment for counseling?" She even asked that in my 2015 episode, and I rejected the idea. My primary care physician mentioned therapy for the panic attacks, and I struggled with the idea of therapy for weeks before I finally gave in. (I still have no idea what my mom picked up on to make her realize that something was wrong because I thought I was hiding it pretty well.)
So, why didn't I just wise up and go sooner? Because I thought I needed an exorcism instead of therapy. My second worst fear regarding asking for help was that I would just be locked away somewhere because I was too dark and evil to be among the rest of humanity. I literally went to my intake appointment at the community mental health organization sure the therapist would turn me away or use some sort of code phrase to signal that I should be taken somewhere without even getting to say goodbye to my mom and my cat, because the therapist wouldn't know how to help someone in my position.
I felt like I was unable to be helped or saved. I felt like no one in the world would be able to make me less broken or to fix me. I was even pretty sure whatever demon had attached itself to my soul wouldn't be touched by the exorcism because maybe I didn't have enough faith to be able to shake it (since no amount of prayer, hymn singing, church attendance, or Bible reading had taken away the bad thoughts). If I was insane (which I also thought was a reasonable assumption), I thought I was so far gone down the path of insanity that no amount of therapy or medication would be able to bring me back to myself. I thought I was a lost cause, and I was afraid that asking for help would only validate that idea for me.
When I finally opened up, I was shocked that my mom didn't recoil in horror or disgust. She just basically said, "It's anxiety. Sometimes stuff like that happens to me, too. You just need some medication and/or therapy." My primary care physician had nearly the same reaction as my mother. Then my therapist was completely un-phased by the things I told her. She basically said, "You are definitely not the worst case I have seen, and I can totally treat you as an outpatient. This is a real mental health condition, and it is treatable." She even promised that no one would perform an exorcism, as did my priest, because no one thought I was evil or possessed.
All the ideas and the fear that I felt kept me from seeking help were also just part of the disorder I was dealing with. They were also due in large part to the fact that I didn't understand anything that was happening (which would have been cleared up if I had just talked to my mom). I did a lot of research (and I still do lots of research) just to understand more about therapy, things that help, and my own disorder. It also turned out that I wasn't a lost cause. That realization brought me tears of joy.
I'll end with this: No matter what kind of mental health condition you are dealing with, be it OCD or any of the OCD subtypes, Anxiety Disorders, Depression, PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, Schizophrenia, Eating Disorders, or Personality Disorders, or anything in between YOU ARE NOT A LOST CAUSE. YOU ARE NEVER A LOST CAUSE. It is never too late to seek help. The right kind of help for whatever is happening in your mind is out there (whether you choose a free App for your phone, the clergy, a crisis line, or face-to-face counseling...it's out there). I repeat: NO ONE IS EVER A LOST CAUSE.
I know it doesn't make sense that I wouldn't seek help to most people who have been to therapy for something or who have never struggled with a mental health condition. I also know I only did more damage to myself by not seeking help. I had always been pro-counseling. I even suggested that other people get counseling when they felt like something wasn't quite right.
When it came to myself and the type of OCD I was (unknowingly) dealing with and the thoughts I kept hearing in my mind, I just couldn't seek help. I felt like no one could help me. I thought whatever was happening inside my mind was my fault, like I had opened the door and let the bad things in, and that no form of modern medicine or therapy would be able to silence the demons I had accidently welcomed into my life. I didn't even think my problem was a mental one. I thought it was a soul problem.
My mom, throughout my repeated episodes of the worst of the Pure O, asked me, "Why don't you let me make you an appointment for counseling?" She even asked that in my 2015 episode, and I rejected the idea. My primary care physician mentioned therapy for the panic attacks, and I struggled with the idea of therapy for weeks before I finally gave in. (I still have no idea what my mom picked up on to make her realize that something was wrong because I thought I was hiding it pretty well.)
So, why didn't I just wise up and go sooner? Because I thought I needed an exorcism instead of therapy. My second worst fear regarding asking for help was that I would just be locked away somewhere because I was too dark and evil to be among the rest of humanity. I literally went to my intake appointment at the community mental health organization sure the therapist would turn me away or use some sort of code phrase to signal that I should be taken somewhere without even getting to say goodbye to my mom and my cat, because the therapist wouldn't know how to help someone in my position.
I felt like I was unable to be helped or saved. I felt like no one in the world would be able to make me less broken or to fix me. I was even pretty sure whatever demon had attached itself to my soul wouldn't be touched by the exorcism because maybe I didn't have enough faith to be able to shake it (since no amount of prayer, hymn singing, church attendance, or Bible reading had taken away the bad thoughts). If I was insane (which I also thought was a reasonable assumption), I thought I was so far gone down the path of insanity that no amount of therapy or medication would be able to bring me back to myself. I thought I was a lost cause, and I was afraid that asking for help would only validate that idea for me.
When I finally opened up, I was shocked that my mom didn't recoil in horror or disgust. She just basically said, "It's anxiety. Sometimes stuff like that happens to me, too. You just need some medication and/or therapy." My primary care physician had nearly the same reaction as my mother. Then my therapist was completely un-phased by the things I told her. She basically said, "You are definitely not the worst case I have seen, and I can totally treat you as an outpatient. This is a real mental health condition, and it is treatable." She even promised that no one would perform an exorcism, as did my priest, because no one thought I was evil or possessed.
