I read an article today that really bothered me. The author wrote about the suicide of her teenage daughter due to OCD but it seemed to me to be very one sided. It read to be more about how much the treatment for her child's OCD cost the author, how long the drives for her child's treatment were, how her child's OCD destroyed her marriage, how it took and took and took from the author. I read this and as a sufferer from severe OCD for over 32 years, all I could think of was the teenager. What about all that she had gone through? What about all that she lost, because I can tell you from personal experience it was a hell of a lot more than the author did. After all, she lost her life to it. It bothered me that it seemed to be more of an itemized list of things that affected the author and inconvenienced the author but without it really touching on the absolute agony OCD is. This article bothered me for many reasons, but the biggest reason for me was the inability to get on the same level as the sufferer. Don't get me wrong, I believe the author loved her child very much. Maybe she was just unable to understand the immense pain and guilt that OCD causes. Maybe she was pressured for time and just wrote how OCD affected her personally and not how it personally affected her child. I don't really know. What I do know is that the article made me angry and sad all at the same time and it just clarified for me how most people just really do not understand Obsessive Compulsive Disorder very well.
To rectify what I read and found to be almost offensive, I wrote down 10 things that helped me when I was younger and still continues to help me today. This is not advice as much as it is MY OWN PERSONAL OPINION.
1. Don't say that your loved one's OCD tore your family apart and destroyed your life.
Not everything is about you so do not try and make this about you. A person's mental illness is just about them. You suffer because they suffer but make no mistake, your suffering is no where near the suffering we are going through. If you feel OCD is tearing your family apart, just imagine how much devastation it is causing us. Now imagine being told you are the one tearing apart the family on top of all of that devastation. You can't say something like that and not have the sufferer think it is their fault and that they are somehow responsible for having it. It only makes us feel like more of a burden to you. OCD is different from other mental illnesses, in that, we can tell that our disorder is negatively affecting our families and lives. We do not need you to point that out and make us feel less than because of it. Our OCD isn't something being done to you, it is something being done to us. We feel guilty that it affects you as well but it is not our fault we have OCD and saying something like only makes us unfairly blame ourselves just that much more.
2. OCD does not just pop up overnight.
We may have less obvious symptoms. Mine started at the age of four. My parents saw it and knew something was off, they just didn't know what. No one wakes up one day and just randomly starts touching door knobs twenty five times. Their symptoms may be more obsessional and less compulsive. Less noteworthy than others. It is not like catching the flu. The signs are there, hidden as they may be.
3. Please DO NOT say that you just wish they would be normal again.
That is a loaded statement. Once a person has OCD, normal is no longer a possibility. There is no cure. There is manageability. There is learning to live with it. There is having a good life and being OCD although, there will always be both good and bad days. The "normal" part of that person is a fun house mirror. A parlor trick. An illusion with smoke and mirrors. There is no normal, only normal for him/her. Drop the "just be normal" crap. It causes guilt we don't need and only further makes the sufferer feel bad about themselves. We aren't normal and we can learn to live with that fact. It is you that is holding on to an illusion when you say those things. It is your problem of accepting our mental illness, not ours.
4. Being a "tough love" parent is not always a good idea.
OCD is an anxiety disorder. When we are suffering from anxiety, the very last thing we need is to have more anxiety thrust upon us because you are frustrated. We are frustrated too. Frustrated that we suffer. Frustrated at the pain and agony that accompanies our suffering. And frustrated that clearly you have a lack of understanding of what we are dealing with here. Listen to their doctors/therapist's advice on dealing with your loved one's anxiety disorder even if they point out that something you are doing is wrong. Even if it isn't what you want to hear. Again, this is not about you. Nothing says "I blame you" like yelling and pushing the OCD person to do something they feel they can't do with snide comments or condemnation in your tone. You push them gently, with many supportive discussions. You slowly egg them on with love and affection. They will have to do things they are very uncomfortable with and your job is to be there for them. Not lording over them with judgment on as to why they are failing at it and with contempt in your voice. You do not simply badger and belittle OCD away. It does not work that way and if anything it can make it worse.
5. Stand up for us.
Stigma is real and there be will people who do not believe we have what we have. They will say derogatory things to us or about us. They may try to trivialize or minimalize what we go through. They may make remarks about us being over dramatic, lazy, and or looking for attention. They may be friends, coworkers, or even family members. They do not understand but that does not give them the right to assume they know anything about our disorder or how it works. OCD is very complicated with, often times, several different symptoms. To support us, you need to stand up for us to these people. Educate them if you can. Tell them to fuck off if you can't. No one needs to be accused, discriminated, badgered, judged wrongly, or stigmatized further when they are already suffering from something that makes them feel bad about themselves. This kind of thing can make a bad situation even worse and make a toxic atmosphere for both the sufferer and the one's that love them.
6. Stop rationalizing.
OCD has no rational components. Someone who is afraid of germs may have issues with one place or object deemed dirty to them and not with another. Some one might fear being touched by a white cat and not an orange one. Someone may have to open and close the front door ten times but not the back door. We are aware it makes no sense. That does not make it any easier for us to deal with. Case in point, I am a germ-a-phobe and I hate grocery stores. I don't like to touch shelves there or sometimes even the products I want to buy. I, however, have no issue with the shopping cart even though, I know that the handle of the shopping cart has all kinds of germs on it. My OCD is not triggered by this one object but triggered by other things in the same store. There is no rhyme or reason for our fears. Don't rationalize as to why one thing bothers us and the other things don't. Just accept that the fears are what they are.
7. Educate yourself.
OCD is a mental illness and as such has many different symptoms. There are also varying degrees of severity. Some may be more text book i.e. excessive washing, fears of contamination or germs, touching, counting, checking. There are also less talked about symptoms i.e. fears of being homosexual (or if you are homosexual fears of being straight), harm fears, medical fears, reassurance. There are outward compulsions and inward mental compulsions and just when you think you have your symptoms figured out they can and do change around on you. Unwanted intrusive thoughts and images often plague the OCD sufferer. There is an over abundance of guilt and shame. There are phobias and triggers to panic attacks. Some people do outward repetitive actions to calm their anxiety and some do repetitive compulsions inwardly in their minds. No one is exactly the same and no one's fears are exactly the same. So, what freaks one OCD person out may or may not bother the next OCD sufferer. To help, you should be familiar with the behavioral therapies that tend to be helpful with OCD and also the medications prescribed for OCD. You can educate yourself easily with websites, books, blogs, and doctors. Basically, if someone you love has been diagnosed with OCD then you should be educating yourself to how OCD works. It is so easy to find out more about OCD in this day and age that there is absolutely no excuse for walking around being wholly ignorant about it.
8. Be Patient.
There is no one all to be all cure for OCD. It does not go away over night. It takes years of therapy and finding the right medications to help the sufferer cope....Not months, not weeks, not days but Years. Be patient as we figure out our triggers and work tirelessly to get over them. Be patient when we have set backs, because everyone does. Be patient while we learn how to stand on our own two legs to fight the monster of our nightmares (anxiety). Be patient when we look for reassurances, repeat ourselves or our actions, get upset with something because it doesn't feel right or takes too long. We know these things are frustrating, they are frustrating for us as well, be patient. Be patient with the drug side affects that can make us cranky, bloated, exhausted, or weak. Be patient when we have to do therapies that push the borders of our comfort zones and we freak out. Be patient as we repeat this cycle over and over and over and over and over again. We can't help it and we are working really hard to be more functional.
9. Silence is not golden, it is deadly.
OCD is often thought of something humorous or quirky. In reality, it is a devastating mental illness that brings with it self doubt, frustration, immense pain, shame, and guilt. It can lead to other mental illnesses or coincide with them. OCD needs to be treated, listened to, and talked about. It is just as deadly as depression or any other mental illness. The weird things we do may seem funny to others but they are agonizing to us. They are painful to us. We need to talk about them. The deadliest thing about OCD is silence because if we remain silent we do not get the help we need nor do we help erode the reality of the stigma and bias that surrounds it. Shame keeps us silent. Guilt keeps us silent. Fear keeps us silent and silence is a killer. Let us talk. Listen to what we say. Continue to discuss it with others. Continue to educate to the masses. Never, ever remain silent.
10. Remember we are people too.
Sometimes the anxiety seems so all consuming that people can forget that we are more than just our mental illness. We are people too. We like to do things. We like to be happy. We love, we laugh, we play. We are not just OCD, we are also human beings. We are still the person you love even though we struggle. That never changes. Remember that although we have a mental illness, we are not just our diagnosis. We may need help but we are strong and resilient individuals. We are productive members of society. We are doctors, lawyers, moms, and dads. We are children and teachers and bus drivers. We are bloggers and authors and painters. We are factory workers, retirees, and mailmen. We are everywhere. We can be anyone. We are humans with dreams and desires and families. We are loved ones who have loved ones. Remember that we are not just OCD people. We are people who just happen to have OCD. And everything that applies to being human also applies to us as well because although we suffer, we are people too.
Neurotic Nelly
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
He Was Twelve.....Rant
This post may not be popular but I feel the need to get it off my chest. I am hurt and disgusted and I just have to say my peace because I am so angry that I can't see straight.
I don't write this as a minority. I have been unfairly judged for my hair color, my sex, and my disability but never because of the color of my skin. So, I wont pretend that I know what that is like. I do not. I am not writing this as someone who judges others because I don't, except in this case. No, I am writing because I am a mother...of a twelve year old boy.
We have become a country afraid....so afraid of stigmas, bias, and discrimination that we have killed in the name of fear. We have been so riddled with fear that we have lost all of our common sense and in many cases, our compassion. Fear makes us do stupid things like suspend a seven year old for eating a poptart into the shape of a gun, threatening an eight year old for drawing a ninja Halloween costume at school with suspension, and punishing a five year old girl with suspension and a forced psychiatric examination for threatening to shoot another student with a Hello Kitty bubble gun that shoots...bubbles.
And last year, what can only be described as asinine behavior by adults, turned fatal.
When I look at a picture of Tamir Rice, I see a happy, normal, typical boy. I see my son because I am a mother and all of our children are equal. All children are precious. He is was the same as my son. He was in the same grade. He seemed silly, and goofy, and intelligent like all twelve year old's are. No, they are not the same race and but I don't see race. I see someone's child. I see someone's baby.
Tamir Rice was a twelve year old boy who was given a toy gun by a friend to play with. He did what many kids would do, he went to a park and played with it. For that, he was gunned down by a police officer. It took two seconds from the time the officer pulled up until the officer opened fire on a twelve year old boy. His fourteen year old sister was wrestled to the ground and arrested for running towards her fatally injured brother and his mother was threatened with arrest if she didn't calm down when told. Tamir laid on the pavement in his local park in a pool of his own blood for four minutes before he was helped. He received no first aid by the police officers. He received treatment from an FBI agent that happened to be in the area. Apparently, his size was menacing at 5'7" and 191 lbs. Menacing enough that the armed police officer feared for his life from a boy armed with a toy. I suppose now, if your child has a growth spurt it can be used as an excuse to shoot them by substandard police officers....and they will be backed by the city that employs them.
It hurts to see the video. It was even more hurtful to hear what the city's attorneys of Cleveland Ohio said today about the shooting/murder of Tamir Rice.
Tamir and his family “were directly and proximately caused by their own acts. . .,” and they added that Tamir caused his own death “by the failure. . . to exercise due care to avoid injury.”
Later on the mayor apologized saying, "In an attempt to protect all of our defenses we used words and we phrased things in such a way that was very insensitive, very insensitive to the tragedy in general, the family and the victim in particular, So we are apologizing today as the city of Cleveland to the family of Tamir Rice and to the citizens of the city of Cleveland for our poor use of words and our insensitivity in the use of those words."
So as a mother of a twelve year old, I just want to say this....a twelve year old is a child. They are not held responsible if they drink, the person that gives it to them is. They are not held responsible if they are given drugs, the drug dealer is. They are not held responsible if they accidentally burn themselves on the stove. They are not old enough to consent to sexual activities, go to a bar, buy a pack of cigarettes, or drive a car. They are not put in the adult justice system if they are offenders because they are juveniles. If you fail to provide food, shelter, or adequate care for a twelve year old, they are taken away. They are not permitted to call the school and call in sick, a parent has to do that. They are not allowed to get a job, live on their own, buy certain video games without their parent's consent, or even see movies rated higher than PG13 without their parents in a movie theater. Hell, you have to sign a freaking permission slip for them to go on a freaking field trip for chrissakes, because they are too young to give permission on where the school takes them. They are not held responsible because at twelve years old they are not responsible....they are children.
He was being immature and "irresponsible", according to the city of Cleveland, because that is what kids do. Just like we did when we were kids. Most people in this country have played cops and robbers, or have made a poptart into a gun, or for God's sake pointed their finger like one when they were small. It's normal. What is not normal is being gunned down and then accused of being responsible for your own death because you did what all kids do. And I think adults have forgotten that. I think adults have forgotten what they were like at twelve years old.
My twelve year old is smart, funny, sarcastic, and brilliant. He is a great kid but he does stupid things, sometimes. And he does that because, like all twelve year old's, his brain has not yet fully developed enough to understand the ramifications and all of the consequences for his actions. But you know who does understand all of the ramifications and consequences? The guy that shot Tamir in the chest and claimed that he was a big twenty something year old black male. The guy who lied about the shooting. The guy who failed to protect and serve a twelve year old boy and ended up killing him instead.
If it wasn't horrible enough that an innocent child was shot because of a toy, to purposely and willfully not offer first aid to a dying child for whatever the reason, is completely unacceptable. Period.
I am not against the police. There are some great police officers out there. This is not about the decent hardworking police officers who do their job. This is about those who do not. As for the city attorneys and mayor, there is no apology you could give that would make what has happened, right. There is nothing that can be said that would bring Tamir back or erase the pain that his family will face for the rest of their lives. But if you were to give one, it might help to not bother to apologize about the wording some asshat lawyer made about responsibility and apologize for the death of the beautiful young man who had done nothing wrong but was failed in every way by the people that were supposed to keep him safe. Failed by the police officer that swore to serve and protect him. Failed by the justice system that excused his murder. Failed by the city that refuses to accept responsibility for his death and then failed again by the city trying to put what was their fault onto an innocent, unarmed boy. Because Tamir didn't kill himself he was killed by a police officer and there is a difference.
I do not accept the apology of the mayor of Cleveland. Such drivel is back tracking and covering up what appears to be the unequivocal stupidity of a group of people that can not seem to understand the difference between a child's life and an adult's decisions. I hear a lot of police officers say that at the end of the day they want to go home to their families and I get it, but maybe Tamir wanted to go home to his family that night too. And sadly, they both could have if the officer had not decided to shoot first and ask questions later. Yes, the gun looked real but even the 911 caller said he thought it was fake. There was not an orange tip on the end but the police officer didn't even know that because the toy gun was in Tamir's waist band. Even if there was an orange tip he would not have known until he pulled the toy out of the boy's pants as he lay there dying. Tamir was not given a chance to explain. He, much like the poptart kid, was judged guilty by an adult and punished on only the merit that something looked like a gun, except this time that judgment came with a death sentence.
