I always say that my therapist saved my life. I was in a pretty rough place when I started weekly sessions with my current therapist, and I've made leaps and bounds of improvement since I started treatment with her. So, to me, it felt like she saved my life.
A couple of weeks ago, I realized something. My therapist didn't save my life. I saved my own life. I don't mean this to sound ungrateful because I am more grateful than my therapist could ever guess. I just mean that I put in the work. My therapist gave me the tools and the information that I needed, which means she facilitated the changes I made, but I went home and I put in all the hard work to save myself from drowning in my own mind. I chose to take everything she had given me and use it to get better. I could have just shrugged everything off and not used any of the tools she gave me, but I didn't. I chose to work on myself.
This realization came about in a terrifying. My therapist told me that she would be leaving private practice, which meant I wouldn't be seeing her anymore after a certain date. I knew this day would come, but I WAS NOT READY. I freaked out. I cried in her office. I had a panic attack in the car on the way home. I had flashbacks to Christmas break my freshman year of college when I literally couldn't function to the point that my mom thought I was having some kind of breakdown. I had to take medication.
My anxiety was so high at the thought of being on my own again that I started to spiral. How was I supposed to deal with losing the person that saved my life? How was I supposed to continue to grow and continue to get better and stay better if she wasn't there to help me when I needed her? What if I relapsed back to those awful, dark days that I don't even like to think about?
Then logic kicked in. I literally said, "Hold up...she didn't technically save my life...she just gave me the tools and information that I needed to save myself." I could breathe again. I wasn't going to just forget everything I learned from her after my last session with her. I'm going to keep all that for the rest of my life. That means that I'll be (mostly) fine when my time with my therapist is over. (I can also always find another therapist if I need help maintaining wellness or if I start struggling again.) I can continue to pull myself out of dark places and check my OCD and manage the anxiety ups and downs just like the I do the other 6 days of the week that I don't see her. Now, I see why she always liked to point out how hard I was always working to get better...for a moment like this, when I wasn't sure I could do it.
I told my therapist all these things at my next session. She might have even smiled about it. Her reply was, "I'm glad you realize that." She said it ever-so-calmly and in a matter-of-fact tone. She followed that with, "You're the one that's been doing the work." It felt weird to me that she knew that the whole time and I just realized it after an almost-spiral. She obviously had much more faith in me than I had in myself this whole time.
It's weird to realize that I did a thing that I never thought I could do. I feel like some kind of superhero to myself or maybe some kind of warrior queen. It's also weird to know that my therapist has all this faith in me when I didn't have practically any in myself. I can do this. I can continue to save myself when I have to. I can keep up the work we started together. I don't need to be terrified.
I'll end with this: A therapist's job isn't to save us. A therapist's job is to help us learn to save ourselves. That one small clarification makes all the difference to me. Therapists show us the tools, but we put in the hard work. We keep those tools and practices even when we no longer need the therapist so we can continue to put in the work it takes to get well.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
High-Functioning Mental Illness
Before my diagnosis, I honestly had no idea that what was happening in my brain could even be considered a mental illness. Aside from the spiritual nature of my obsessions, I was still functioning moderately normally. I was able to get into a good university. I was able to excel in my classes. I was able to go out, laugh, and have fun. I was able to maintain friendships (thinking the whole time that I was such a terrible person that I didn't deserve friends). Even after I graduated, I was able to maintain my level of functioning for a time. Sure, I had bouts of anxiety that made me cry myself to sleep, and sure, I had times when I thought it'd be a divine act of mercy if I didn't wake up the next day. But...those REALLY bad times didn't happen all the time, and most days, I could be outwardly fine while I felt like a terrible human being on the inside. It was more like a moderate level of a bad time all the time inside so that that became my normal so that I got used to feeling that way all the time.
My ideas of mental illness included only the severe cases that seriously impacted a person's ability to function. Someone in and out of hospital as they struggled with bipolar disorder I recognized as mental illness. Someone home from a combat zone, tormented by flashbacks and nightmares and unable to handle the unpredictability of crowds or to sleep at night, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so terrified of germs that they washed their hands until they were raw, cracked, and bleeding, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so depressed that they literally can't get out of bed, I recognized as mental illness. Someone (me) who only had trouble functioning sometimes (like on Christmas break my freshman year of university when I couldn't eat, was afraid to be out my mom's sight, and cried at night so that my mom thought I was having a nervous breakdown), I didn't recognize as mental illness since it only happened once.
