Going Around in Circles with OCD: Part 1
From around the age of 11 or 12, something began to change about me. Throughout all of elementary school, I had been a star student; in the gifted and talented program, the teacher’s favorite, etc., etc. I had been relatively social and outgoing, even if I did prefer video games to most social interaction. However, after the end of 5th grade, when my parents moved houses to put me into a better school district, who I had been before rapidly fell apart. Suddenly, whereas before I was rarely sick, most days I could barely get out of bed. In the 6th grade, I missed 30 days of school. In the 7th grade, I missed 40 days (though a part of this can be attributed to other physical ailments). In the 8th grade, doing somewhat better, I missed 25.
Every day I woke up, I felt sick, or at least I thought I did. I now know the feeling to be anxiety and fatigue, but prior to middle school, I only knew it as being “sick.” So that’s what I told my parents. The routine was regular and cyclical — I would wake up feeling awful and not wanting to go to school. At first, in the 6th grade, my parents listened to me and allowed me to take time off. I had never lied to them about being sick in elementary, so why now? But as things went on, they would check me for a fever (which was never there) and, if they reluctantly allowed me to stay home, we would then go to the local Urgent Care clinic that night to get a doctor’s note, excusing me from school.
Now this continued for a while, and in the 6th grade, it was understood by my parents as likely having to do with puberty, a bad immune system, or something else like being anxious about being in a new school district. I do not want to cast them in a bad light here, as they have only ever been supportive of me and understanding. But what I was dealing with was something that their generation didn’t even discuss, never mind actually deal with. They had no idea what they were even looking at.
Around the same time, my mother was also diagnosed with clinical depression. Her condition was terrible, and although this is likely best suited to an entirely different piece, I am still unsure to what degree the stress and other symptoms I dealt with as a result of how her condition worsened (or triggered) my own. Regardless, this would play an important role in how I handled my own mental health issues, and the response from my parents.
Eventually, after it was clear what I was going through was not a phase, and after having to go to a schooling board hearing about my lack of attendance, my parents took me to my general practitioner, who had known me my whole life from the moment I was delivered. Dr. Zhang (name changed for their privacy) was an old fashioned doctor to say the least, but after a few visits and associated testing, he came to a conclusion — that there was nothing physically wrong with me but rather that there was something mentally wrong with me. He recommended going to a mental health provider, for specialized care and diagnosis. My father protested, already being shocked at my mother’s condition with depression, and at the time he was barely able to support the household on his own. Eventually, he reluctantly listened, though to this day I do not believe he really heard what Dr. Zhang was saying.
This final appointment, however, did not end with me getting help, or seeking treatment. I do vaguely remember going to a counselor (more a talk therapist than anything) to discuss my feeling about my mother’s condition or any issues at home, but it was not proper psychotherapy. I was never properly screened. My symptoms were not discussed in detail. I was not then diagnosed with anything. I learned how to deal with how I felt, and I suppose that some of my symptoms did recede.
Now just what were my symptoms? Other than the general anxious and fatigued feelings I already described, I had certain “obsessions.” Now before writing this, only my therapist and SO knew about these, but I am willing to share out of hope that others may be able to relate to me, look to seek help, and even possibly understand their own struggles better.
The worst obsession I had was actually around video games. All of those days that I was home sick from school I was playing Sid Meier’s Civilization V for the most part. But it wasn’t fun. I felt like compelled to play, and in a very particular way. For anyone who has not played the game, the concept, or at the least the relevant part of it for what I am writing, is simple. It is a turn-based game where you start off on a randomly generated world and build a civilization from a single city.
This is what my obsession latched on to. I would have to have a perfectly generated map to play. It had to look right. It had to feel right. What does that mean? To this day, I have absolutely no idea, and I did not know even back then. I do not think I was ever satisfied with what start I got more than once or twice. Over literally what must have been thousands and thousands of restarts, and what I know to be a cumulative 400 or so hours, maybe a dozen times did I get a start that seemed to relieve any of my anxiety or that satisfied me. Only once or twice was there a game where I felt fine going all the way through — I often had to restart an hour or two into playing because I did not like the way the map looked, or felt that something was just off. Some days I even felt compelled to stay home just to scratch this itch, even if I did not necessarily start off feeling especially anxious when I woke up.
Now, I had never thought about this before being properly diagnosed. My video game obsession eventually went away on its own, and I was far too embarrassed to tell anyone about it. This is why my friends and family do not know about it. To some degree, it is not just embarrassing, it can be very concerning. I knew there was something wrong, I knew that I obtained some relief from my compulsive restarting, and I thought I could end the feeling if I got it just right. But the cycle of obsessions, compulsions, and the resulting relief of clicking that button over and over, even for just a second, made me ignore the first part of that — that something was very clearly wrong and abnormal.
There are probably similar examples to this one, but this was by far the worst in terms of how much time it physically consumed. It sounds kind of crazy, and that is by far the most common concern I have heard when people I personally know with OCD discuss their own symptoms. People start becoming worried they actually are kind of crazy, especially when the obsessions and compulsions, such as a contamination obsession and compulsive hand washing, take up even more time in someone’s day. They are embarrassed, aware that their behavior is irrational (not to say they do not have their own rationale, as there is a clear reason why people perform compulsions). As a result, they do not seek help, resigning themselves to a cycle that is uncomfortable, but also familiar and (in the beginning) even possibly functional, in the worst sense of those words.
What is most important about this specific compulsion to me is that this is the only really debilitating physical obsessive-compulsive fixation that I have ever developed. I did not understand it as such, and I was, therefore, unable to understand how to prevent it from worsening or to treat it.
Eventually, for whatever mysterious reason, this particular obsession went way on its own, or at least I became occupied with something else. As soon as this happened(although the anxiety and fatigue were still very much there) I improved significantly. Throughout high school, I missed about 14 days of school a year, and I had near straight A’s. I performed much better socially, had a few girlfriends, and found a place for myself.
However, my OCD still lurked beneath the surface, flaring up from time to time, more obsessional, less compulsive (at least physically speaking). In hindsight, my compulsions were still there, but they became mental and harder to recognize as such.
Even though I knew something was wrong, I did not want a diagnosis. I did not want to be like my mother, to end up like her, as wrong as that may sound. I white-knuckled the symptoms as long as I could, hoping that they were a result of the stress of my home life. I would usually succumb to anxiety, needing to take a day off to lay in my room, or sometimes perhaps a week. I kept up with schoolwork in my absence, and told myself whatever I had to get through things. “As soon as I go to college,” I constantly reassured myself, “this will all get better. You don’t have a mental disorder, you have a hard home life.” I was scared of the stigma and therefore I was in denial about the severity of my symptoms. I was ultimately wrong about them just going away when I got away from home. I ultimately had to get help, and only when OCD started tearing apart my relationships and once again took away my ability to do work did I face that fact.
If I had only understood OCD as I do now, I could have avoided a lot of suffering and missed experiences. I know that the past cannot be undone, but I hope that this piece, and the future installments in the series, can help someone else avoid the mistakes that I have made. Part 2 and beyond will focus more on my reflections on how my OCD manifested itself in high school, college, and eventually, how I had to face it head-on.
-M.M.
Part 2 can be found here:
https://medium.com/invisible-illness/going-around-in-circles-with-ocd-part-2-c543c46e52a2