For the mayor to say that the attorney's words were "insensitive" is ridiculous. What they said was hurtful, smug, ignorant, arrogant, and shameful. Insensitive is when you bump into somebody and forget to say "excuse me". Blaming the victim is not "insensitive" it is inexcusable.
And you would think that of all the education the attorneys and mayor and city "higher ups" had to get where they are today, they would have more sense than God gave a gnat to understand that. But what do they care, Tamir wasn't their son.
To accept this behavior is folly. Tamir isn't my son and yet he is. As is the poptart kid, the kids that made legos into guns and got in trouble at preschool. So is the girl with the bubble gun and the kid drawing Halloween costumes in class. These are all of our children. To accept such horrendous behavior and consequences and lack of responsibility based on our fear is dangerous, not to mention wrong. The city should care because Tamir is their son. He is all of our sons and he did not deserve to be mowed down in a hail of bullets on a freaking playground and there is nothing that can be said or misconstrued to change that fact. To accept the way he died and the lack of responsibility taken by those that killed him is the same as saying that you accept this happening to every child. Because he...was...just...a...child. He was twelve.
Neurotic Nelly
I don't write this as a minority. I have been unfairly judged for my hair color, my sex, and my disability but never because of the color of my skin. So, I wont pretend that I know what that is like. I do not. I am not writing this as someone who judges others because I don't, except in this case. No, I am writing because I am a mother...of a twelve year old boy.
We have become a country afraid....so afraid of stigmas, bias, and discrimination that we have killed in the name of fear. We have been so riddled with fear that we have lost all of our common sense and in many cases, our compassion. Fear makes us do stupid things like suspend a seven year old for eating a poptart into the shape of a gun, threatening an eight year old for drawing a ninja Halloween costume at school with suspension, and punishing a five year old girl with suspension and a forced psychiatric examination for threatening to shoot another student with a Hello Kitty bubble gun that shoots...bubbles.
And last year, what can only be described as asinine behavior by adults, turned fatal.
When I look at a picture of Tamir Rice, I see a happy, normal, typical boy. I see my son because I am a mother and all of our children are equal. All children are precious. He is was the same as my son. He was in the same grade. He seemed silly, and goofy, and intelligent like all twelve year old's are. No, they are not the same race and but I don't see race. I see someone's child. I see someone's baby.
Tamir Rice was a twelve year old boy who was given a toy gun by a friend to play with. He did what many kids would do, he went to a park and played with it. For that, he was gunned down by a police officer. It took two seconds from the time the officer pulled up until the officer opened fire on a twelve year old boy. His fourteen year old sister was wrestled to the ground and arrested for running towards her fatally injured brother and his mother was threatened with arrest if she didn't calm down when told. Tamir laid on the pavement in his local park in a pool of his own blood for four minutes before he was helped. He received no first aid by the police officers. He received treatment from an FBI agent that happened to be in the area. Apparently, his size was menacing at 5'7" and 191 lbs. Menacing enough that the armed police officer feared for his life from a boy armed with a toy. I suppose now, if your child has a growth spurt it can be used as an excuse to shoot them by substandard police officers....and they will be backed by the city that employs them.
It hurts to see the video. It was even more hurtful to hear what the city's attorneys of Cleveland Ohio said today about the shooting/murder of Tamir Rice.
Tamir and his family “were directly and proximately caused by their own acts. . .,” and they added that Tamir caused his own death “by the failure. . . to exercise due care to avoid injury.”
Later on the mayor apologized saying, "In an attempt to protect all of our defenses we used words and we phrased things in such a way that was very insensitive, very insensitive to the tragedy in general, the family and the victim in particular, So we are apologizing today as the city of Cleveland to the family of Tamir Rice and to the citizens of the city of Cleveland for our poor use of words and our insensitivity in the use of those words."
So as a mother of a twelve year old, I just want to say this....a twelve year old is a child. They are not held responsible if they drink, the person that gives it to them is. They are not held responsible if they are given drugs, the drug dealer is. They are not held responsible if they accidentally burn themselves on the stove. They are not old enough to consent to sexual activities, go to a bar, buy a pack of cigarettes, or drive a car. They are not put in the adult justice system if they are offenders because they are juveniles. If you fail to provide food, shelter, or adequate care for a twelve year old, they are taken away. They are not permitted to call the school and call in sick, a parent has to do that. They are not allowed to get a job, live on their own, buy certain video games without their parent's consent, or even see movies rated higher than PG13 without their parents in a movie theater. Hell, you have to sign a freaking permission slip for them to go on a freaking field trip for chrissakes, because they are too young to give permission on where the school takes them. They are not held responsible because at twelve years old they are not responsible....they are children.
He was being immature and "irresponsible", according to the city of Cleveland, because that is what kids do. Just like we did when we were kids. Most people in this country have played cops and robbers, or have made a poptart into a gun, or for God's sake pointed their finger like one when they were small. It's normal. What is not normal is being gunned down and then accused of being responsible for your own death because you did what all kids do. And I think adults have forgotten that. I think adults have forgotten what they were like at twelve years old.
My twelve year old is smart, funny, sarcastic, and brilliant. He is a great kid but he does stupid things, sometimes. And he does that because, like all twelve year old's, his brain has not yet fully developed enough to understand the ramifications and all of the consequences for his actions. But you know who does understand all of the ramifications and consequences? The guy that shot Tamir in the chest and claimed that he was a big twenty something year old black male. The guy who lied about the shooting. The guy who failed to protect and serve a twelve year old boy and ended up killing him instead.
If it wasn't horrible enough that an innocent child was shot because of a toy, to purposely and willfully not offer first aid to a dying child for whatever the reason, is completely unacceptable. Period.
I am not against the police. There are some great police officers out there. This is not about the decent hardworking police officers who do their job. This is about those who do not. As for the city attorneys and mayor, there is no apology you could give that would make what has happened, right. There is nothing that can be said that would bring Tamir back or erase the pain that his family will face for the rest of their lives. But if you were to give one, it might help to not bother to apologize about the wording some asshat lawyer made about responsibility and apologize for the death of the beautiful young man who had done nothing wrong but was failed in every way by the people that were supposed to keep him safe. Failed by the police officer that swore to serve and protect him. Failed by the justice system that excused his murder. Failed by the city that refuses to accept responsibility for his death and then failed again by the city trying to put what was their fault onto an innocent, unarmed boy. Because Tamir didn't kill himself he was killed by a police officer and there is a difference.
I do not accept the apology of the mayor of Cleveland. Such drivel is back tracking and covering up what appears to be the unequivocal stupidity of a group of people that can not seem to understand the difference between a child's life and an adult's decisions. I hear a lot of police officers say that at the end of the day they want to go home to their families and I get it, but maybe Tamir wanted to go home to his family that night too. And sadly, they both could have if the officer had not decided to shoot first and ask questions later. Yes, the gun looked real but even the 911 caller said he thought it was fake. There was not an orange tip on the end but the police officer didn't even know that because the toy gun was in Tamir's waist band. Even if there was an orange tip he would not have known until he pulled the toy out of the boy's pants as he lay there dying. Tamir was not given a chance to explain. He, much like the poptart kid, was judged guilty by an adult and punished on only the merit that something looked like a gun, except this time that judgment came with a death sentence.
For the mayor to say that the attorney's words were "insensitive" is ridiculous. What they said was hurtful, smug, ignorant, arrogant, and shameful. Insensitive is when you bump into somebody and forget to say "excuse me". Blaming the victim is not "insensitive" it is inexcusable.
And you would think that of all the education the attorneys and mayor and city "higher ups" had to get where they are today, they would have more sense than God gave a gnat to understand that. But what do they care, Tamir wasn't their son.
To accept this behavior is folly. Tamir isn't my son and yet he is. As is the poptart kid, the kids that made legos into guns and got in trouble at preschool. So is the girl with the bubble gun and the kid drawing Halloween costumes in class. These are all of our children. To accept such horrendous behavior and consequences and lack of responsibility based on our fear is dangerous, not to mention wrong. The city should care because Tamir is their son. He is all of our sons and he did not deserve to be mowed down in a hail of bullets on a freaking playground and there is nothing that can be said or misconstrued to change that fact. To accept the way he died and the lack of responsibility taken by those that killed him is the same as saying that you accept this happening to every child. Because he...was...just...a...child. He was twelve.
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Blinded.....
My mom always says,"There are none so blind as those who will not see." And I sometimes think that is where we are. This divisional line in the sand crudely drawn with broken bits of lumber and long crooked pieces of driftwood. I sometimes feel like I can explain it until I am blue in the face and yet there are not enough words to fully paint such a horrific picture. I could go on and on and on and yet you would not get it. Not totally. And sometimes I wonder if that is because you are unable to understand because you do not suffer from it, or if it is simply because you can not see it. Or maybe it isn't that you can not see it but rather that you will not see it. Because seeing it means having to acknowledge the depth of agony, fear, and frustration that rules my life. And honestly, who wants to see that in the one they love?
I sit there in a quiet room and I hear you not meaning to trivialize, but doing it all the same and I want to scream....I want to yell......that yes, OCD can cause all of this pain. Yes, OCD can screw everything up and no, it doesn't necessarily matter what else is going on at the time. It is not that the triggers cause the anxiety as much as the OCD causes the triggers to be there in the first place. Without the mental illness there would be no triggers, just everyday things in life that no one notices except people like me. So, it is in fact, just the OCD being the culprit and to pretend it is not such a big deal or that somehow I am blowing this all out of proportion is frustrating...not to mention, dangerous. Because OCD is a killer just as much as any other mental illness is and people need to remember that.
And I want you to understand my mental illness because if you did then you could understand me better. Because it is what makes me act the way I do, and it is what shapes my decisions right or wrong as they may be, and it is part of who I am. And since my youngest also has it, it would help you to understand him. It would help you to know what he will go through like I know what he will go through, because I have been in that hell for so long, I chose the wallpaper.
I really wish you could see. I wish I could explain it in a manner that didn't frighten you and that made more sense. I wish that you could see it as it is. It just is and like everything else, it is just something you have to learn to live with. I wish that it came with diagrams and maps and charts and picture books. I wish that it came with movies that depicted all of like it actually is and not the silly parts of it. I wish it came with warning labels and soft fuzzy blankets and posters to hang on the wall....I wish it came on coffee cups and in shadow boxes so that everyone could be familiar with it and understand it. So that everyone would know that it is a struggle and that struggle is real. That it is not an excuse for not doing something. It is not a fad or passing phase. It can get better but it never goes away completely. It is manageable but it is not "curable". And he and I will be just fine although we will have bad days. We will also have good days. And there is always hope that things will get and remain better. Nothing in this world is hopeless as long as you make sure to always keep a positive attitude.
I don't know how else to put it. Maybe I fail at describing it in a way that makes it understandable. Maybe I fail at showing you how it works but then again I can not always understand the things you have gone through. Even though, I try really hard to. So there is that. Maybe I too sometimes can not see the struggles you go through for the very same reasons you can not see mine. Maybe that is what life is.....trying to see others and their lives with complete honesty and compassion and having love for them just the same....
Neurotic Nelly
I sit there in a quiet room and I hear you not meaning to trivialize, but doing it all the same and I want to scream....I want to yell......that yes, OCD can cause all of this pain. Yes, OCD can screw everything up and no, it doesn't necessarily matter what else is going on at the time. It is not that the triggers cause the anxiety as much as the OCD causes the triggers to be there in the first place. Without the mental illness there would be no triggers, just everyday things in life that no one notices except people like me. So, it is in fact, just the OCD being the culprit and to pretend it is not such a big deal or that somehow I am blowing this all out of proportion is frustrating...not to mention, dangerous. Because OCD is a killer just as much as any other mental illness is and people need to remember that.
And I want you to understand my mental illness because if you did then you could understand me better. Because it is what makes me act the way I do, and it is what shapes my decisions right or wrong as they may be, and it is part of who I am. And since my youngest also has it, it would help you to understand him. It would help you to know what he will go through like I know what he will go through, because I have been in that hell for so long, I chose the wallpaper.
I really wish you could see. I wish I could explain it in a manner that didn't frighten you and that made more sense. I wish that you could see it as it is. It just is and like everything else, it is just something you have to learn to live with. I wish that it came with diagrams and maps and charts and picture books. I wish that it came with movies that depicted all of like it actually is and not the silly parts of it. I wish it came with warning labels and soft fuzzy blankets and posters to hang on the wall....I wish it came on coffee cups and in shadow boxes so that everyone could be familiar with it and understand it. So that everyone would know that it is a struggle and that struggle is real. That it is not an excuse for not doing something. It is not a fad or passing phase. It can get better but it never goes away completely. It is manageable but it is not "curable". And he and I will be just fine although we will have bad days. We will also have good days. And there is always hope that things will get and remain better. Nothing in this world is hopeless as long as you make sure to always keep a positive attitude.
I don't know how else to put it. Maybe I fail at describing it in a way that makes it understandable. Maybe I fail at showing you how it works but then again I can not always understand the things you have gone through. Even though, I try really hard to. So there is that. Maybe I too sometimes can not see the struggles you go through for the very same reasons you can not see mine. Maybe that is what life is.....trying to see others and their lives with complete honesty and compassion and having love for them just the same....
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Chameleon.....
I have been wrestling with some new issues lately and I am unsure what to do about it. I have lost about forty pounds in the last nine months. I was overweight. I carry it well and most people had no idea how much I actually weighed, and honestly I was perfectly comfortable being the weight that I was. I had no bad feelings about my body. I knew I was beautiful. I felt attractive. I was just fine with my weight except the lack of energy aspect. And then I got diagnosed with diabetes. Not necessarily from my weight, I have had several surgeries that affect your pancreas. I was on a liver medication for a while and there is a family history of diabetes in almost all of my senior family members. I also had it with both pregnancies and I was told that I would most likely get it when I was old. I didn't realize that old was translated as 34 but whatever. And so in hopes to better control my diabetes and hopefully get off the medication, I have been healthily losing weight.
My issue is that now that I have gone down two dress sizes, I am uncomfortable with my body. I haven't been this size in years. I no longer know how to dress it in a flattering way. I still feel like I am the same size I was nine months ago. I am stuck in the fatself mindset. I know I have lost weight and yet I still think of myself forty pounds heavier. I can't seem to accept my weight loss and if I am being honest, I am unhappy because it is new, and we all know how well new things go over with people that have OCD.
