Do you think J.K. Rowling knew she was creating nearly the perfect analogy for OCD when she conjured up Voldemort? At least, from a physical standpoint? The lurking figure in the back. The alter ego that feels completely separate from our own mental state yet so attached that you question your own morals, values, and even sanity at times. The perfectionism. The OCD. The anxiety. Its debilitating. When I was little, my nervous system would be set ablaze when one of my parents would sit on the edge of my bed to kiss me goodnight. I constantly made my bed as I laid in it. I remember doing that from the age of 5 years old. I’ve consistently, throughout my life, have had great difficulty with relaxing. With letting my shoulders drop. With fighting the compulsive behavior. To act in a certain way, God forbid something happen to my family. Writing helped me through a lot of uncertainty. A lot of negativity when I was younger. I remember coming home from school and the days I wasn’t spending hours in the gymnasium perfecting a beam routine, (gymnastics was likely not the most conducive sport to my already taxed mental state), I would go home and write. Dark poetry, mysteries. Concepts about time, space. Abstract thoughts. I wrote some weird shit before I even hit double digits. My mom still has a drawer full of both handwritten and typed diary entries of mine throughout the years. It wasn’t all dark. I enjoyed writing love letters to my mom. Elaborating on her beauty, inside and out. I idolized my mom. And my dad. He was gone most of the time, though. For business. So again, needless to say, writing was my escape. And when you’re young, you’re completely and utterly void of any self-criticism that prevents you from enjoying what you love most. Yes, we can understand from a psychological viewpoint that at a certain age, we develop the capacity to understand and appreciate the feelings of shame, of being disappointed in ourselves, and this inner critic first presents itself. However, it’s presence creeps up into our lives more sinisterly. it’s built up throughout our experiences and reinforced through failures, difficulties, setbacks. “I knew I couldn’t do it. Why did I even try.” But when we’re little, when we only have eyes for what sets our souls ablaze, we don’t think twice about the what ifs. We think to just do what feels good. To run wild. To climb trees. To stare up at the stars. To catch minnows in the pond. To lay in the clover and search for that perfect 4-leaf head for hours on end. To disappear under the water’s surface and feel the cool envelope our skin. To feel the excitement of getting off the school bus and running full tilt for the house. Of laughing so hard your belly hurts. We’re less inhibited. We’re a bit unencumbered. And as we mature, our compass in life either directs us toward navigating a more confined path, directed by goals, personal tendencies, and personal values (or lack thereof for some, let’s be real). But when you’re little, it’s all about being big.
When I was little, I wanted to be huge. I wanted to be at the tip top of every tree I climbed. In every facet of my life. Throughout my life, I’ve consistently set forth to give my all to what I dedicate my time towards. And in that same breath, is the notion of, if you’re not going to do a job right, don’t do it at all. Well, what happens when that thought process mixes with an already anxious mind, obsessive compulsive tendencies? It’s cerebral mayhem. An absolute shit storm, house fire. The self-doubt, the self-loathing, the undulating ruminating of what could have been or what could be if I only tried harder. If I only worked more.
My goal is to gift myself writing again. Allow it to be my safe escape. Allow it to be imperfect. Allow it to be unintentionally intentional. Allow it to soothe my nervous system. Because let me tell you, the pressure of “you should be writing, it would be good for you” weighs heavy. Like you’ve swallowed a lot of that pool water and it’s sitting in your chest. Breathing becomes shallower. The pressure builds. The thoughts spiral. The should and what ifs become more tangible. More salient. Less abstract and more of something that is YOUR fault. And then you grab your laptop, nearly choking on your sentiments, and begin to write, only to have written something meaningful and your mind tells you to delete it. Type it again. And again. And again. And then you begin to add up the letters in the words and see if they come to a number divisible by three (my arch nemesis – literally every time on the clock that is added together and a multiple of three (e.g., 3:42), I have divided it by three – under pressure cooker type mental conditions. Like my own personal Voldemort is writhing in his turban and wont’ shut the fuck up. How disappointing to know I’ve been puppeteered by a disability? Sounds self-deprecating phrased like that. But that’s what OCD does. It first whittles it’s sticks when you’re young. Gets to know you. “okay, she’s the cerebral type. She likes words and numbers. Let’s fuck with it. She also loves her family. Loves animals. Lt’s raise these stakes. Let’s increase the water depth. Let’s turn the dial up on the current.” Whatever analogy you want to insert for feeling totally resistant against your own mind. It’s defeating. It’s disheartening. It’s maddening.
But I sit here typing this, knowing its imperfect, knowing I have not articulated everything the way I’ve wanted to. Knowing that I have left certain things unsaid. Knowing that it could be better. And knowing that someone else will likely read this and think I’m a nutjob. And you know what, I like all nuts. I prefer walnuts, though.
But maybe someone else will read this and understand. Feel seen. Feel a little bit reassured that others go through this. That OCD isn’t some dark force that color coordinates your closet. But being much snakier. Slimy. It meets you where your values are. Grabs you by the morals, and says, “do this or else” and you’re left with a railroad tie sitting on your chest and no question but to obey the fucker plastered to the back of your head.
Or we can say “how about I think for myself.” Meet the intrusive thoughts head on. Cut them off mid-sentence. Honestly, why do I give that bitch the kindness to keep talking, anyway? “excuse me. You’re being rude. You’re interrupting me. I’d like to be left alone” be nice. Be kind. But bid her adieu. Because he or she is no longer welcome. Gift yourself your inner childlike freedom. The beauty of being unencumbered and feeling the light, the dark, the depth, the light, the wood grain of life. Feel it and feel it so genuinely and momentously that you forget about the caged creature once squawking in the back of your brain. You’ve set them free as much as you’ve set yourself free.