I was still functioning, and I wasn't exhibiting any symptoms for mania or psychosis, so I thought I was (mostly) fine. I thought I was just having a rough time brought on by stress. I blamed it all on the stress of going from a high school to a university student (and the fact that I thought I was probably possessed). I would have low periods like this, and then as soon as I was able to get back into a routine I would be okay. I couldn't be mentally ill if I was still functioning in society at a "normal" level without mania or psychosis, so it had to be demons and stress, right? Wrong.
I had what you call a high-functioning mental illness. I was basically a functioning pit of despair and anxiety clothed in human skin, but I didn't see that as "true" mental illness (aside from the times I hoped I had schizophrenia instead of demonic possession) because I could still get up and go to class and do my homework like everyone else. I thought I didn't need treatment because I was still able to do everything I had to get done everyday, and so that meant my anxiety (and the thoughts that later turned out to be part of my OCD), weren't actually a mental illness. That was just how my life was and how my life would be. It would be a rough time, but everybody felt like they had a rough life to an extent, right? I had gotten so used to the low to moderate constant anxiety and feeling like a terrible human, so I could just keep on dealing with it.
Here's the thing about high-functioning mental illness: it's still mental illness, and it needs treatment. It might not affect your ability to function outwardly, but it does affect your quality of life. Anything that brings down your quality of life deserves to be addressed, whether it's through lifestyle changes, a self-help workbook, or therapy. Don't let it eat alive on the inside just because you still have the ability to go to school or work everyday. If something doesn't feel quite right, even if it's only sometimes, you don't have to just power through until the next spiral.
I'll end with this: High-functioning anxiety, depression, and PTSD are still mental health conditions that deserve the time and care of treatment. Trust me, just because you can manage your high-functioning mental illness right now doesn't mean that it won't get worse later without treatment. The goal of life isn't just to a functioning human. The goal of life is to be a healthy, happy human.
My ideas of mental illness included only the severe cases that seriously impacted a person's ability to function. Someone in and out of hospital as they struggled with bipolar disorder I recognized as mental illness. Someone home from a combat zone, tormented by flashbacks and nightmares and unable to handle the unpredictability of crowds or to sleep at night, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so terrified of germs that they washed their hands until they were raw, cracked, and bleeding, I recognized as mental illness. Someone so depressed that they literally can't get out of bed, I recognized as mental illness. Someone (me) who only had trouble functioning sometimes (like on Christmas break my freshman year of university when I couldn't eat, was afraid to be out my mom's sight, and cried at night so that my mom thought I was having a nervous breakdown), I didn't recognize as mental illness since it only happened once.
I was still functioning, and I wasn't exhibiting any symptoms for mania or psychosis, so I thought I was (mostly) fine. I thought I was just having a rough time brought on by stress. I blamed it all on the stress of going from a high school to a university student (and the fact that I thought I was probably possessed). I would have low periods like this, and then as soon as I was able to get back into a routine I would be okay. I couldn't be mentally ill if I was still functioning in society at a "normal" level without mania or psychosis, so it had to be demons and stress, right? Wrong.
I had what you call a high-functioning mental illness. I was basically a functioning pit of despair and anxiety clothed in human skin, but I didn't see that as "true" mental illness (aside from the times I hoped I had schizophrenia instead of demonic possession) because I could still get up and go to class and do my homework like everyone else. I thought I didn't need treatment because I was still able to do everything I had to get done everyday, and so that meant my anxiety (and the thoughts that later turned out to be part of my OCD), weren't actually a mental illness. That was just how my life was and how my life would be. It would be a rough time, but everybody felt like they had a rough life to an extent, right? I had gotten so used to the low to moderate constant anxiety and feeling like a terrible human, so I could just keep on dealing with it.
Here's the thing about high-functioning mental illness: it's still mental illness, and it needs treatment. It might not affect your ability to function outwardly, but it does affect your quality of life. Anything that brings down your quality of life deserves to be addressed, whether it's through lifestyle changes, a self-help workbook, or therapy. Don't let it eat alive on the inside just because you still have the ability to go to school or work everyday. If something doesn't feel quite right, even if it's only sometimes, you don't have to just power through until the next spiral.