I have been thinking about why I was happy being my old weight and I have come to the conclusion that I was happier that way because it helped in not bringing attention to myself. I don't like a lot of attention about my body. I have a large bust and I always got rude or pervy comments that made me feel uncomfortable or dirty. I always got picked on because of my red hair and being poor. Suggestive comments make me feel uncomfortable. I don't know how to respond when hit on, it makes me feel strange. And losing weight makes my bust size more obvious and I am uncomfortable with the comments I know I will receive. Maybe I was fine being heavier because I felt protected by the fat. I felt safe. Because I have always garnered attention from my red hair, my OCD, my larger bust. Maybe being fatter was a way to hide myself from the world and not be looked at and commented on. Maybe it was my way of remaining invisible to the masses when I wanted to be invisible. It was my security blanket and I carried it with me everywhere, except I wore it on my thighs and stomach rather than in my backpack. Maybe, now that my security blanket is shrinking and I am uncomfortable with the loss of it. And I don't want to live like that. I want to wear cute clothes and feel comfortable doing so for the first time in my life. I want to be able to wear lower cut clothing and not feel embarrassed because I have bigger breasts. Not feel dirty or ashamed that people say things I don't ask them to, because when they do I feel like I did something wrong or I asked for their pervish comments. I sometimes wonder if my sexual assault made me shutter away from wearing more low cut or attractive clothing because I am afraid of the attention it can promote. I guess I am uncomfortable with being viewed as sexy because it means people will look at me and I have tried to avoid being looked at that way all of my life. I want to be free of feeling like my body is something to be ashamed of. I want to be able to be proud of my body and not be afraid of what other people will say about it.
Don't get me wrong, I love the new energy I have. I love that my diabetes is more easily controlled. It may not go into remission even when I do get to my target weight. It all depends on if my pancreas was damaged by the surgeries or medicine I was on. I may always be diabetic, which sucks. But I can be healthier and stronger with it so I don't get the complications that diabetes can have. I just find it strange that the weight loss makes me feel less beautiful and more objectified. I have lived in the shadows away from that for so long I am afraid of it and not sure how I am going to become comfortable with it.
I think all sizes and shapes are beautiful and I wonder why I can not equate that to myself. Why do I feel less safe skinnier than I did fatter? Why do I feel less attractive? Is it because I force myself to look at my body now that I have lost weight and I never looked when I was bigger? I also have fear of becoming obsessed with my weight and falling into the old anorexia pattern I had when I was a teenager. I wasn't full on anorexic but I was dangerously close. It scares me. I don't want to become obsessed with my body image again, but I also want to be happy with myself. Ugh, it is all so confusing to me right now.
So, I will keep trying to get healthier and stronger. I will keep losing weight in a healthy pattern and do what I am supposed to do as a diabetic to further avoid complications and remain healthy. I don't know what to do about figuring out what clothes look better on me, maybe I need to try everything on in the store till I find something that looks good. Maybe after time, I will get used to my security blanket being gone and I will learn to accept a skinnier me, a healthier me. Maybe I will finally stop being trapped in the " I am fat" way of thinking as I grow used to being less big. Maybe I can get over this fear of the whole thing. Maybe I can learn to love myself skinny, and accept my beauty with a smaller figure like I did with my bigger one. I don't know. Most people are thrilled when they lose weight...I am scared of the changes that come with it. Oh well, you know me, I will just keep trying until I get it right and learn to adapt. I have been a chameleon all of my life, changing as my life changes and adapting when I need to. Guess this will just be yet another thing I have to learn to adapt to.
Neurotic Nelly
My issue is that now that I have gone down two dress sizes, I am uncomfortable with my body. I haven't been this size in years. I no longer know how to dress it in a flattering way. I still feel like I am the same size I was nine months ago. I am stuck in the fatself mindset. I know I have lost weight and yet I still think of myself forty pounds heavier. I can't seem to accept my weight loss and if I am being honest, I am unhappy because it is new, and we all know how well new things go over with people that have OCD.
I have been thinking about why I was happy being my old weight and I have come to the conclusion that I was happier that way because it helped in not bringing attention to myself. I don't like a lot of attention about my body. I have a large bust and I always got rude or pervy comments that made me feel uncomfortable or dirty. I always got picked on because of my red hair and being poor. Suggestive comments make me feel uncomfortable. I don't know how to respond when hit on, it makes me feel strange. And losing weight makes my bust size more obvious and I am uncomfortable with the comments I know I will receive. Maybe I was fine being heavier because I felt protected by the fat. I felt safe. Because I have always garnered attention from my red hair, my OCD, my larger bust. Maybe being fatter was a way to hide myself from the world and not be looked at and commented on. Maybe it was my way of remaining invisible to the masses when I wanted to be invisible. It was my security blanket and I carried it with me everywhere, except I wore it on my thighs and stomach rather than in my backpack. Maybe, now that my security blanket is shrinking and I am uncomfortable with the loss of it. And I don't want to live like that. I want to wear cute clothes and feel comfortable doing so for the first time in my life. I want to be able to wear lower cut clothing and not feel embarrassed because I have bigger breasts. Not feel dirty or ashamed that people say things I don't ask them to, because when they do I feel like I did something wrong or I asked for their pervish comments. I sometimes wonder if my sexual assault made me shutter away from wearing more low cut or attractive clothing because I am afraid of the attention it can promote. I guess I am uncomfortable with being viewed as sexy because it means people will look at me and I have tried to avoid being looked at that way all of my life. I want to be free of feeling like my body is something to be ashamed of. I want to be able to be proud of my body and not be afraid of what other people will say about it.
Don't get me wrong, I love the new energy I have. I love that my diabetes is more easily controlled. It may not go into remission even when I do get to my target weight. It all depends on if my pancreas was damaged by the surgeries or medicine I was on. I may always be diabetic, which sucks. But I can be healthier and stronger with it so I don't get the complications that diabetes can have. I just find it strange that the weight loss makes me feel less beautiful and more objectified. I have lived in the shadows away from that for so long I am afraid of it and not sure how I am going to become comfortable with it.
I think all sizes and shapes are beautiful and I wonder why I can not equate that to myself. Why do I feel less safe skinnier than I did fatter? Why do I feel less attractive? Is it because I force myself to look at my body now that I have lost weight and I never looked when I was bigger? I also have fear of becoming obsessed with my weight and falling into the old anorexia pattern I had when I was a teenager. I wasn't full on anorexic but I was dangerously close. It scares me. I don't want to become obsessed with my body image again, but I also want to be happy with myself. Ugh, it is all so confusing to me right now.
So, I will keep trying to get healthier and stronger. I will keep losing weight in a healthy pattern and do what I am supposed to do as a diabetic to further avoid complications and remain healthy. I don't know what to do about figuring out what clothes look better on me, maybe I need to try everything on in the store till I find something that looks good. Maybe after time, I will get used to my security blanket being gone and I will learn to accept a skinnier me, a healthier me. Maybe I will finally stop being trapped in the " I am fat" way of thinking as I grow used to being less big. Maybe I can get over this fear of the whole thing. Maybe I can learn to love myself skinny, and accept my beauty with a smaller figure like I did with my bigger one. I don't know. Most people are thrilled when they lose weight...I am scared of the changes that come with it. Oh well, you know me, I will just keep trying until I get it right and learn to adapt. I have been a chameleon all of my life, changing as my life changes and adapting when I need to. Guess this will just be yet another thing I have to learn to adapt to.
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Thing's I Learned.....
Well, I have found at that being more social is fun albeit, exhausting. This weekend was rife with family and trips and such. As a virtual shut in, it was exciting to get out and be out of the house. Away from the regular activities and scenery. I haven't gotten the bus pass and tried the bus trips. I am planning on doing them to learn the bus system and to get out more. Working on it and I am still a little apprehensive but I think I can do it. Anxiety be damned. Sometimes I am irritated by the way I have become. I remember when I was able to do such things without a second thought. Ugh.
And as a history buff, I so want to go downtown and take pictures of the ghost signs painted on a number of the buildings. (ghost signs = old painted advertisements that are faded). That is a good incentive I think.
So, we spent the weekend at my mom's house. We had water fights and tried to grill my famous bacon wrapped pork chops but the grill caught on fire and after we finally got that put out, we ran out of gas and had to bake them....I hate gas grills for obvious reasons. The night time was calm and serene and we listened to the people on the lake boats get drunk, play Sweet Home Alabama, and sing badly to it. We did work around the house for my grandma and I was going to give her a pedicure and paint her nails but we ran out of time. Her toenails will have purple glitter polish on them next time, trust.
I learned a few things. One, that my mother has developed a new type of snore that sounds a bit like eating an apple. That her husband has full conversations in his sleep with himself. That the quietest place in the whole house is my grandma's apartment because her oxygen machine drowns everything out and that will be where I sleep next time. I seriously thought her husband was talking to someone on the phone for the first twenty minutes until I realized he was talking in his sleep next to my mom who was busy eating imaginary apples made of air.....
I also learned that this is out there somewhere....I don't know what it is. What freaks me out is not just that it looks like some kind of moth, spider, alien snot hybrid...but that this is an exoskeleton. That's right folks, it's not just out there......it's bigger.......yikes.
Then after the wonderful weekend at mom's we went to the zoo to celebrate my youngest getting on the A honor roll twice this year. Something that our school district does to support better grades and the kids love it. We had a good time. It was thankfully overcast so I did not end up looking like I belonged in the lobster exhibit. However the amount of people was sometimes overwhelming for me. I almost had a panic attack in the reptile house. It had alligators in it which I don't like, but the real issue was it was stuffy in there, and crowded, and there were very loud angry babies screaming to their mothers about something or other. I had to make a quick exit before I totally freaked out.
Then it was on to the gorillas which also made me sad because they looked depressed in their tiny habitats. I wish they would make it bigger so they could have more room and not have to see some of the people being total asshats trying to get them to be more monkey like and do something impressive. They are animals people, not your television sets. They are not here to amuse you. Poor things. It just made me want to cry. What kind of life must they have to be stared and mocked at constantly with no where to run or be free. I felt like I knew what that may be like, the urge to run free but the inability to do so. I understand the feeling of being caged, we are not so different.
I think my favorite animal was the manatee. God, it looked like this glorious grey bubble of blubber that floats and swims and it was.....well freaking adorable. It had a baby with it which made the warm and fuzzies come back to me. It got tired halfway through the swim though, and decided to take a nap at the bottom of the pool. It's habitat also looked quite small.
I don't know maybe it is just me but I feel like the animals need more respect and bigger places to live. It just seems sad to me that they can see us. The lack of privacy is staggering, and I understand that it is a zoo but jeez do we have to be so close to them. Can't we give them a better place to live that doesn't seem so damned dreary and depressing? Maybe I am just projecting my own feelings but it seemed wrong somehow. This zoo is just not big enough for these magnificent animals. They deserve better.
Then we took the train ride. I love the train ride. The kids liked it too. I was distracted though, because this kid walked by me in line. He looked like he was looking for someone. He was about 9 or 10. I could see his bottom lip quiver and I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know the signs of anxiety sure as I know the back of my own hand and I knew he was feeling it. I knew just knew he was lost. I thought surely someone would say something to him but no one did. I watched him as he scoured the line and when he walked past me again I asked if he was alright. He was so upset he just unloaded with tears and panic that he had lost his family member and I grabbed him, hugged him and told him it would all be okay. We would get help. He was going to find them. I used the same pet names I use with all kids, honey, baby, son, ect. Trying to calm him because you could practically feel his fear emanating from him in waves. Well, I could anyway. He calmed a little as I promised I wouldn't leave him till we found some help. My husband pointed out one of the zoo workers and I handed him off to her but it took me like 5 mins to stop the tears falling from my face. Ugh. I hate that I get so overemotional. I was worried about that kid the whole 30 mins waiting on the train and the whole train ride. I knew when it is was over I was going to have to track down the zoo worker I handed him off to so I could make sure he was okay. I just kept imagining my kids going through something like that and it was tearing me up inside. I found her and yes, he had found his family member...Thank God. After that everything was great and we were on our way home. The trip was good but oh my god I was sooooo exhausted both physically and emotionally.
We all went to bed early that night. Lol.
I learned somethings on that trip as well. One, animals deserve more respect. Two, always keep an eye on your kids because it is so easy to get separated and lost. And three look around at the people around you and pay attention.. Someone might need your help and if you can offer that help, then do it for the love of God. Get involved. Don't just sit back and watch things unfold. We are all human beings and we all need to treat others with love and respect.
So, in short I had a great and tiring weekend. Learned lot's of things. I am behind on my blogging and house cleaning. But it was all worth it. Also I promise to make it out of the house more and be more socially active outside of the computer because, you know I can do this stuff. Even if it freaks me out a little.
Neurotic Nelly
And as a history buff, I so want to go downtown and take pictures of the ghost signs painted on a number of the buildings. (ghost signs = old painted advertisements that are faded). That is a good incentive I think.
So, we spent the weekend at my mom's house. We had water fights and tried to grill my famous bacon wrapped pork chops but the grill caught on fire and after we finally got that put out, we ran out of gas and had to bake them....I hate gas grills for obvious reasons. The night time was calm and serene and we listened to the people on the lake boats get drunk, play Sweet Home Alabama, and sing badly to it. We did work around the house for my grandma and I was going to give her a pedicure and paint her nails but we ran out of time. Her toenails will have purple glitter polish on them next time, trust.
I learned a few things. One, that my mother has developed a new type of snore that sounds a bit like eating an apple. That her husband has full conversations in his sleep with himself. That the quietest place in the whole house is my grandma's apartment because her oxygen machine drowns everything out and that will be where I sleep next time. I seriously thought her husband was talking to someone on the phone for the first twenty minutes until I realized he was talking in his sleep next to my mom who was busy eating imaginary apples made of air.....
I also learned that this is out there somewhere....I don't know what it is. What freaks me out is not just that it looks like some kind of moth, spider, alien snot hybrid...but that this is an exoskeleton. That's right folks, it's not just out there......it's bigger.......yikes.
Then after the wonderful weekend at mom's we went to the zoo to celebrate my youngest getting on the A honor roll twice this year. Something that our school district does to support better grades and the kids love it. We had a good time. It was thankfully overcast so I did not end up looking like I belonged in the lobster exhibit. However the amount of people was sometimes overwhelming for me. I almost had a panic attack in the reptile house. It had alligators in it which I don't like, but the real issue was it was stuffy in there, and crowded, and there were very loud angry babies screaming to their mothers about something or other. I had to make a quick exit before I totally freaked out.
Then it was on to the gorillas which also made me sad because they looked depressed in their tiny habitats. I wish they would make it bigger so they could have more room and not have to see some of the people being total asshats trying to get them to be more monkey like and do something impressive. They are animals people, not your television sets. They are not here to amuse you. Poor things. It just made me want to cry. What kind of life must they have to be stared and mocked at constantly with no where to run or be free. I felt like I knew what that may be like, the urge to run free but the inability to do so. I understand the feeling of being caged, we are not so different.
I think my favorite animal was the manatee. God, it looked like this glorious grey bubble of blubber that floats and swims and it was.....well freaking adorable. It had a baby with it which made the warm and fuzzies come back to me. It got tired halfway through the swim though, and decided to take a nap at the bottom of the pool. It's habitat also looked quite small.
I don't know maybe it is just me but I feel like the animals need more respect and bigger places to live. It just seems sad to me that they can see us. The lack of privacy is staggering, and I understand that it is a zoo but jeez do we have to be so close to them. Can't we give them a better place to live that doesn't seem so damned dreary and depressing? Maybe I am just projecting my own feelings but it seemed wrong somehow. This zoo is just not big enough for these magnificent animals. They deserve better.
