OCD: The gateway mental illness

During a session my therapist says, “I had lunch with Dr. Lindberg,”

Dr. Lindberg is my psychiatrist.

“Do you want my AA sponsor’s number, too? You all could go out to lunch and talk about me.”

She didn’t laugh, but scribbles a note and says, “I want you to call the OCD Center; we’ve surpassed my level of expertise.”

You know it’s bad when your outside help recommends outside help. It’s true — it takes a team of people to keep me upright. I figure that’s okay. Look at Oprah. She’s got a personal chef, a trainer and Gail. I have 3 professionals to keep me out of prison. Same thing.

I realized I was a little different from other people around the age of ten. It took me a while to figure out because I fit in perfectly with my family.

Nobody raised an eyebrow when I stayed up until 3 a.m. re-organizing my bookshelf for the 100th time (hardbacks couldn’t touch the paperbacks, all books had to be in order based on height with titles facing the same direction), no one blinked when my sister pooped under the porch and blamed the dog we didn’t have, when my brother set the neighbor’s back yard on fire, or when Dad started dealing drugs from our basement.

“What’s this scale for?” I’d ask.

“Weighing gold.”

Where was all this gold, I wondered, and why couldn’t we buy clothes somewhere NOT as embarrassing as K-mart, or worse — Zayre?

I searched the closets and drawers for Dad’s gold. I found tons of drugs that would have come in handy a few years later when I was in high school — but no gold. Allegedly, Dad buried a bunch of cash in the back yard, but he can’t remember where it is because he was too strung out when he dug the hole. He wasn’t the smartest drug dealer — not only did HE FORGET WHERE HE BURIED THE MONEY — he also fell in love with the merchandise. He did get a broken down 20-foot Lincoln Continental with a sunroof out of the deal. No tigers though.

Maybe it was the revolving door of scraggly men entering our basement and leaving a lot more energetic that started me thinking I might be different from my peers. Perhaps it was my inclination for breaking out in blotchy hives at slumber parties. Or maybe it was just the committee — an amalgamation of voices that nagged, mocked and kept me on high alert.

“You should put your stuffed animals in pairs, or they’re gonna get mad at you.”

“Face your shoes in the same direction, or something bad will happen.”

“They’re laughing at you. EVERYONE is laughing at you.”

Puberty was fun with the committee. In addition to chin zits, BO and a mouth full of braces, those voices cultivated an overwhelming fear that I would step off the school bus — all my friends watching — to find Dad being handcuffed by a cop leaving me totally embarrassed, and with no chance to ever find the gold. My stomach was a permanent knot of acid. The only way I found solace was enclosing myself in small places. While coming out was popular in the 80s, I chose to stay in the closet. Literally. Just me, a lamp and my most trustworthy stuffed animals.

On my 13th birthday I was introduced to a new friend who would give me years of happy-go-lucky relief. Her name was Jack Daniels. The moment my lips imbibed her warm touch, I fell in love. We fired the committee. With her by my side, I became fearless, somehow taller — my hair no longer resembled a Brillo pad. 

I stopped worrying about coming home to Dad being read his Miranda rights. Shoes out of alignment? Stuffed animals pissed off? So what!
Along with her sidekick — Marlboro Lights — I was bullet proof. Nothing mattered except perfecting the art of shot-gunning cans of beer, smoking in the high school bathroom and getting my bangs higher than yours.
Mom suspected something was slightly off with me, but she had more pressing issues like sobering up Dad. Jack Daniels introduced me to Mary Jane, and we hung out in the school parking lot making magical moments. Matters like biology homework or kissing boys took a back seat to my new priorities. I laughed. I made you laugh. We had fun. Well, at least until college when Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds dropped by with a handful of paranoid delusions. It turns out people morphing into gorillas and blades of grass speaking in tongues can cause a few panic attacks. The committee had to be reinstated.

After college, I started a career in advertising — a safe haven where nobody ever lies or uses psychological warfare to manipulate the masses. Why did I stick around? The combination of 25-cent Budweisers in the vending machines, Happy Hours that started around noon and carried on into the evening, and outrageous marriage-destroying parties.

I worked overtime to get people to love me. I worked harder at mingling with co-workers than putting together client presentations. In fact, I don’t remember doing ANY work unless it involved an expensive dinner and a lot of boozy flirting. 

The reinstated committee developed a new brand of arrogance that was louder and feistier than the Italian parliament. Nothing could shut them up. I know because I put a lot of questionable items into my mouth, including, but not limited to: alcohol, pot, pcp, cocaine, acid, ecstasy, mushrooms, speed, sleeping pills, a coworker’s tongue, percoset, vicodin, xanax, crack, someone’s boob, and the worst of all, Twinkies.

I rode this circus train on and on until eventually a doctor said, “Stop drinking or you’ll die.”

“But what will I do at parties?” I asked.

“Drink a soda,” she handed me a prescription for zoloft.

I took the slip of paper and vowed to hit up an AA meeting. At the very least I would stop getting drunk and going to Carl’s Jr. at two in the morning. Maybe I would be employee of the month. Or shave off fifteen minutes on my commute because I wouldn’t have to realign the couch pillows five times… No such luck. The pills and absence of booze did not silence the committee — it just riled them up.

“Did you put on deodorant? Yep. I don’t think you did. I did. You smell. I’m fine. Go to Target right now! But I need to post something on Facebook. Nobody cares about your stupid updates — go get the deodorant before you lose more friends. And don’t spend too much money, fatty.”

I recruited an AA sponsor, a therapist, a hypnotherapist, an acupuncturist, a nutritionist, a colonic specialist. I prayed. I changed careers. I made amends. I prayed some more. I had more appointments with doctors than dates with men.

After psychotic episode #114 — the one where I was convinced everyone at the office was PURPOSELY drinking in front of me to make me CRAZY — a friend recommended her shrink. The good doctor unraveled the big mystery and proclaimed the correct diagnosis: bi-polar disorder, with OCD, severe depression and anxiety. I know guys — I am a real catch. Also, that diagnosis sounds made up. Doctors don’t know what our brains are doing, but in some cases they’ve seen people respond well to the proper medication.

“Medication?” I stomped my feet. I didn’t want a chemical lobotomy. Have you heard some of the side effects? I’m not sure what’s worse: wanting to commit suicide — OR — being a fat, drowsy, frigid, constipated member of society.

I cried, “Why am I like this? I don’t want to be all hopped up on drugs.”

Yes — I see the irony.

“If you were diabetic would you hate yourself for having to take insulin?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

And there it was, in flashing lights: 
No matter what — I would never be perfect. All those years, fighting to meet an impossible standard had created a chronically dissatisfied neurotic nutcase.

Who wants to admit they’re mentally ill — unless they’re trying to get state disability, or avoid a murder conviction. It’s much easier to ignore the warning signs and guzzle down bottles of wine, or quit jobs and flee to new cities, marry the wrong people, blame the assholes, chain smoke, eat pints of ice cream, and self-medicate to fall asleep at the night or get out of bed in the morning.

Pulling back the curtain of denial and facing the truth is painful. But that was the only way I could get better. Yeah, so my brain is a bit messed up. Aren’t most brains? After years of pumping mind-numbing poison into my body, I finally scored some drugs that actually work — AND my insurance covers them. It’s a good day when I can get out of bed and smile. It’s a great day when I laugh at the committee while they conspire to assassinate me. And it’s a tremendous day when I can love myself for being perfectly imperfect.