I'll end with this: High-functioning anxiety, depression, and PTSD are still mental health conditions that deserve the time and care of treatment. Trust me, just because you can manage your high-functioning mental illness right now doesn't mean that it won't get worse later without treatment. The goal of life isn't just to a functioning human. The goal of life is to be a healthy, happy human.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Why Consent Matters
Consent is always important. Consent is important even when we're just talking to other people. What I mean by that is, consent is important when you are discussing the personal matters of another person, be it your friend, your family member, or even your child. You wouldn't discuss something highly personal, like a traumatic story, with other people without asking the person involved in the story, right? (At least, I would hope that everyone else would recognize that as a boundary.)
Recently, I found myself in situations when my mental health was discussed without my consent. I know I write this blog publicly, but that's a bit different. I decide what to share and when to share it in an effort to help another person who might be struggling with the same things as me. I consent to everyone seeing what is written here.
The situations that I'm talking about are different. Situation 1: Person A talks to Person B, and Person A says, "Megan sees a therapist." Person B then calls my mother and demands to know why I didn't tell them that I saw a therapist. I didn't tell them because I wasn't comfortable telling them because I don't trust them. Situation 2: I was in a group setting, and I only knew 2 people in the group. One of the people that I knew decided to tell practically the entire room of people that I did not know that I had "severe" OCD. They didn't ask me if we could discuss this before they brought it up, and I was angry as well that they thought they knew enough about me to be able to classify it as severe, which I do not. I did not give consent for these discussions either time, and neither person checked with me before putting me in that position.
I might not seem like it because of this blog, but I'm actually a pretty private person. Discussing my mental health without my consent is a boundary of mine. I don't talk about it over family dinner with extended family. I don't talk about it when I don't feel like I'm in a safe space. I don't talk about it when I have a day that my OCD has flared up and I'm easily triggered by things (because sometimes even just talking about my OCD can bring up the intrusive thoughts). I don't tell certain people, and they don't read my blog, because I don't feel safe giving them that information. Both of the above mentioned incidents felt like a betrayal of trust to me.
I'm not just being picky, I promise. Mental illness is traumatic. You really shouldn't discuss a person's trauma at any time without checking that it's okay with them first. You have no idea what it could do to the other person. By bringing it up when they aren't prepared, you could cause them to relive the trauma, you could send them into a spiral, you could make their intrusive thoughts worse if they have OCD, or best case scenario you could just really, really embarrass them. If it's something like Situation 1, you could actually be giving another person ammunition to bully them or belittle them, or best case scenario you've just started an argument when the person with the mental health condition has to explain why they didn't tell someone. Luckily, in both situations, they caught me on good days so that my dominant emotions were anger and awkwardness.
I'll end with this: Like with any traumatic thing, you should never talk about a person's mental health or share details about it with anyone unless you have the consent of the person involved. If you've been in situations like mine, it's okay to stand up for yourself and say that you don't want to talk about something or that you don't like what someone said. It's your life and your story, and you should get to decide with whom and when you share information.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Putting in the Time
Before I started going to weekly therapy appointments, even though I was a psychology major, I had some inaccurate ideas about what therapy was like. I didn't think "going to therapy" was a thing that lasted a long time. I had in mind a brief solution focused therapy idea of therapy where it was all focused on the solutions to the problem and minimizing the amount of time spent in therapy (less than a year in my mind). In other words, I thought I'd be almost completely "recovered" from OCD in around a year, possibly less if I worked hard enough on getting better.
I read online at the outset of my mental health journey back to wellness that it can take around a year of weekly therapy (and possibly medications) to treat an uncomplicated case of OCD (according to beyondocd.org). I read somewhere else that it can take up to 2 years to treat a moderate case of OCD. After I read these things, I thought I might be recovered by the end of a two year mark.
Reality check: I've been attending weekly therapy sessions for OVER 2 years now. I'm not "recovered". I'm still a work in progress. (I suppose humans are always a work in progress, though, right?) My weekly therapy sessions aren't winding to a close. I honestly have no idea how long I'll be in therapy.
I used to stress about how long I had been in therapy. Once I got to the 1-year mark I freaked out a little. Then when the 2-year mark blew right past me, I felt even more freaked out. (WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG?! I WANT TO BE BETTER NOW!) I mean, I had the tools to work through my OCD. I was using the tools to work through my OCD. Was my OCD worse than I originally thought? What was going on? Was I just milking my therapy sessions and stalling getting better?