Then we took the train ride. I love the train ride. The kids liked it too. I was distracted though, because this kid walked by me in line. He looked like he was looking for someone. He was about 9 or 10. I could see his bottom lip quiver and I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know the signs of anxiety sure as I know the back of my own hand and I knew he was feeling it. I knew just knew he was lost. I thought surely someone would say something to him but no one did. I watched him as he scoured the line and when he walked past me again I asked if he was alright. He was so upset he just unloaded with tears and panic that he had lost his family member and I grabbed him, hugged him and told him it would all be okay. We would get help. He was going to find them. I used the same pet names I use with all kids, honey, baby, son, ect. Trying to calm him because you could practically feel his fear emanating from him in waves. Well, I could anyway. He calmed a little as I promised I wouldn't leave him till we found some help. My husband pointed out one of the zoo workers and I handed him off to her but it took me like 5 mins to stop the tears falling from my face. Ugh. I hate that I get so overemotional. I was worried about that kid the whole 30 mins waiting on the train and the whole train ride. I knew when it is was over I was going to have to track down the zoo worker I handed him off to so I could make sure he was okay. I just kept imagining my kids going through something like that and it was tearing me up inside. I found her and yes, he had found his family member...Thank God. After that everything was great and we were on our way home. The trip was good but oh my god I was sooooo exhausted both physically and emotionally.
We all went to bed early that night. Lol.
I learned somethings on that trip as well. One, animals deserve more respect. Two, always keep an eye on your kids because it is so easy to get separated and lost. And three look around at the people around you and pay attention.. Someone might need your help and if you can offer that help, then do it for the love of God. Get involved. Don't just sit back and watch things unfold. We are all human beings and we all need to treat others with love and respect.
So, in short I had a great and tiring weekend. Learned lot's of things. I am behind on my blogging and house cleaning. But it was all worth it. Also I promise to make it out of the house more and be more socially active outside of the computer because, you know I can do this stuff. Even if it freaks me out a little.
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Freaking Myself Out...
So an update: I went and had the massage and it was nice. A bit awkward at first but it really helped my back and shoulders. Would I do it again? Sure. Do I want to get massage more than once a year...not really. It just really isn't my thing to do it very often. I mean hell, I haven't gone to a hairstylist in two years. I am just not very high maintenance, I guess.
I am having a problem as an OCD sufferer, that seems to be a reoccurring issue. I am freaking myself out...again. I won't sleep tonight. I have the sit down with my oldest's school and my lawyer in the morning. I am nervous. Sick to my stomach. My anxiety level is through the roof. I am worried they are going to lie some more and try to make this all seem like my fault. I am not really good with confrontational people. I have learned to stand up for myself better along the years but the thought of sitting in a group of confrontational people makes my pulse rise, my mouth dry, and my stomach turn. I just have to remember that this is for my son. If I remember that then I can do anything or take any kind of criticism. I will do anything for my children.
I hope that I look nice. I hope that I can pull off putting on enough make up to cover up the twelve pound bags I will be carrying under my eyes. I hope that my nerves don't get the best of me and I cry. I really hate when I do that. I hope that I can say what needs to be said to help my son and also to get the point across that how you treat your students really affects their performance. I hope that they see how my son needs their help and how the way they have acted only hurts those they are supposed to be helping. I hope that we make headway and the 504 goes through. We only have seven weeks of school left and I really need the good habits and work ideas figured out before he starts home school next year. I need this but more importantly he really needs this. I can't do it all on my own. I really need their help.
I guess all of this anxiety is just really a culmination of hopes and fears and a God awful case of the what if's. I really detest the what if's.
Sigh. It is just so scary to put your child's future in other people's hands or ask unwilling people to throw you a bone and be more helpful. I am scared plain and simple. I mean what happens if they don't give him the help he needs or they just keep doing what they have been doing so far? What does that mean for him? Will I have failed him as a mother again, like I did when I took him to the doctor in first grade and asked if he had ADHD and the doctor said no because he wasn't hyper? And I didn't push harder because maybe the doctor said what I secretly wanted to hear? That there was nothing that was going to make my child struggle. I didn't willingly let it go , I really trusted that doctor, but I remember being so relieved. Because I was ignorant on ADHD and I wanted my child not to be struggling. I clung to that branch of denial like a person drowning in a lake full of trees. I wanted him to not have this and so maybe looking back on it, I didn't push for answers strongly enough. I just took what that doctor said and ran with it. It ended up hurting my son in the long run and I will always hold that blame. That it took so long to get him correctly diagnosed.
Now I don't want to waste anymore time. I want to get started with helping him right away. I want to help him now and get him the help he needs with his school now. I don't have time for the teachers to take it personally or have their egos get involved. It isn't about me, or them. It is all about my son. How can I make them see that?
I wish I could just write what I want to say. Things always come out better if I write it.
I keep going over what I want to say over and over again. Trying to memorize it even thought I know there is no point in that because it never plays out the way you imagined it would.
I guess, I am just....worried.
So I wanted ask if you guys would do something for me. If you are a praying person would say one for me and all of the parents and kids that have to deal with this ridiculous crap? And if praying is not your thing, will cross your fingers for me? I could really use all the help I can get.
Thanks guys,
Neurotic Nelly
I am having a problem as an OCD sufferer, that seems to be a reoccurring issue. I am freaking myself out...again. I won't sleep tonight. I have the sit down with my oldest's school and my lawyer in the morning. I am nervous. Sick to my stomach. My anxiety level is through the roof. I am worried they are going to lie some more and try to make this all seem like my fault. I am not really good with confrontational people. I have learned to stand up for myself better along the years but the thought of sitting in a group of confrontational people makes my pulse rise, my mouth dry, and my stomach turn. I just have to remember that this is for my son. If I remember that then I can do anything or take any kind of criticism. I will do anything for my children.
I hope that I look nice. I hope that I can pull off putting on enough make up to cover up the twelve pound bags I will be carrying under my eyes. I hope that my nerves don't get the best of me and I cry. I really hate when I do that. I hope that I can say what needs to be said to help my son and also to get the point across that how you treat your students really affects their performance. I hope that they see how my son needs their help and how the way they have acted only hurts those they are supposed to be helping. I hope that we make headway and the 504 goes through. We only have seven weeks of school left and I really need the good habits and work ideas figured out before he starts home school next year. I need this but more importantly he really needs this. I can't do it all on my own. I really need their help.
I guess all of this anxiety is just really a culmination of hopes and fears and a God awful case of the what if's. I really detest the what if's.
Sigh. It is just so scary to put your child's future in other people's hands or ask unwilling people to throw you a bone and be more helpful. I am scared plain and simple. I mean what happens if they don't give him the help he needs or they just keep doing what they have been doing so far? What does that mean for him? Will I have failed him as a mother again, like I did when I took him to the doctor in first grade and asked if he had ADHD and the doctor said no because he wasn't hyper? And I didn't push harder because maybe the doctor said what I secretly wanted to hear? That there was nothing that was going to make my child struggle. I didn't willingly let it go , I really trusted that doctor, but I remember being so relieved. Because I was ignorant on ADHD and I wanted my child not to be struggling. I clung to that branch of denial like a person drowning in a lake full of trees. I wanted him to not have this and so maybe looking back on it, I didn't push for answers strongly enough. I just took what that doctor said and ran with it. It ended up hurting my son in the long run and I will always hold that blame. That it took so long to get him correctly diagnosed.
Now I don't want to waste anymore time. I want to get started with helping him right away. I want to help him now and get him the help he needs with his school now. I don't have time for the teachers to take it personally or have their egos get involved. It isn't about me, or them. It is all about my son. How can I make them see that?
I wish I could just write what I want to say. Things always come out better if I write it.
I keep going over what I want to say over and over again. Trying to memorize it even thought I know there is no point in that because it never plays out the way you imagined it would.
I guess, I am just....worried.
So I wanted ask if you guys would do something for me. If you are a praying person would say one for me and all of the parents and kids that have to deal with this ridiculous crap? And if praying is not your thing, will cross your fingers for me? I could really use all the help I can get.
Thanks guys,
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Teach The World......
I heard once that mental illness is the dulling of the senses, the cloudiness of the mind, the misty fog that envelopes one's emotions, one's surrounding, one's reaction time. That may be for some but, for me it is the opposite. It is a sensory overload, too much information, too many germs, too many unwanted stimuli, too much, too fast, too loud. It burns the senses. It tingles the nerve endings. It emotes the fear, anxiety and an overwhelming sense of guilt that never leaves it's roost. That feeling. That feeling of dread, merciless as it is patient, waits to spring on you but only when you are unaware and unprepared. (Figures).
Many people misunderstand OCD. They chalk it up to being quirky or think it is a humorous dysfunction. I want to yell.... scream.... plead. "Please for the love of god, some days I am barely hanging on here! Some days I want to melt into the universe like molten rock and seep far away into the depths of the dark alone! Some days I want to pound my head into the wall until I finally knock whatever sanity I am clinging to out of my head, so that way I wont realize that I am crazy and can just be crazy without the responsibility of knowing it. Worrying over it. Judging myself for it.
People don't get it.....
I am told constantly to stop worrying or just try and be calm. Try and be calm???!!!??? One does not stay calm with an anxiety disorder. You do not/can not calm the storm of emotions when the storm is really a tornado wrapped in a hurricane enveloped in a typhoon. It is impossible. It doesn't work that way. This isn't simply a thunder storm of fear with simple wind gusts and rain, this is a God given natural disaster. Blowing everything down and sucking up everything in it's path. This is a declared devastation area, not simply a little bit of anxiety.
The saying time heals all wounds is wrong. OCD sufferers never forget. Time makes no difference. Once the information, story, scolding, or fear is said aloud it sticks. It gets thrown in with the other information and swirls and spins in the washing machine of our obsessions. Never to stop, never to be set free, just filling the machine more and more full with no where for the run off to go, until it it starts leaking from the top. Pouring unto the floor in monumental amounts and with scary accuracy. My mental illness is showing again....it isn't the first time and wont be the last. The information, the fears, the doubts ricochet through the vacant halls of the mind. Bouncing from one fear to another. I can hear the them as they ping off the concrete and speed at break neck speed into the vast darkened corners of my mind.
Asking me to calm down or to forget is like asking a drowning man to stop flailing his arms as he struggles to stop inhaling water. It is like asking the child to forget their mother's voice. Asking the lion not to hunt when it is hungry. It is like asking your body to simply forget how to breathe. It is as involuntary as an allergic reaction.
OCD is no less unintentional. I can not control it but I can learn to function with it. It is not my fault that I have it and it is not my shame to carry. It is however, my cross to bear and I do it as best as I can.
It is for me like the water I swallow, the air I breathe, the feeling of earth beneath my feet. It simply is. So, please don't ask me to turn off something that has no off switch. Please don't ask me to stop. Please don't act like I am just doing this because I want to.
Try and understand my plight and my pain and then go on and teach the world. All of us suffer. No one enjoys it, some of us are just more used to it than others. Some of us handle it better and some of us are better at pasting a plastic smile on our faces and faking it.
Neurotic Nelly
Many people misunderstand OCD. They chalk it up to being quirky or think it is a humorous dysfunction. I want to yell.... scream.... plead. "Please for the love of god, some days I am barely hanging on here! Some days I want to melt into the universe like molten rock and seep far away into the depths of the dark alone! Some days I want to pound my head into the wall until I finally knock whatever sanity I am clinging to out of my head, so that way I wont realize that I am crazy and can just be crazy without the responsibility of knowing it. Worrying over it. Judging myself for it.
People don't get it.....
I am told constantly to stop worrying or just try and be calm. Try and be calm???!!!??? One does not stay calm with an anxiety disorder. You do not/can not calm the storm of emotions when the storm is really a tornado wrapped in a hurricane enveloped in a typhoon. It is impossible. It doesn't work that way. This isn't simply a thunder storm of fear with simple wind gusts and rain, this is a God given natural disaster. Blowing everything down and sucking up everything in it's path. This is a declared devastation area, not simply a little bit of anxiety.
The saying time heals all wounds is wrong. OCD sufferers never forget. Time makes no difference. Once the information, story, scolding, or fear is said aloud it sticks. It gets thrown in with the other information and swirls and spins in the washing machine of our obsessions. Never to stop, never to be set free, just filling the machine more and more full with no where for the run off to go, until it it starts leaking from the top. Pouring unto the floor in monumental amounts and with scary accuracy. My mental illness is showing again....it isn't the first time and wont be the last. The information, the fears, the doubts ricochet through the vacant halls of the mind. Bouncing from one fear to another. I can hear the them as they ping off the concrete and speed at break neck speed into the vast darkened corners of my mind.
Asking me to calm down or to forget is like asking a drowning man to stop flailing his arms as he struggles to stop inhaling water. It is like asking the child to forget their mother's voice. Asking the lion not to hunt when it is hungry. It is like asking your body to simply forget how to breathe. It is as involuntary as an allergic reaction.
OCD is no less unintentional. I can not control it but I can learn to function with it. It is not my fault that I have it and it is not my shame to carry. It is however, my cross to bear and I do it as best as I can.
It is for me like the water I swallow, the air I breathe, the feeling of earth beneath my feet. It simply is. So, please don't ask me to turn off something that has no off switch. Please don't ask me to stop. Please don't act like I am just doing this because I want to.
Try and understand my plight and my pain and then go on and teach the world. All of us suffer. No one enjoys it, some of us are just more used to it than others. Some of us handle it better and some of us are better at pasting a plastic smile on our faces and faking it.
Neurotic Nelly
Friday, March 28, 2014
Out Of My Comfort Zone.....
So, that massage thingy is going to happen this Monday and I am trying to brave about it. It is way out of my comfort zone but I am going to do it. Why? Because it was a present from my thoughtful husband and children. Because I would love to alleviate some of the stress I am carrying around on my shoulders. Because I deserve to be pampered dammit, even if it means I need to take a brown paper bag with me in case I need to hyperventilate whilst going through it. I can do this.
I learned a good lesson three days ago and I think it is always good to share lessons. Ya know, in case I can spare anyone from making my mistakes. My grievous errors, if you will.
I was letting my bangs grow out. I usually cut them to right under my eyebrows but I thought I would branch out and be cool and have side swept bangs. Again out of my comfort zone, but that is what I am trying to do these days....live outside of the box I have created for myself. (Box or jail cell, whatever term you feel best applies) But, the weather has been unkind to my hair and made it static clingy and frizzy. The bangs refused to stay over the eye I can't see out of and stubbornly hung over the one I can see with. Think unkempt sheep dog. It was irritating me. When I pushed them over, they parted and stuck to the sides of my face like some frizztastic hair mask. A hair mask, people. I got up in the morning after dealing with this crap for two weeks and I snapped. I decided I could not take it, not one second longer or I was going to just shave my whole bang area off like a reverse Harre Krishna. So I got my dull scissors out and chopped them off. However, I had made a miscalculation. I had forgotten the golden rule of cutting hair. Don't do it when it is wet. And do you know why that is the golden rule? Possibly the most important rule of hair cutting, ever? Because it dries shorter. Hang with me here for a sec. I cut them where I usually like them. And then they dried. An inch shorter...... ....... ......