All the ideas and the fear that I felt kept me from seeking help were also just part of the disorder I was dealing with. They were also due in large part to the fact that I didn't understand anything that was happening (which would have been cleared up if I had just talked to my mom). I did a lot of research (and I still do lots of research) just to understand more about therapy, things that help, and my own disorder. It also turned out that I wasn't a lost cause. That realization brought me tears of joy.
I'll end with this: No matter what kind of mental health condition you are dealing with, be it OCD or any of the OCD subtypes, Anxiety Disorders, Depression, PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, Schizophrenia, Eating Disorders, or Personality Disorders, or anything in between YOU ARE NOT A LOST CAUSE. YOU ARE NEVER A LOST CAUSE. It is never too late to seek help. The right kind of help for whatever is happening in your mind is out there (whether you choose a free App for your phone, the clergy, a crisis line, or face-to-face counseling...it's out there). I repeat: NO ONE IS EVER A LOST CAUSE.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
The Two People in My Mind
I've said the same thing over and over again since I've been battling Primarily Obsessional OCD. I've said to both of my therapists and my mother that it feels like two extremely different people live in my mind. At this point, I have even affectionately named them Anxious Annie and Logical Lucy.
Anxious Annie personifies the OCD. She is irrationally driven by fear of every thought I have. She freaks out at the slightest thing she labels as abnormal or bad (and she thinks almost everything that isn't sunshine and rainbows is bad). Then when Logical Lucy tries to step in and calm Anxious Annie, Anxious Annie attacks her. (And let me tell you that Anxious Annie is like a trained UFC Fighter.)
Logical Lucy personifies the rational part of my mind. She knows the whole time that Anxious Annie is being irrational. She is like the calm therapist that tries to talk Anxious Annie out of her anxious tirade. She tries to explain to Anxious Annie that she really doesn't need to be so anxious, and she occasionally has to talk Anxious Annie down from the precipice of a panic attack.
Almost every day I feel like both of the people that live inside my mind are trying to claim my attention. At the same time I am worrying about something and falling into an obsessive thought spiral, I'm logically myself, too. That means I know the things I'm worrying about and thinking are irrational, but I am powerless to stop myself from doing those things. Knowing something is irrational and silly just makes me feel like a crazy person because, even though I know it's irrational, I can't stop thinking about it.
Also, as a result of the two parts of my mind being at war, I also feel like I am a non-crazy person being held captive by a crazy person. I realize I am thinking or behaving in a way that my OCD is in control of the situation. I realize that my anxiety has gotten the best of me at times. It feels like Logical Lucy got handcuffed and thrown in jail while Anxious Annie got away with armed robbery of my sanity.
How do I try to bring Logical Lucy to the front of my mind instead of Anxious Annie? I label my thoughts and practice Mindfulness. If something pops into my mind and it just keeps rolling around so that I have to keep thinking about it, I label it as an OCD thought. Then I try to objectively observe that thought until it stops happening. I may have to do that every few minutes for a while, but my brain eventually lands on something else to think about. It gets easier over time, and then I feel in control again.
I'll end with this: Sometimes it can feel like your life is controlled by your mental health condition, and that sucks. I still feel like that sometimes after months of weekly therapy visits. It can be scary when it feels like your mind is holding you prisoner. Mindfulness practice helps me greatly. If you haven't tried it, I encourage you to research it and see what you think.
Anxious Annie personifies the OCD. She is irrationally driven by fear of every thought I have. She freaks out at the slightest thing she labels as abnormal or bad (and she thinks almost everything that isn't sunshine and rainbows is bad). Then when Logical Lucy tries to step in and calm Anxious Annie, Anxious Annie attacks her. (And let me tell you that Anxious Annie is like a trained UFC Fighter.)
Logical Lucy personifies the rational part of my mind. She knows the whole time that Anxious Annie is being irrational. She is like the calm therapist that tries to talk Anxious Annie out of her anxious tirade. She tries to explain to Anxious Annie that she really doesn't need to be so anxious, and she occasionally has to talk Anxious Annie down from the precipice of a panic attack.
Almost every day I feel like both of the people that live inside my mind are trying to claim my attention. At the same time I am worrying about something and falling into an obsessive thought spiral, I'm logically myself, too. That means I know the things I'm worrying about and thinking are irrational, but I am powerless to stop myself from doing those things. Knowing something is irrational and silly just makes me feel like a crazy person because, even though I know it's irrational, I can't stop thinking about it.
Also, as a result of the two parts of my mind being at war, I also feel like I am a non-crazy person being held captive by a crazy person. I realize I am thinking or behaving in a way that my OCD is in control of the situation. I realize that my anxiety has gotten the best of me at times. It feels like Logical Lucy got handcuffed and thrown in jail while Anxious Annie got away with armed robbery of my sanity.
How do I try to bring Logical Lucy to the front of my mind instead of Anxious Annie? I label my thoughts and practice Mindfulness. If something pops into my mind and it just keeps rolling around so that I have to keep thinking about it, I label it as an OCD thought. Then I try to objectively observe that thought until it stops happening. I may have to do that every few minutes for a while, but my brain eventually lands on something else to think about. It gets easier over time, and then I feel in control again.
I'll end with this: Sometimes it can feel like your life is controlled by your mental health condition, and that sucks. I still feel like that sometimes after months of weekly therapy visits. It can be scary when it feels like your mind is holding you prisoner. Mindfulness practice helps me greatly. If you haven't tried it, I encourage you to research it and see what you think.
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