Everyone's brain is different. Sure, somebody else might be done with therapy for their OCD in the above mentioned time frame, but that doesn't mean I have to be. That also doesn't mean that I need to give up on therapy and stop going just because it's taking me a longer amount of time. That means I keep going to my weekly sessions and giving my brain the time it needs.
I've heard people say that they used to go to therapy, but they stopped because they'd been going for a while and they just got tired of going. That's like taking your antibiotics and then stopping after the first couple of days because you feel fine. They get sick all over again, possibly even sicker than the first time around. If you only go to therapy long enough to dig through your mind and bring up old issues, you could spiral if you stop going before you deal with those old issues.
Your brain is a complex organ, and only going to a few months of therapy won't be enough to march through the rewiring process. Medications even take 2 to 3 months to bring about changes that you might notice. Give yourself time, and don't give up because you think it's taking too long.
I'll end with this: Your mental health condition didn't spring up overnight. It took time, just like it'll take time to work through it to a place you can consider "recovering". Don't get discouraged or feel embarrassed if treatment takes longer than you anticipated. Hang in there. Give your brain the time it needs to process and change. Cultivating a new, healthier, happier life takes time, and that's okay.
I read online at the outset of my mental health journey back to wellness that it can take around a year of weekly therapy (and possibly medications) to treat an uncomplicated case of OCD (according to beyondocd.org). I read somewhere else that it can take up to 2 years to treat a moderate case of OCD. After I read these things, I thought I might be recovered by the end of a two year mark.
Reality check: I've been attending weekly therapy sessions for OVER 2 years now. I'm not "recovered". I'm still a work in progress. (I suppose humans are always a work in progress, though, right?) My weekly therapy sessions aren't winding to a close. I honestly have no idea how long I'll be in therapy.
I used to stress about how long I had been in therapy. Once I got to the 1-year mark I freaked out a little. Then when the 2-year mark blew right past me, I felt even more freaked out. (WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG?! I WANT TO BE BETTER NOW!) I mean, I had the tools to work through my OCD. I was using the tools to work through my OCD. Was my OCD worse than I originally thought? What was going on? Was I just milking my therapy sessions and stalling getting better?
Everyone's brain is different. Sure, somebody else might be done with therapy for their OCD in the above mentioned time frame, but that doesn't mean I have to be. That also doesn't mean that I need to give up on therapy and stop going just because it's taking me a longer amount of time. That means I keep going to my weekly sessions and giving my brain the time it needs.
I've heard people say that they used to go to therapy, but they stopped because they'd been going for a while and they just got tired of going. That's like taking your antibiotics and then stopping after the first couple of days because you feel fine. They get sick all over again, possibly even sicker than the first time around. If you only go to therapy long enough to dig through your mind and bring up old issues, you could spiral if you stop going before you deal with those old issues.
Your brain is a complex organ, and only going to a few months of therapy won't be enough to march through the rewiring process. Medications even take 2 to 3 months to bring about changes that you might notice. Give yourself time, and don't give up because you think it's taking too long.
I'll end with this: Your mental health condition didn't spring up overnight. It took time, just like it'll take time to work through it to a place you can consider "recovering". Don't get discouraged or feel embarrassed if treatment takes longer than you anticipated. Hang in there. Give your brain the time it needs to process and change. Cultivating a new, healthier, happier life takes time, and that's okay.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
It's Not That Bad
When someone asks me about my OCD, I tend to list the criteria for the disorder, and then I tend to explain what it's like for me without going into too much personal detail. I should stop the explanation there, but I never do. I usually feel the need to hurriedly add something like, "It's totally not as bad as I made it sound" or "I know it's not as bad as it could be". In other words, I tend to downplay my mental health condition and the impact it has had on my life. My therapist has even pointed out that I do this during my weekly sessions.
I don't downplay my OCD because I think having OCD isn't actually that bad. I downplay it because I feel guilty if I don't. People can't physically see my OCD, and I'm still a high-functioning person. That makes me feel like, sometimes, I shouldn't say anything about my own suffering because I'm not suffering as badly as I could be. Sort of like, I know people have it worse, so I don't need to lump my "invisible" mental health condition in with those that are physically suffering.
The guilt and the idea that I have to downplay my mental suffering comes from the mental health stigma. The mental health stigma tells us all that mental health conditions "aren't that bad" or that mental health conditions are less than more visible health conditions.