So I am sitting here at almost four in the morning complaining about how my hair looks like a twelve year old girl's circa 1985. When I put my long hair up I look silly, and when I put it down it reminds me somewhat of a mullet. Great, just the look a 34 year old mother of two was going for. Yep, that's all me, business in the front and party in the back. Ugh.
And then I started thinking to myself. (look out!) Is it really wise to make decisions when you are frustrated? Probably not. I have never regretted a decision I have thoroughly thought through and I almost always regret decisions I have made when frustrated, angry, or otherwise in a negative frame of mind. So my advice of the day is, don't make decisions when upset and never cut your hair when it is wet...period. That way when are looking at yourself before you go out and do whatever it is that you do, you won't end up looking like someone maliciously attacked your head with a weed whacker. You can thank me later....
I mean, yea sure it grows out....but not nearly fast enough.
I was also thinking today that I am afraid of a lot of things. That is why I am trying so hard to step out of my comfort zone this year. It is all small steps but small steps lead to bigger ones and before you know it, you are running. That is my positive attitude talking, anyway. Although, I do feel that I am failing at stepping out of the box sometimes.
I am scared. I am scared of failure. To fail at being a good enough mom or a good enough person. I am afraid to reach for the things I want. Lest it be rubbed in my face that I have found yet another thing I stink at doing or can't do altogether. Like working or being "normal". Although, I certainly don't pass for normal after this hair cut debacle, so I guess that ship has sailed. Scared of germs. Scared of invisible diseases. I am scared of losing my loved ones. Scared of being yelled at or hurt. Scared of trusting people. Scared of anxiety. Scared of spiders and rabbits. Scared of having to take the bus. Scared of the what if's. Scared of messing things up. Not getting things right. Being the klutz and absent minded professor I sometimes am. I am just plain scared most of the time. I mean, I don't think that being scared is abnormal. I am not even sure it is a "bad" thing. I do know that I am proud of accomplishing things I never thought I could before. Like this blog and my mental illness G+ group. I am proud that for once in my life I have stepped out from behind the curtain and talked openly about the things I have held shut in so tight because of fear. Because I didn't want to be judged or misunderstood. That is until I realized that being silent wasn't keeping me from being those things. They still happened to me whether I was willing to admit it to myself or not.
I guess, what I am trying to say is that I think being scared of everything is okay, as long as you push on anyway. No, you are not always going to succeed but you can't prevail if you never try. Yes, it will be scary, and uncomfortable, and downright daunting. But it can be done.
I want to be more free. More independent. I want to feel like the adult I know I am. I want to feel proud of myself for once. I want my children to be proud that their momma can do things even though they may seem scary. I want to teach them that fear is normal but perseverance is everything. Nothing good in life is easy. So, I will continue to scratch and claw along and take one step at a time and slowly crawl out of my comfort zone day after day until it finally becomes less scary. Until I can finally see the light and have confidence that I can do the things I have always wanted to....
Until next post, Keep it Fancy....
Neurotic Nelly
I learned a good lesson three days ago and I think it is always good to share lessons. Ya know, in case I can spare anyone from making my mistakes. My grievous errors, if you will.
I was letting my bangs grow out. I usually cut them to right under my eyebrows but I thought I would branch out and be cool and have side swept bangs. Again out of my comfort zone, but that is what I am trying to do these days....live outside of the box I have created for myself. (Box or jail cell, whatever term you feel best applies) But, the weather has been unkind to my hair and made it static clingy and frizzy. The bangs refused to stay over the eye I can't see out of and stubbornly hung over the one I can see with. Think unkempt sheep dog. It was irritating me. When I pushed them over, they parted and stuck to the sides of my face like some frizztastic hair mask. A hair mask, people. I got up in the morning after dealing with this crap for two weeks and I snapped. I decided I could not take it, not one second longer or I was going to just shave my whole bang area off like a reverse Harre Krishna. So I got my dull scissors out and chopped them off. However, I had made a miscalculation. I had forgotten the golden rule of cutting hair. Don't do it when it is wet. And do you know why that is the golden rule? Possibly the most important rule of hair cutting, ever? Because it dries shorter. Hang with me here for a sec. I cut them where I usually like them. And then they dried. An inch shorter...... ....... ......
So I am sitting here at almost four in the morning complaining about how my hair looks like a twelve year old girl's circa 1985. When I put my long hair up I look silly, and when I put it down it reminds me somewhat of a mullet. Great, just the look a 34 year old mother of two was going for. Yep, that's all me, business in the front and party in the back. Ugh.
And then I started thinking to myself. (look out!) Is it really wise to make decisions when you are frustrated? Probably not. I have never regretted a decision I have thoroughly thought through and I almost always regret decisions I have made when frustrated, angry, or otherwise in a negative frame of mind. So my advice of the day is, don't make decisions when upset and never cut your hair when it is wet...period. That way when are looking at yourself before you go out and do whatever it is that you do, you won't end up looking like someone maliciously attacked your head with a weed whacker. You can thank me later....
I mean, yea sure it grows out....but not nearly fast enough.
I was also thinking today that I am afraid of a lot of things. That is why I am trying so hard to step out of my comfort zone this year. It is all small steps but small steps lead to bigger ones and before you know it, you are running. That is my positive attitude talking, anyway. Although, I do feel that I am failing at stepping out of the box sometimes.
I am scared. I am scared of failure. To fail at being a good enough mom or a good enough person. I am afraid to reach for the things I want. Lest it be rubbed in my face that I have found yet another thing I stink at doing or can't do altogether. Like working or being "normal". Although, I certainly don't pass for normal after this hair cut debacle, so I guess that ship has sailed. Scared of germs. Scared of invisible diseases. I am scared of losing my loved ones. Scared of being yelled at or hurt. Scared of trusting people. Scared of anxiety. Scared of spiders and rabbits. Scared of having to take the bus. Scared of the what if's. Scared of messing things up. Not getting things right. Being the klutz and absent minded professor I sometimes am. I am just plain scared most of the time. I mean, I don't think that being scared is abnormal. I am not even sure it is a "bad" thing. I do know that I am proud of accomplishing things I never thought I could before. Like this blog and my mental illness G+ group. I am proud that for once in my life I have stepped out from behind the curtain and talked openly about the things I have held shut in so tight because of fear. Because I didn't want to be judged or misunderstood. That is until I realized that being silent wasn't keeping me from being those things. They still happened to me whether I was willing to admit it to myself or not.
I guess, what I am trying to say is that I think being scared of everything is okay, as long as you push on anyway. No, you are not always going to succeed but you can't prevail if you never try. Yes, it will be scary, and uncomfortable, and downright daunting. But it can be done.
I want to be more free. More independent. I want to feel like the adult I know I am. I want to feel proud of myself for once. I want my children to be proud that their momma can do things even though they may seem scary. I want to teach them that fear is normal but perseverance is everything. Nothing good in life is easy. So, I will continue to scratch and claw along and take one step at a time and slowly crawl out of my comfort zone day after day until it finally becomes less scary. Until I can finally see the light and have confidence that I can do the things I have always wanted to....
Until next post, Keep it Fancy....
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Lurking...
It's there. Beneath the skin. Pulsing and pounding. Stretching and vying for a better hold. The anxiety. This damned feeling of ever present dread. And I don't know why. It hovers in the background like that forgotten something that I just can't quite put my finger on. OCD is like that sometimes. Not a conscious feeling but more of a subconscious guilt. A haunting of my soul. A mist of my mind. A deep fog that settles over everything I touch and see, making it impossible to breathe. I can't see it or smell it. I can't taste it or touch it with my hands but make no mistake, it is there. Lurking. Waiting. Stalking me.
It bothers me. The repetitive thoughts and notions. The overwhelming guilt associated with it. The unwanted images. The disturbing thoughts. The loudness in my head. The coppery taste of fear. The rapid heart beat. The sinking feeling of guilt that churns in the pit of my stomach. Always the feeling that somehow I have done something wrong........or worse, that somehow I am responsible for something bad happening.
If I had a quarter for every time someone has told me I am repeating myself, I would give Bill Gates a run for his money. I hate that. The notion that the fact that I can not simply just let things go, annoys people. I am not trying to annoy. I just can't help it. I can't let the subject go until I feel that I have been heard. Sometimes, not even then. I feel like the OCD feelings have filled me up to the point of spilling over and so I end up purging. I end up talking about the same things over and over again. Each time hoping that this time, finally, the bad feelings will ebb away. That I have released the OCD demon and can breathe again.
I wonder if other people understand me. I wonder if they understand the need to talk about the same things are a way to get them out. Set the creatures loose. That those conversations are the verbal equivalent of sticking my fingers down my throat to expel the guilt, shame, frustration, and pain. that they are me purging. I don't repeat myself because I forgot the things I said. I do it to be able to forget and move on to something else.
It is frustrating to talk and talk and talk and feel like I am being tuned out. I know that I have said these things a million times but until I feel the relief then I have to say them again. I need to feel like what I say has been heard. I know that's hard to do. To listen to someone go on and on and on about the same crap. I have OCD, I am not delusional. I know that I repeat myself. Sometimes, it is because I feel I wasn't really listened to. Sometimes, it is because the person I am talking to is bobbing there head up and down like they are paying attention but their eyes hold the thousand yard stare. Sometimes, it is simply because the feeling of the purge hasn't happened yet. I still feel too full of the negative, debilitating, taint and can't shake loose of the feeling of anxiety.
Only then can I enjoy a few moments of relief. Until something else pops up. Then I am sure I will have to talk about that as well...repeatedly.
Being repetitive is a part of having OCD. It is it's calling card, if you will. If we do something, you can bet we are going to do it again....and again...and again. It's all part of the illness and as frustrating as it is for you to have to hear it, it is even more frustrating for us to have to do it. Frustrating and painful. Devastating and often times lonely. Like ripping the scabs off of old wounds only to re bandage them again. So if someone with OCD wants or needs to readdress a subject you have already discussed, please take a moment and think about how hard it is for them to have to go over it again for the sixteenth time with the anxiety building each time. We don't enjoy it. We don't want to do it. We just want relief and if at all possible, a tad bit of understanding.
Until next time,
Neurotic Nelly
It bothers me. The repetitive thoughts and notions. The overwhelming guilt associated with it. The unwanted images. The disturbing thoughts. The loudness in my head. The coppery taste of fear. The rapid heart beat. The sinking feeling of guilt that churns in the pit of my stomach. Always the feeling that somehow I have done something wrong........or worse, that somehow I am responsible for something bad happening.
If I had a quarter for every time someone has told me I am repeating myself, I would give Bill Gates a run for his money. I hate that. The notion that the fact that I can not simply just let things go, annoys people. I am not trying to annoy. I just can't help it. I can't let the subject go until I feel that I have been heard. Sometimes, not even then. I feel like the OCD feelings have filled me up to the point of spilling over and so I end up purging. I end up talking about the same things over and over again. Each time hoping that this time, finally, the bad feelings will ebb away. That I have released the OCD demon and can breathe again.
I wonder if other people understand me. I wonder if they understand the need to talk about the same things are a way to get them out. Set the creatures loose. That those conversations are the verbal equivalent of sticking my fingers down my throat to expel the guilt, shame, frustration, and pain. that they are me purging. I don't repeat myself because I forgot the things I said. I do it to be able to forget and move on to something else.
It is frustrating to talk and talk and talk and feel like I am being tuned out. I know that I have said these things a million times but until I feel the relief then I have to say them again. I need to feel like what I say has been heard. I know that's hard to do. To listen to someone go on and on and on about the same crap. I have OCD, I am not delusional. I know that I repeat myself. Sometimes, it is because I feel I wasn't really listened to. Sometimes, it is because the person I am talking to is bobbing there head up and down like they are paying attention but their eyes hold the thousand yard stare. Sometimes, it is simply because the feeling of the purge hasn't happened yet. I still feel too full of the negative, debilitating, taint and can't shake loose of the feeling of anxiety.
Only then can I enjoy a few moments of relief. Until something else pops up. Then I am sure I will have to talk about that as well...repeatedly.
Being repetitive is a part of having OCD. It is it's calling card, if you will. If we do something, you can bet we are going to do it again....and again...and again. It's all part of the illness and as frustrating as it is for you to have to hear it, it is even more frustrating for us to have to do it. Frustrating and painful. Devastating and often times lonely. Like ripping the scabs off of old wounds only to re bandage them again. So if someone with OCD wants or needs to readdress a subject you have already discussed, please take a moment and think about how hard it is for them to have to go over it again for the sixteenth time with the anxiety building each time. We don't enjoy it. We don't want to do it. We just want relief and if at all possible, a tad bit of understanding.
Until next time,
Neurotic Nelly
Friday, January 31, 2014
It Doesn't Have To Be That Way...
Crumpled paper on the ground. Broken. Damaged. Wilted. Ignored. Devoid of all hope, all joy, all recognition. A stranger looking back from the mirror. Wasteland. Winter's icy fingers caressing your tear streaked face. Frozen in place. Haunted. Afraid. Ashamed. Muted. Alone.....
This is what it feels like to suffer from mental illness. And it doesn't have to be that way.
Guilty. Dysfunctional. Lost. Less than. Worthless. Pathetic. Unlovable. Untreatable. Loser. Ugly. Bad. Fractured. Failure. Baggage, A Burden. Stupid. Invisible. Forgotten...
This is what we think about ourselves. And it doesn't have to be that way.
Pain. Agony. Misery. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Loneliness. Fear. Anxiety. Fatigue. Loss. Lethargy. Stigma. Judgment. Abandonment. Grief. Paranoia. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear....
This is what we go through. And it doesn't have to be that way.
You see, we are afraid. We are afraid to be judged. To be abandoned. Forgotten. We are afraid of being told we are not good enough. That we don't matter. We are afraid of the sideways glances, the snide mumbles whispered quietly under your breath, the wary eyed looks from strangers, the mistrust. We are afraid of being ostracized and stigmatized yet again by people that don't understand, can't understand, or simply don't want to understand.
We feel alone. In a room crowded with people. We are the odd man out, the recluse, the sore thumb that rises above everyone else. The oddity, the abnormality, the freak. As the crowd cajoles and laughs and parties we are the person standing awkwardly alone in the corner trying to figure out how we could possibly measure up to all of the normal people having a perfectly normal time. And we judge ourselves for lacking to understand just what it is that makes us so damn odd. We hate it. We feel out of place. We feel wrong and obtruse. Our palms get sweaty and our mouths become dry.We hate the silence that accompanies the fear that allows us to concentrate on the loud thumping of our hearts that have risen in our throats, threatening to choke away the very air we breathe. We look around at all of the smiling faces and instead of feeling like everyone else, we feel broken and less than. Like tarnished silver in a room full of polished gold. And we don't understand why we can't feel shiny and new too. Why we can't smile like everyone else. You know, a real smile that actually meets the eyes. Not the forced smile we paint on our faces everyday to make it appear everything is just fine. Just fine. We are always just fine....to everyone else....except deep down....we know different.