Here's the thing: suffering is still suffering, no matter what form it takes. All forms of suffering need to be recognized and treated with compassion so proper care can be implemented. A sick brain is still a sick organ in your body that deserves the same level of respect that you would give a broken arm or a heart condition. A sick brain can take away a life just like any other untreated health condition.
Perhaps the most important reason we all shouldn't downplay our mental health condition is because it makes light of our victory. There were points in my life (both during my struggle with undiagnosed and untreated OCD and for a bit after diagnosis) that I doubted my ability to fight and win against my own mind, and it was terrifying. But I'm still here, and I'm in a much healthier, more positive place. By downplaying my mental health condition and making sure I add, "It's totally not that bad", I'm making it seem like I didn't fight like hell, with everything I had, every single day, for all that time to survive and get to this healthier place.
I'll end with this: If someone is dealing with a mental health condition, their suffering is not less than someone else's suffering with a physical condition. Suffering is still suffering and it deserves recognition, respect, compassion, and proper care. If you're managing a mental health condition and you're trying, and you're still here don't you dare take away your own victory by downplaying the struggle with your mental health condition.
I don't downplay my OCD because I think having OCD isn't actually that bad. I downplay it because I feel guilty if I don't. People can't physically see my OCD, and I'm still a high-functioning person. That makes me feel like, sometimes, I shouldn't say anything about my own suffering because I'm not suffering as badly as I could be. Sort of like, I know people have it worse, so I don't need to lump my "invisible" mental health condition in with those that are physically suffering.
The guilt and the idea that I have to downplay my mental suffering comes from the mental health stigma. The mental health stigma tells us all that mental health conditions "aren't that bad" or that mental health conditions are less than more visible health conditions.
Here's the thing: suffering is still suffering, no matter what form it takes. All forms of suffering need to be recognized and treated with compassion so proper care can be implemented. A sick brain is still a sick organ in your body that deserves the same level of respect that you would give a broken arm or a heart condition. A sick brain can take away a life just like any other untreated health condition.
Perhaps the most important reason we all shouldn't downplay our mental health condition is because it makes light of our victory. There were points in my life (both during my struggle with undiagnosed and untreated OCD and for a bit after diagnosis) that I doubted my ability to fight and win against my own mind, and it was terrifying. But I'm still here, and I'm in a much healthier, more positive place. By downplaying my mental health condition and making sure I add, "It's totally not that bad", I'm making it seem like I didn't fight like hell, with everything I had, every single day, for all that time to survive and get to this healthier place.
I'll end with this: If someone is dealing with a mental health condition, their suffering is not less than someone else's suffering with a physical condition. Suffering is still suffering and it deserves recognition, respect, compassion, and proper care. If you're managing a mental health condition and you're trying, and you're still here don't you dare take away your own victory by downplaying the struggle with your mental health condition.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Is This Who I Am?
I have struggled with a mental health condition for my entire adult life. My OCD symptoms hit fast and hard in my last semester of my senior year of high school, and then I just spiraled with an out of control mental health condition for the next six years without treatment. As a result of that, while everyone in college was figuring out who they were and what they wanted, I was literally just trying to survive day-to-day life and hide my symptoms instead of trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted for my life. I just tried to be a who I thought I HAD TO be in order to prove everything my mental illness told me was wrong. (Hint: that never works because your mental health condition will feel like it out-logics everything you think or do.)
I was reflecting on how I've changed and how my life has improved since I entered treatment a couple of years ago, and I just had to sit there sort of in awe for a moment. I felt like everything had changed. My opinions, my thoughts, my political stance, my goals in life, what makes me happy, my hopes and dreams, what I looked for in friends and a partner...all of it had changed in the last couple of years since I had gotten my mental health to a more stable place. I noticed that I even dressed differently because my clothing style was no longer dependent on making sure I projected this "good" image (which, in my mind, meant that I couldn't dress in the way I wanted to dress because I like to wear a lot of black, and that might lead people to think that I was dark on the inside, like my outside projected. I couldn't give other people any reason to question my "goodness" while I was also questioning the same thing. I know that sounds crazy, but, hey, mental illness never makes sense.). Looking back at the girl from a couple of years ago, I didn't recognize her, and as I thought about her, I kept thinking, "That doesn't feel like me..."