Deep down we want to tell someone that we are not Just Fine. We want to reach out for help. We want to yell and scream from the rooftops that we are anything but just fine. We want to be understood and accepted. We long to be consoled and held and be told that we are not alone. That we are not broken. That we are not forgotten. That our pain is not invisible. We want to broadcast the truth. We want to explain, that not all wounds are visible. Not all illnesses are "physical". Not everyone is just fine, no matter how much they pretend to be...That we are the walking wounded, the mentally scarred. We are the people that live fractured lives, smiling fractured smiles, telling fractured lies, pretending to be whole. We are not whole. We don't even remember what whole is anymore. And it doesn't have to be that way.
We are not the scary monsters that lurk in the shadows waiting to swallow your children up. We are not the deranged ax wielding maniacs of the movies. We are not the dangerous violent caricatures media paints us out to be and we would tell you that....if you would only listen.....and not be frightened. Not be alarmed. Not be terrified to be in the same room with us...or worse yet, ashamed to be seen with us.
I keep reading the words MENTAL ILLNESS NEEDS LESS TALK AND MORE ACTION, and I am confused. Dumbfounded. Uncertain. Yes, there should be more action. More money funneled down into the system to help us. More beds open to receive those of us that have reached the thin red line of sanity. Those who are no longer sure what reality is or if they even want to stay in reality at all. There should be better resources, better coverage, and more doctors and staff. We should not be treated as criminals because no one knows what to do with us and locked in a jail cell because there is simply nowhere else to put us. All the beds are full. There is no room to hold us. There is no place for us to go in emergencies. There should be more action. To help us. To save us. To treat us...but how can there be more action if there is no talk to go with it?
How can there be understanding if there is no dialogue to explain what mental illness is like? What we feel. The issues we deal with. The fear that mitigates everything we do. How can we help ourselves if we remain silent? Mental illness isn't the killer. Not by itself anyway. The real killer, the real murderer in our lives is silence. The fear of what others incorrectly think mental illness says about us as a person, the fear of being judged and abandoned, the fear of the wary eyed glances and shifty stares. The fear of the stigma keeps us silent. The silence keeps us sick. The sickness makes us feel alone and broken. The brokenness slowly kills our soul, our self worth, and our resolve to keep going. The silence corrupts our ability to speak out and get help. It prevents us from supporting each other. It stops our ability to network and inform. It kills our belief in hope. And hope is the most important tool that we have. Hope for a new tomorrow. Hope for a new day. Hope that we can get better. Hope that we are going to have more good days than bad. Hope that we can live free of discrimination and judgment by others. Hope that somehow, somewhere there will be a better understanding of us and all that we go through. That we will one day be viewed like everyone else and not be feared or looked upon as violent offenders, when most of us are neither violent or offensive. If we do not speak, then our voices remain muted. If we do not open the conversation then no one will ever know that we are not just fine. That we are suffering. That we are in pain.
Not to mention, if we do not speak up then we can not correct the grievous mistakes that have been perpetrated against us. The bias, the discrimination, the incorrect preconceived notions, the misconceptions, and false fears. We can not teach the world that mental illness is not the thing of beasts or the creator of violence. It does not make us scary, dangerous, or evil. How do we teach the public that mental illness is a physical misfiring of the brain waves? A malfunction of the cerebral cortex? How can we show the world that mental illness is not just a way to seek attention or something that is just in our heads? How do we explain that mental illness is no different than diabetes, or HIV, or a birth defect except that it is located in our brains? How do we get more support and understanding if we simply cease to speak about it? If we hide behind fear and stigma? If we allow the silence to rule our lives and slowly strangle the fight away from us?
We don't have to feel this way. We don't have to remain miserable. We don't have to be scared or lonely. We don't have to believe the self hate and self deprecation that we have told ourselves for years. We don't have to be afraid to reach out for help, or to support each other, or even to speak about why we are not just fine. We do not have to remain muted and suffer in silence like our parents, our grand parents, and all of those that suffered before us. We do not have to live in shame and be ashamed of what we have. We do not have to live in fear of stigma and judgment and misconceptions, but to do that we have to stop being silent. You can not teach if you do not speak. You can not explain if you have no voice. We can not change the world by action alone. We have to open the conversation first. We have to be willing to lay it all out on the line and be honest. We have to stop saying that we are just fine when we aren't. We have to put down the paper dolls and toy trains and stop pretending. We have to realize that we are only forgotten and invisible if we allow ourselves to fade away into the darkness by accepting the stigma. By ceasing to speak out. By remaining willfully silent. We have to stop allowing the stigma to dictate our lives. We are not tarnished silver. We are not broken people. We are not crumpled paper on the ground. We are good, decent, strong human beings and we matter. We are valid and the only way other people will understand that is if we stand up and start talking about it. There is nothing shameful about asking for help. The is nothing shameful in standing up for yourself and there is nothing shameful in having a mental illness.
That saying shouldn't be MENTAL ILLNESS LESS TALK AND MORE ACTION it should say MENTAL ILLNESS MORE TALK AND MORE ACTION. Because we deserve both the right to get better help and the right to talk openly about why we need that help. Without fear of judgment. Without fear or retaliation. Without fear of being misunderstood or discriminated against.
We all suffer. Some of us are more open about it, some of us are more private about it but none of us should suffer in silence. It doesn't have to be that way and it shouldn't be that way either.
Neurotic Nelly
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Frustrating....
The weather has been crappy and cold. It feels more like the Antarctic rather than the USA. I have been feeling a little overwhelmed and tired. I would like to get out and take a walk. I would like to sit on the front porch and bask in the sun. I would like to pretend that this depressing and oppressive winter is gone and spring has arrived....but it's been negative 18 all day so that plan is out.
I am a positive thinking person. I haven't always been this way but as my mental disorder slowly and methodically ripped everything away from me, I decided to hold onto at least one thing that it couldn't take away....my attitude. I struggled to remain hopeful, I battled to look for the silver lining in everything, I fought to be positive in the face of that soul shattering desolace that was left behind after my OCD had taken a firm hold over my life. For me, being positive wasn't a natural disposition as much as it was a choice. A choice to refuse to let OCD make me miserable in spirit as well as in life.
I am always hopeful, always looking on the bright side, always reaching out to help. I am just wired that way through my personality but also through choice. I don't want to dwell in the land of negativity that I once lived in. It is a harsh unforgiving place. Cold and dark and depressingly lonely.
I want to walk in the warm fields, feeling the grass beneath my bare feet. To feel the sun warming the air around me and smell the crisp scent of the earth renewing, regrowing. Starting a new. I long to feel the cool gentle breeze through my hair and on my skin, giving me goosebumps from the sheer joy of it. I want to sit on my front porch with my husband and a warm cup of coffee and listen to the world wake up one bird song at a time. Hear the trees rustle. See the dawn break in it's magnificent pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. And I can't do that because it is the middle of one the coldest winters we have had in years. And it frustrates me.
I long to write prose and stories and my blog posts and not fear that my words will be turned around against me or be turned into something I did not say. Something I did not mean. Something I am unaware of. I long to write and not have to second guess what my posts might mean to others and if they will be taken at face value, as they should be. Because I always say exactly what I mean and if I don't write it, then I don't feel it. I long to write freely, unabashedly, unbiased, and most of all like I used to. All of this second guessing has made me deal with writer's block and I, as all writers do, detest writer's block. And it frustrates me.
I miss the calmness. This year I am going to be doing things that I need to do but inadvertently make me extremely uncomfortable. I am going to be going farther in things that I have ever gone before and it scares me. Terrifies me, really. But they are necessary for me to learn to be more independent from others and more independent from my mental illness. Small things that everyday people take for granted but haunt me like a reoccurring nightmare. This year my resolutions are small, seem petty, and to normal people would seem quite silly and juvenile. I am going to take small bus trips around my old town so I can learn to take the bus....by myself. Something I have never done before. Go somewhere alone and unprotected. I am going to start small like the library I used to go to years ago. That way, if I miss the bus I still know where I am. It is all my idea and all of my own accord to want to do this. I want to learn to be more self sufficient before I turn thirty five. I want to be able to go do things and stop missing out on life because I can not drive. I want to be able to go to my own doctor's appointments or take my children for ice cream and not have to wait til my husband gets home or call the plethora of family members to see if they can make time to take me somewhere. I want to be more free from my anxiety and fear. It's daunting and scary and it feels like I am years behind in this journey. Like I am a child. Like I am inadequate, somehow. Like I am just learning how to walk again. And it frustrates me.
I am going to be working on visiting friends. Actually going out and visiting them. Something I never do. That would mean taking the a fore mentioned bus, going out of my comfort zone, making sure I am on time, and letting go of the control I have weaved over my life like a thick woolen blanket. A blanket I originally wove because I thought it would make me more calm, when in reality all it has done is make my socialization become stagnate and allowed it to smother me. A few days ago, an old childhood friend that I recently reconnected with said that we should meet up sometime and shoot the breeze. I answered enthusiastically and got really excited at the possibility, but the voice in my mind laughed at me. "Yeah, sure Nelly. You, go out and actually leave the house....alone....to meet up with friends? Bahahaha that will be the day." I realized the voice was right. I have never gone out with friends alone without them or someone else driving me. Never felt comfortable with giving myself permission to do so and worse yet, never given myself the responsibility to try. My best friend lives less than thirty minutes away from me and although we talk on the phone often, I haven't seen her in over a year. I could make excuses, she works a lot (and she does), she is busy planning her wedding, she has so many things to do....but the truth hits me like a ton of bricks as I write this. I haven't seen her not because she doesn't have time for me, but because I have allowed myself to become unable to visit her. It's not her....it's me. I have allowed myself to become home bound on a strategic level, not because I have an auto immune disease that makes going out risky or because I have lost both legs from stepping on a land mine but simply because I am too scared to do so. And it frustrates me.
The things, illusions really, that I have clung to in my life that make me feel protected have in many ways, bound me to my illness. Some would call them excuses but I would venture further. I would call them crutches. Crutches that I used to think made me feel safe and secure. Crutches that held the anxiety at bay. I used to feel comfortable being shut up in my home. I used to be fine with just being how I am. I told myself that many times, but deep down I was just scared and maybe a tad bit ashamed. Ashamed that I am so very afraid to try new things. Ashamed that I let the OCD take away my ability to be more independent and free. Ashamed that because I feel anxiety, I have never learned to take the bus before I hit thirty five years old. That I have never went to the grocery store by myself and bought what I needed alone. That I have never just went across town for no reason at all by myself. That I have not allowed myself to explore the world, the library, the book store, the local restaurant, my friend's homes without being with someone else to share it with. That I have left out that part of getting to know myself that way. I mean, yes I know myself, but I don't know how to go anywhere alone by myself and I think that might be the biggest tragedy of all. That I have allowed my pretty house with all of it's comforts to become my sanctuary, my security blanket, and my prison all at the same time. I have allowed the OCD to do this to me, and worse yet I willingly participated in this event. I forgot how to fight it, or not fighting back became a habit, or I was too exhausted to try, or even that I simply allowed the fear to take over and I stopped trying all together. As I write this and look honestly at my life and the pain OCD has caused me, I am aghast at how far I stopped being who I truly am. A fighter, a positive thinker, a warrior of my ow mind. And it frustrates me.
I could dwell and sink myself into the self abuse pattern that many of us know so well. A part of me wants to. A part of me wants to blame myself and paint my misgivings and failures in big red letters across my chest like the proverbial Scarlet Letter but instead of an A for adulteress it would be a huge S for Scaredy Cat. A part of me wants to punish myself for all of the things I should have done by now but have allowed the fear to prevent me from doing so. But what would be the point in that? I have already suffered by not doing those things in the first place. Why punish myself twice for the same crime? I mean, I have a mental illness but it doesn't make a masochist. I don't enjoy suffering.
So, I am going to go with the positive approach. Not because it easier, it's not. It is always easier to stay in the familiar pattern of self abuse and self blame. We are comfortable there because we are used to it. I am going to not only not punish myself for not doing the things I think I should be doing but I am also not going to keep holding onto the old excuses and faulty crutches that keep me from doing them. It will be uncomfortable. It will be scary. It will be utterly terrifying in some cases, but I am no longer going to allow my freedom to be stolen away bit by bit by my OCD. I am going to get through this and slowly take back my life piece by piece. Yes, I am starting at an older age and I am relearning how to do things most people do on a regular basis, but they are not me and I can see the silver lining. It is better late than never and I am going to learn how to be more free, more independent, and just who I am without the comfort of my stifling security blanket that I have weaved around myself. I am going to write and not second guess my words. If someone wants to believe that I wrote something else than what's on the paper, then it's their problem. I have nothing to do with that. I can't change other people's minds. I am going to learn how to give myself responsibility for how I get to places and give myself permission to do so. I am walking out of the prison I have built for myself with pretty wall paper and comfortable furniture. I am going to seek adventure and not let fear keep me back. I am going to take that damn bus and learn to like it, or at the very least not be afraid of it. I am going to go to that library, and the store, and yes, my best friend's house. It is going to be hard but I am going to slowly learn to trust myself finally, one step at a time. One day at a time. One bus ride at a time. I can do this. I have to do this. I am going to do this...
Neurotic Nelly
I am a positive thinking person. I haven't always been this way but as my mental disorder slowly and methodically ripped everything away from me, I decided to hold onto at least one thing that it couldn't take away....my attitude. I struggled to remain hopeful, I battled to look for the silver lining in everything, I fought to be positive in the face of that soul shattering desolace that was left behind after my OCD had taken a firm hold over my life. For me, being positive wasn't a natural disposition as much as it was a choice. A choice to refuse to let OCD make me miserable in spirit as well as in life.
I am always hopeful, always looking on the bright side, always reaching out to help. I am just wired that way through my personality but also through choice. I don't want to dwell in the land of negativity that I once lived in. It is a harsh unforgiving place. Cold and dark and depressingly lonely.
I want to walk in the warm fields, feeling the grass beneath my bare feet. To feel the sun warming the air around me and smell the crisp scent of the earth renewing, regrowing. Starting a new. I long to feel the cool gentle breeze through my hair and on my skin, giving me goosebumps from the sheer joy of it. I want to sit on my front porch with my husband and a warm cup of coffee and listen to the world wake up one bird song at a time. Hear the trees rustle. See the dawn break in it's magnificent pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. And I can't do that because it is the middle of one the coldest winters we have had in years. And it frustrates me.
I long to write prose and stories and my blog posts and not fear that my words will be turned around against me or be turned into something I did not say. Something I did not mean. Something I am unaware of. I long to write and not have to second guess what my posts might mean to others and if they will be taken at face value, as they should be. Because I always say exactly what I mean and if I don't write it, then I don't feel it. I long to write freely, unabashedly, unbiased, and most of all like I used to. All of this second guessing has made me deal with writer's block and I, as all writers do, detest writer's block. And it frustrates me.
I miss the calmness. This year I am going to be doing things that I need to do but inadvertently make me extremely uncomfortable. I am going to be going farther in things that I have ever gone before and it scares me. Terrifies me, really. But they are necessary for me to learn to be more independent from others and more independent from my mental illness. Small things that everyday people take for granted but haunt me like a reoccurring nightmare. This year my resolutions are small, seem petty, and to normal people would seem quite silly and juvenile. I am going to take small bus trips around my old town so I can learn to take the bus....by myself. Something I have never done before. Go somewhere alone and unprotected. I am going to start small like the library I used to go to years ago. That way, if I miss the bus I still know where I am. It is all my idea and all of my own accord to want to do this. I want to learn to be more self sufficient before I turn thirty five. I want to be able to go do things and stop missing out on life because I can not drive. I want to be able to go to my own doctor's appointments or take my children for ice cream and not have to wait til my husband gets home or call the plethora of family members to see if they can make time to take me somewhere. I want to be more free from my anxiety and fear. It's daunting and scary and it feels like I am years behind in this journey. Like I am a child. Like I am inadequate, somehow. Like I am just learning how to walk again. And it frustrates me.
I am going to be working on visiting friends. Actually going out and visiting them. Something I never do. That would mean taking the a fore mentioned bus, going out of my comfort zone, making sure I am on time, and letting go of the control I have weaved over my life like a thick woolen blanket. A blanket I originally wove because I thought it would make me more calm, when in reality all it has done is make my socialization become stagnate and allowed it to smother me. A few days ago, an old childhood friend that I recently reconnected with said that we should meet up sometime and shoot the breeze. I answered enthusiastically and got really excited at the possibility, but the voice in my mind laughed at me. "Yeah, sure Nelly. You, go out and actually leave the house....alone....to meet up with friends? Bahahaha that will be the day." I realized the voice was right. I have never gone out with friends alone without them or someone else driving me. Never felt comfortable with giving myself permission to do so and worse yet, never given myself the responsibility to try. My best friend lives less than thirty minutes away from me and although we talk on the phone often, I haven't seen her in over a year. I could make excuses, she works a lot (and she does), she is busy planning her wedding, she has so many things to do....but the truth hits me like a ton of bricks as I write this. I haven't seen her not because she doesn't have time for me, but because I have allowed myself to become unable to visit her. It's not her....it's me. I have allowed myself to become home bound on a strategic level, not because I have an auto immune disease that makes going out risky or because I have lost both legs from stepping on a land mine but simply because I am too scared to do so. And it frustrates me.
The things, illusions really, that I have clung to in my life that make me feel protected have in many ways, bound me to my illness. Some would call them excuses but I would venture further. I would call them crutches. Crutches that I used to think made me feel safe and secure. Crutches that held the anxiety at bay. I used to feel comfortable being shut up in my home. I used to be fine with just being how I am. I told myself that many times, but deep down I was just scared and maybe a tad bit ashamed. Ashamed that I am so very afraid to try new things. Ashamed that I let the OCD take away my ability to be more independent and free. Ashamed that because I feel anxiety, I have never learned to take the bus before I hit thirty five years old. That I have never went to the grocery store by myself and bought what I needed alone. That I have never just went across town for no reason at all by myself. That I have not allowed myself to explore the world, the library, the book store, the local restaurant, my friend's homes without being with someone else to share it with. That I have left out that part of getting to know myself that way. I mean, yes I know myself, but I don't know how to go anywhere alone by myself and I think that might be the biggest tragedy of all. That I have allowed my pretty house with all of it's comforts to become my sanctuary, my security blanket, and my prison all at the same time. I have allowed the OCD to do this to me, and worse yet I willingly participated in this event. I forgot how to fight it, or not fighting back became a habit, or I was too exhausted to try, or even that I simply allowed the fear to take over and I stopped trying all together. As I write this and look honestly at my life and the pain OCD has caused me, I am aghast at how far I stopped being who I truly am. A fighter, a positive thinker, a warrior of my ow mind. And it frustrates me.
I could dwell and sink myself into the self abuse pattern that many of us know so well. A part of me wants to. A part of me wants to blame myself and paint my misgivings and failures in big red letters across my chest like the proverbial Scarlet Letter but instead of an A for adulteress it would be a huge S for Scaredy Cat. A part of me wants to punish myself for all of the things I should have done by now but have allowed the fear to prevent me from doing so. But what would be the point in that? I have already suffered by not doing those things in the first place. Why punish myself twice for the same crime? I mean, I have a mental illness but it doesn't make a masochist. I don't enjoy suffering.
So, I am going to go with the positive approach. Not because it easier, it's not. It is always easier to stay in the familiar pattern of self abuse and self blame. We are comfortable there because we are used to it. I am going to not only not punish myself for not doing the things I think I should be doing but I am also not going to keep holding onto the old excuses and faulty crutches that keep me from doing them. It will be uncomfortable. It will be scary. It will be utterly terrifying in some cases, but I am no longer going to allow my freedom to be stolen away bit by bit by my OCD. I am going to get through this and slowly take back my life piece by piece. Yes, I am starting at an older age and I am relearning how to do things most people do on a regular basis, but they are not me and I can see the silver lining. It is better late than never and I am going to learn how to be more free, more independent, and just who I am without the comfort of my stifling security blanket that I have weaved around myself. I am going to write and not second guess my words. If someone wants to believe that I wrote something else than what's on the paper, then it's their problem. I have nothing to do with that. I can't change other people's minds. I am going to learn how to give myself responsibility for how I get to places and give myself permission to do so. I am walking out of the prison I have built for myself with pretty wall paper and comfortable furniture. I am going to seek adventure and not let fear keep me back. I am going to take that damn bus and learn to like it, or at the very least not be afraid of it. I am going to go to that library, and the store, and yes, my best friend's house. It is going to be hard but I am going to slowly learn to trust myself finally, one step at a time. One day at a time. One bus ride at a time. I can do this. I have to do this. I am going to do this...
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Down The Rabbit Hole....
Hey everyone!
I am seriously thinking about turning some of my blog posts into a book. So last night, I decided to check out just what all that would entail and I don't mind saying that it was way more complicated than I ever dreamed....and kinda scary too. There are so many options to choose from and so much to do with them. The jargon was so over my head it made me sick to my stomach, my pulse race, my anxiety levels go bonkers, and my head hurt. Coded words like ISBN numbers popped out at me like some ancient foreign language I had never seen before and seemed to dangle just out of my reach of cognition. It made me feel inadequate and reminded me how much of a novice I still am in the writing world. I ended up feeling even more confused after reading the articles about self publishing then I did before I started. Self doubt crept in. I have no idea what I am doing...I'll never be able to publish anything....I will only fail...ect. Then came the second guessing myself. Am I really prepared to do all of this? Am I even capable of doing this? Will anyone even be interested in a book of my posts? What do I have to offer in a world full of wonderful and even not so wonderful self published books? Will mine be good enough?
I feel this way often. Secretly, because of my mental illness, I tend to feel like I am not good enough. Oh, I am good at things....but maybe not good enough. That's the kicker. That tiny little word at the end. Enough. The word seems non threateningly enough. It seems rather innocuous. It is but a small simple word and yet it haunts my dreams like poltergeist. It sticks in my head like a fishing lure bobbing up and down in my cerebral cortex baiting me....Am I good enough? Can I ever be good enough? Good enough at anything?
And so lies many of my dilemmas in life. Often times, I want to do something but fear of failing or the fear of not being good enough hold me back. And not just the fear of it but the pure extreme amounts of anxiety that go with it. It feels like I am falling down the rabbit hole again, and I so despise that feeling.
Many times in life we feel less than. We fear yet another failure in our lives, because we have had so many. And it's not just the big ones that kill our self esteems, but many tiny minuscule ones that add up day after day. Tiny mistakes we see as huge signs of our failures in life, even though most people wouldn't give them a second thought. We beat ourselves up over them repeatedly and the mental illness wins. Anxiety and anarchy ensues and it's right back down the rabbit hole...
It can be something as simple as taking a shower on time or remembering if you turned off the kitchen light. Most people would sweep it out of their minds and go on with their day, but for us it shows as just another example at how we fail. It is silly and ridiculous but this is how mental illness works against you. Against your self esteem and any progress you try to achieve. It is the voice of damnation disguised as the voice of propriety. And we tend to not know which voice to listen to. It, at times, seems to make sense. If you yell at a dog enough it will cower in fear and pee on the floor when you walk in the room. We yell at ourselves so often, so loudly and damn ourselves for every single mistake, slight or not, that we have become fearful. Our thoughts of progress are muted by the voice that makes us cower in fear. The voice. Our voice. Telling us to believe that any attempt at progress will only end in disaster. That we can't achieve. That we can't grow. That we can't believe in ourselves or our own self worth. That we are losers. Completely incapable of being anything but broken. That we are not good enough. That we are never good enough....
And what is that anyway? Like we haven't enough do deal with already? Like it is not enough that we have to put up with ignorance and judgment from those that don't understand mental illness as a whole? We have to punish ourselves too? Why? Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we allow this voice, this self doubt to dictate our lives? Why is the word Enough, so important that we decide not to try, lest we be smited by it?
I am aware that all of this book publishing stuff is over my head. I am aware of the vast lack of knowledge I have in this department. I am aware of the anxiety coursing through my veins like a bad batch of heroin. The fear that turns my stomach sour. The confusion that pounds in my head like and angry jackhammer clanging away in my skull. I am aware of the feeling and acknowledgement that this might end up on my long list of things I have failed at in my life and yet I am still willing to try. That rabbit hole be damned!
The person who never made a mistake, never tried anything New- Albert Einstein
So, I am going to take ol' Al's advice and try something new. I may fall flat on face, but hey, it's not like I have never done that before. I am cool with falling down, it always gives me the chance to get back up and I excel at getting back up. I have exceptional practice at it.
My greatest hope is that we all can learn to stop being afraid of ourselves and what the voice tells us we can and can't do. That we learn to believe in ourselves and reach for our dreams no matter how crazy and unlikely they seem. People reach their dreams everyday, and truthfully we are no different, we are no less amazing than they are. We just think we are...
So, I am going to try this book thing. I am in over my head but I believe it will either all work out or it won't. But it won't fail because I refuse to try at it. I am capable of trying and I am capable of succeeding. I just have to stop letting fear rule my life first and that starts today. That starts now. That starts with this very post. I will keep you updated on what I am doing with the book and how it is going and if anyone has published anything and knows any tips, Please give me a shout out! I could use all the help I can get. :)
Try, Try, and Try again...
Neurotic Nelly
I am seriously thinking about turning some of my blog posts into a book. So last night, I decided to check out just what all that would entail and I don't mind saying that it was way more complicated than I ever dreamed....and kinda scary too. There are so many options to choose from and so much to do with them. The jargon was so over my head it made me sick to my stomach, my pulse race, my anxiety levels go bonkers, and my head hurt. Coded words like ISBN numbers popped out at me like some ancient foreign language I had never seen before and seemed to dangle just out of my reach of cognition. It made me feel inadequate and reminded me how much of a novice I still am in the writing world. I ended up feeling even more confused after reading the articles about self publishing then I did before I started. Self doubt crept in. I have no idea what I am doing...I'll never be able to publish anything....I will only fail...ect. Then came the second guessing myself. Am I really prepared to do all of this? Am I even capable of doing this? Will anyone even be interested in a book of my posts? What do I have to offer in a world full of wonderful and even not so wonderful self published books? Will mine be good enough?
I feel this way often. Secretly, because of my mental illness, I tend to feel like I am not good enough. Oh, I am good at things....but maybe not good enough. That's the kicker. That tiny little word at the end. Enough. The word seems non threateningly enough. It seems rather innocuous. It is but a small simple word and yet it haunts my dreams like poltergeist. It sticks in my head like a fishing lure bobbing up and down in my cerebral cortex baiting me....Am I good enough? Can I ever be good enough? Good enough at anything?
And so lies many of my dilemmas in life. Often times, I want to do something but fear of failing or the fear of not being good enough hold me back. And not just the fear of it but the pure extreme amounts of anxiety that go with it. It feels like I am falling down the rabbit hole again, and I so despise that feeling.
Many times in life we feel less than. We fear yet another failure in our lives, because we have had so many. And it's not just the big ones that kill our self esteems, but many tiny minuscule ones that add up day after day. Tiny mistakes we see as huge signs of our failures in life, even though most people wouldn't give them a second thought. We beat ourselves up over them repeatedly and the mental illness wins. Anxiety and anarchy ensues and it's right back down the rabbit hole...
It can be something as simple as taking a shower on time or remembering if you turned off the kitchen light. Most people would sweep it out of their minds and go on with their day, but for us it shows as just another example at how we fail. It is silly and ridiculous but this is how mental illness works against you. Against your self esteem and any progress you try to achieve. It is the voice of damnation disguised as the voice of propriety. And we tend to not know which voice to listen to. It, at times, seems to make sense. If you yell at a dog enough it will cower in fear and pee on the floor when you walk in the room. We yell at ourselves so often, so loudly and damn ourselves for every single mistake, slight or not, that we have become fearful. Our thoughts of progress are muted by the voice that makes us cower in fear. The voice. Our voice. Telling us to believe that any attempt at progress will only end in disaster. That we can't achieve. That we can't grow. That we can't believe in ourselves or our own self worth. That we are losers. Completely incapable of being anything but broken. That we are not good enough. That we are never good enough....
And what is that anyway? Like we haven't enough do deal with already? Like it is not enough that we have to put up with ignorance and judgment from those that don't understand mental illness as a whole? We have to punish ourselves too? Why? Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we allow this voice, this self doubt to dictate our lives? Why is the word Enough, so important that we decide not to try, lest we be smited by it?
I am aware that all of this book publishing stuff is over my head. I am aware of the vast lack of knowledge I have in this department. I am aware of the anxiety coursing through my veins like a bad batch of heroin. The fear that turns my stomach sour. The confusion that pounds in my head like and angry jackhammer clanging away in my skull. I am aware of the feeling and acknowledgement that this might end up on my long list of things I have failed at in my life and yet I am still willing to try. That rabbit hole be damned!
The person who never made a mistake, never tried anything New- Albert Einstein
So, I am going to take ol' Al's advice and try something new. I may fall flat on face, but hey, it's not like I have never done that before. I am cool with falling down, it always gives me the chance to get back up and I excel at getting back up. I have exceptional practice at it.
My greatest hope is that we all can learn to stop being afraid of ourselves and what the voice tells us we can and can't do. That we learn to believe in ourselves and reach for our dreams no matter how crazy and unlikely they seem. People reach their dreams everyday, and truthfully we are no different, we are no less amazing than they are. We just think we are...
So, I am going to try this book thing. I am in over my head but I believe it will either all work out or it won't. But it won't fail because I refuse to try at it. I am capable of trying and I am capable of succeeding. I just have to stop letting fear rule my life first and that starts today. That starts now. That starts with this very post. I will keep you updated on what I am doing with the book and how it is going and if anyone has published anything and knows any tips, Please give me a shout out! I could use all the help I can get. :)
Try, Try, and Try again...