I was talking to my mom about this the other night. I had gone on this long explanation about why I felt and thought the way I did now on a certain topic. I dove really deep with my explanation, and then, once I realized how different I sounded from even just a year ago, I stopped and looked at her for a second. I asked her, somewhat jokingly, "Is this who I am now?" Later that was followed up with a more serious question, "So, what..? I've gotten my mental health under control, and now I'm figuring out who I really am?" My mom was just like, "Apparently."
At some point I stopped thinking, "My OCD tells me this, so I have to prove it wrong by choosing this option, even if I don't feel like myself." Instead, at some point during my course of getting well and healing, I started to think, "This option would make me happy, let's go with that." The focus shifted from me trying to prove myself to my funky brain to me just trying to be happy. I even got shamed by a lady at a party once for stating an opinion, and I didn't feel like a bad person because I didn't have anything to prove to her about what a good person I was. I didn't even care if she thought I was a bad person because I knew I wasn't a bad person in that moment. I wasn't even motivated by my OCD to concede and change my opinion just so I could be perceived differently.
I was struck by the realization the other day that I can literally just make choices (within reason) that make me happy and that will be what I wanted long term. I don't have to prove how "good" I am with every single decision that I make so that I can make up for my bad OCD thoughts. (Example: I don't have to prove I'm a good person by choosing a career that directly helps people like I thought I did. Instead, I can write for a living because I enjoy it and it makes me happy.) As a result, stable, happier Megan seems to be quite different from OCD Megan.
I'll end with this: Figuring out who you are is hard for the average person, but it can be even harder for a person with a mental health condition. The first step is treatment for your mental health condition. It can take a long time to get out of survival mode enough to find yourself, and there is no shame in figuring things out later. We're only humans and we're always a work in progress.
I was reflecting on how I've changed and how my life has improved since I entered treatment a couple of years ago, and I just had to sit there sort of in awe for a moment. I felt like everything had changed. My opinions, my thoughts, my political stance, my goals in life, what makes me happy, my hopes and dreams, what I looked for in friends and a partner...all of it had changed in the last couple of years since I had gotten my mental health to a more stable place. I noticed that I even dressed differently because my clothing style was no longer dependent on making sure I projected this "good" image (which, in my mind, meant that I couldn't dress in the way I wanted to dress because I like to wear a lot of black, and that might lead people to think that I was dark on the inside, like my outside projected. I couldn't give other people any reason to question my "goodness" while I was also questioning the same thing. I know that sounds crazy, but, hey, mental illness never makes sense.). Looking back at the girl from a couple of years ago, I didn't recognize her, and as I thought about her, I kept thinking, "That doesn't feel like me..."
I was talking to my mom about this the other night. I had gone on this long explanation about why I felt and thought the way I did now on a certain topic. I dove really deep with my explanation, and then, once I realized how different I sounded from even just a year ago, I stopped and looked at her for a second. I asked her, somewhat jokingly, "Is this who I am now?" Later that was followed up with a more serious question, "So, what..? I've gotten my mental health under control, and now I'm figuring out who I really am?" My mom was just like, "Apparently."
At some point I stopped thinking, "My OCD tells me this, so I have to prove it wrong by choosing this option, even if I don't feel like myself." Instead, at some point during my course of getting well and healing, I started to think, "This option would make me happy, let's go with that." The focus shifted from me trying to prove myself to my funky brain to me just trying to be happy. I even got shamed by a lady at a party once for stating an opinion, and I didn't feel like a bad person because I didn't have anything to prove to her about what a good person I was. I didn't even care if she thought I was a bad person because I knew I wasn't a bad person in that moment. I wasn't even motivated by my OCD to concede and change my opinion just so I could be perceived differently.
I was struck by the realization the other day that I can literally just make choices (within reason) that make me happy and that will be what I wanted long term. I don't have to prove how "good" I am with every single decision that I make so that I can make up for my bad OCD thoughts. (Example: I don't have to prove I'm a good person by choosing a career that directly helps people like I thought I did. Instead, I can write for a living because I enjoy it and it makes me happy.) As a result, stable, happier Megan seems to be quite different from OCD Megan.
I'll end with this: Figuring out who you are is hard for the average person, but it can be even harder for a person with a mental health condition. The first step is treatment for your mental health condition. It can take a long time to get out of survival mode enough to find yourself, and there is no shame in figuring things out later. We're only humans and we're always a work in progress.
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