Neurotic Nelly
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
It Was and Is A Daily Process.....
After the Postpartum OCD left, I was grateful to be alive and grateful to have a chance to raise my son. Thrilled even. However, the symptoms I was used to before my pregnancy had changed yet again and they have remained that way every since. I have been able to manage them better and was even able to have another son without Postpartum OCD coming back. It has been a struggle but I am doing rather well, even if my symptoms have changed.
I was still a germ-a-phobe but to a much greater degree. Not only did I still wash my hands excessively but I started to carry a bottle of anti-germ gel in my purse at all times. I still do. I have always been hyper aware of germs and dirt but now it seemed to be even more oppressive. I have a hard time shaking other people's hands, touching things my mind deems to be dirty, or letting people near my face. Seriously don't do it....it freaks me out. I actually "feel" the germs on my hands. I actually "feel" residue on surfaces my mind claims are dirty. And yes, I actually "feel" the place that has been touched on my face and it is not a pleasurable experience. It's horrible. It's dirty. It's unclean. It makes my anxiety level shoot through the roof and my pulse quicken. My heart races like a marathon runner who has just finished a 5K and all I did was touch a pen in the doctor's office. It sucks....I could go on and on but no one has time for all of the many, many germ-a-phobe issues I deal with on a daily basis. So, I will just leave you with this mental picture....I have been known to scrub my face raw when someone touches it. Not dry and chapped from too hot of water or too drying of soap, but actually raw...and I still could feel the touch underneath my skin.
I still had the contamination fears and they still plague me today. I actually threw away a perfectly good peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I made for my youngest the other day because I was afraid that the counter had some bacteria from the meat I had placed on it the day before. Even though, I know I scrubbed it several times with warm soapy water after I put up the meat. I couldn't quite convince myself it was safe and I worried the bread might absorb any remaining bacteria up in it like a sponge. So, I had to throw it out and start again. I really try to not do that but like anything else it is a process. A daily process and I am actively working on it.
I still had Harm fears but they were more random and less scary. After the hell of Postpartum OCD, these Harm fears seemed to pale in comparison. Occasionally, I see myself stabbing someone whilst cooking or using a utensil of some sort. A pair of scissors, a kitchen knife, a pencil, a set of car keys....It doesn't really matter what the object is. It could be a broken toothpick or a thumbtack..OCD is not particular on the weapon, it just makes weapons out of whatever you are currently holding in your hand. I once had one while holding a sheet of paper....true story. It scares me for a second and then I remember what it is and I go on. I am not going to hurt anyone and I am fairly certain no one has ever been papered to death....
I did get a new symptom that really threw a wrench in the machine. Medical fears. Not only did I worry I had accidentally poisoned myself from eating something off of a chemically washed counter whilst giving myself a disease from touching a public handrail, I now started to worry I had some major illness that was terribly devastating and awful. A mole on my leg was skin cancer. A cough meant some rare disease only sheep got that had somehow evolved to spread to humans and then only to me. A watery eye meant that I had a brain tumor...ect. The anxiety ramped up as I tried to figure out how to quell this monstrosity of a symptom as well. Many times I failed and was left terrified by my own thoughts. I started to google my symptoms of each imagined ailment, which in turn led to the most horrendous horror stories you could ever find. The more I searched, the more I found, the more frightened I became. There is a good saying that plays into this sort of symptom very well. "If you search for something bad long enough, you will find it." I had to make a promise to myself to never research any symptom imagined or otherwise again, just to preserve my own sanity. OCD just loves fear and doubt and I refuse to give it anymore leeway by searching for medical symptoms. I am not a doctor and everything on a google search only leads to horrible, painful, and disturbing diseases and diagnoses. I don't need that kind of pressure.
Because of all of the symptoms of OCD I have endured I can say that my life is different than most normal people. Not better and not worse but different. Everyone has their own struggles and hardships in life. This just happens to be mine. It has changed the way I live and the things I do. It has had a profound affect on how I treat others and the understanding I have for those that suffer from mental illness, especially those that suffer from OCD. I get what they are going through. I know what it feels like and I haven't even had every single OCD symptom there is floating around out there. OCD is extremely complex and if you can think it, it can manifest it in some horrid intrusive thought. Trust me...
So, I know when I read blogs and comments about the horrors of the mind, it makes perfect sense to me. It really does. In suffering for so long I have learned a great deal and honestly, I still have a lot to learn. I will most likely never know everything there is to know about OCD. It changes constantly and this will probably not be my last symptoms to pop up. There is always a chance that again my world will shift and new ones will appear. I will just have to learn to live and battle with them like I have had to learn to live and battle with these.
From fears of being inadequate, the compulsions, the checking, the counting, the washing, the touching, the homosexual fears, the being harmed fears, the germ fears, the relationship fears, the contamination fears, the harm fears, the medical fears, the Postpartum OCD, and the guilt and shame associated with them I think it is safe to say that I don't need to watch horror films. I have seen more gore, violence, disturbing sexual images, and horror in my head than any normal individual. Any slasher film or Friday the 13th movie could never compare to the awful and terrifying things that have played thorough my mind at one time or another. I don't need to watch Halloween on television or at the movie theater to get scared. My OCD has already been doing that to me for years.
I wrote this to be honest and explain just how OCD has been affecting me since I was a small child and continues to affect me to this day. Yes, I wrote this to share my experiences but also to try and break down some of the taboo that surrounds not only OCD but also mental illness as a whole. I wrote this because many think OCD is not a scary or a devastating mental illness. Many think that it is not something people become suicidal over or worry about. Many think OCD is not a severe debilitating mental illness. Many think it is something to be laughed off or made fun of. They even sometimes, think it's cool because the media has made it seem harmless and funny. They are so very, very wrong. I wanted to be in depth to let those people know that OCD is so much more than just about organization or touching things repeatedly. It really is a lifetime of ever changing, ever constant, ever painful symptoms that we deal with on a daily basis. Everyday. All day. For the rest of our lives.
I would like to close my post with this message. OCD is hard and scary and more often than not, completely exhausting. It can and does take a toll on your view of yourself. It can make you doubt your sanity and your self worth. It can make you doubt what kind of a person you are and just what you are capable of. It can make you struggle, but you can get better. It can be managed. . I possess no curing snake oil potions, or superhero powers, no healing spells, or magic pills to take to make it all go away. But if an average, plain Jane, regular girl like me can make it through all of this, then you can too. I have no doubt of that. You can and will get better. You just have to keep trying and keep fighting. You are worth it. You are strong and you can do this...
Neurotic Nelly
Fourth Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/surely-this-was-hell.html
Third Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/i-was-unaware-and-unprepared.html
Second Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/what-it-became.html
First Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2013/12/and-so-it-begins.html
I was still a germ-a-phobe but to a much greater degree. Not only did I still wash my hands excessively but I started to carry a bottle of anti-germ gel in my purse at all times. I still do. I have always been hyper aware of germs and dirt but now it seemed to be even more oppressive. I have a hard time shaking other people's hands, touching things my mind deems to be dirty, or letting people near my face. Seriously don't do it....it freaks me out. I actually "feel" the germs on my hands. I actually "feel" residue on surfaces my mind claims are dirty. And yes, I actually "feel" the place that has been touched on my face and it is not a pleasurable experience. It's horrible. It's dirty. It's unclean. It makes my anxiety level shoot through the roof and my pulse quicken. My heart races like a marathon runner who has just finished a 5K and all I did was touch a pen in the doctor's office. It sucks....I could go on and on but no one has time for all of the many, many germ-a-phobe issues I deal with on a daily basis. So, I will just leave you with this mental picture....I have been known to scrub my face raw when someone touches it. Not dry and chapped from too hot of water or too drying of soap, but actually raw...and I still could feel the touch underneath my skin.
I still had the contamination fears and they still plague me today. I actually threw away a perfectly good peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I made for my youngest the other day because I was afraid that the counter had some bacteria from the meat I had placed on it the day before. Even though, I know I scrubbed it several times with warm soapy water after I put up the meat. I couldn't quite convince myself it was safe and I worried the bread might absorb any remaining bacteria up in it like a sponge. So, I had to throw it out and start again. I really try to not do that but like anything else it is a process. A daily process and I am actively working on it.
I still had Harm fears but they were more random and less scary. After the hell of Postpartum OCD, these Harm fears seemed to pale in comparison. Occasionally, I see myself stabbing someone whilst cooking or using a utensil of some sort. A pair of scissors, a kitchen knife, a pencil, a set of car keys....It doesn't really matter what the object is. It could be a broken toothpick or a thumbtack..OCD is not particular on the weapon, it just makes weapons out of whatever you are currently holding in your hand. I once had one while holding a sheet of paper....true story. It scares me for a second and then I remember what it is and I go on. I am not going to hurt anyone and I am fairly certain no one has ever been papered to death....
I did get a new symptom that really threw a wrench in the machine. Medical fears. Not only did I worry I had accidentally poisoned myself from eating something off of a chemically washed counter whilst giving myself a disease from touching a public handrail, I now started to worry I had some major illness that was terribly devastating and awful. A mole on my leg was skin cancer. A cough meant some rare disease only sheep got that had somehow evolved to spread to humans and then only to me. A watery eye meant that I had a brain tumor...ect. The anxiety ramped up as I tried to figure out how to quell this monstrosity of a symptom as well. Many times I failed and was left terrified by my own thoughts. I started to google my symptoms of each imagined ailment, which in turn led to the most horrendous horror stories you could ever find. The more I searched, the more I found, the more frightened I became. There is a good saying that plays into this sort of symptom very well. "If you search for something bad long enough, you will find it." I had to make a promise to myself to never research any symptom imagined or otherwise again, just to preserve my own sanity. OCD just loves fear and doubt and I refuse to give it anymore leeway by searching for medical symptoms. I am not a doctor and everything on a google search only leads to horrible, painful, and disturbing diseases and diagnoses. I don't need that kind of pressure.
Because of all of the symptoms of OCD I have endured I can say that my life is different than most normal people. Not better and not worse but different. Everyone has their own struggles and hardships in life. This just happens to be mine. It has changed the way I live and the things I do. It has had a profound affect on how I treat others and the understanding I have for those that suffer from mental illness, especially those that suffer from OCD. I get what they are going through. I know what it feels like and I haven't even had every single OCD symptom there is floating around out there. OCD is extremely complex and if you can think it, it can manifest it in some horrid intrusive thought. Trust me...
So, I know when I read blogs and comments about the horrors of the mind, it makes perfect sense to me. It really does. In suffering for so long I have learned a great deal and honestly, I still have a lot to learn. I will most likely never know everything there is to know about OCD. It changes constantly and this will probably not be my last symptoms to pop up. There is always a chance that again my world will shift and new ones will appear. I will just have to learn to live and battle with them like I have had to learn to live and battle with these.
From fears of being inadequate, the compulsions, the checking, the counting, the washing, the touching, the homosexual fears, the being harmed fears, the germ fears, the relationship fears, the contamination fears, the harm fears, the medical fears, the Postpartum OCD, and the guilt and shame associated with them I think it is safe to say that I don't need to watch horror films. I have seen more gore, violence, disturbing sexual images, and horror in my head than any normal individual. Any slasher film or Friday the 13th movie could never compare to the awful and terrifying things that have played thorough my mind at one time or another. I don't need to watch Halloween on television or at the movie theater to get scared. My OCD has already been doing that to me for years.
I wrote this to be honest and explain just how OCD has been affecting me since I was a small child and continues to affect me to this day. Yes, I wrote this to share my experiences but also to try and break down some of the taboo that surrounds not only OCD but also mental illness as a whole. I wrote this because many think OCD is not a scary or a devastating mental illness. Many think that it is not something people become suicidal over or worry about. Many think OCD is not a severe debilitating mental illness. Many think it is something to be laughed off or made fun of. They even sometimes, think it's cool because the media has made it seem harmless and funny. They are so very, very wrong. I wanted to be in depth to let those people know that OCD is so much more than just about organization or touching things repeatedly. It really is a lifetime of ever changing, ever constant, ever painful symptoms that we deal with on a daily basis. Everyday. All day. For the rest of our lives.
I would like to close my post with this message. OCD is hard and scary and more often than not, completely exhausting. It can and does take a toll on your view of yourself. It can make you doubt your sanity and your self worth. It can make you doubt what kind of a person you are and just what you are capable of. It can make you struggle, but you can get better. It can be managed. . I possess no curing snake oil potions, or superhero powers, no healing spells, or magic pills to take to make it all go away. But if an average, plain Jane, regular girl like me can make it through all of this, then you can too. I have no doubt of that. You can and will get better. You just have to keep trying and keep fighting. You are worth it. You are strong and you can do this...
Neurotic Nelly
Fourth Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/surely-this-was-hell.html
Third Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/i-was-unaware-and-unprepared.html
Second Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/what-it-became.html
First Installment :http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2013/12/and-so-it-begins.html
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
And So It Begins....
Often times when I talk about living with my disorder or my mental illness I refer to the fact that I have lived with this albatross for over thirty years. Sometimes, I am dumbfounded as I say it aloud and hits me like a barbell to the chest. I have dealt with this for longer than most couples stay married. If it were a career choice instead of a mental illness, I would already have payed into my retirement fund and be living off of it ( probably somewhere in Florida wearing hideous, dark blue denim, high-water pants with an elastic waistband, dark black wrap around sunglasses, and that little old lady red visor hat old people wear in bingo halls). If it were a prison sentence I would probably be out by now (depending on my crime). If it were calculated by dog years, I would have suffered for over 112 years. You get the picture...it's a long time.
I wanted to talk about how OCD has affected my life. How it has changed over time, the pain, the struggles, the frustrations of what I have gone through as well as the many different symptoms I have had, but I realize that it would take more than one post to fit thirty years of this.....mental haunting into words. I want to be honest. I need to be honest. This is not just my blog but my confessional. My priest. My window to the world that I look out from and I so desperately want to just let it all out. Hang the dirty laundry and let it dry. Release the haunting and be free to finally be brutally honest not just about the more "comfortable" symptoms most of us willingly talk about but also the really bad ones. The ones none of us share because it makes us feel dirty, bad, sick, and so very very alone. So, I am taking that first shaky step with wobbly knees and unsure footing with this first installment of how it all came to be, how it all began, how it all started.....And so it begins.
My first vivid memory of an intrusive thought was around the age of four. My sister and I were playing outside. She, being two years older than me was my only real source of all things worldly. She was my Tom Brokaw of the news department and everything she said was taken as truth. After all, she was bigger and smarter. She was six. She told me that when you swallowed; the food, drink, saliva, whatever turned into blood as it ran down your throat. I was horrified. I hated blood and just the mention of the word made me feel faint. I am not sure how I reacted right after she broadcast this bit of news to me, but soon thereafter I started having issues with swallowing my own spit. I was afraid it was turning into blood and it scared me. I also started washing my hands, excessively. To the point my hands were cracking and bleeding. I became aware of how things were "dirty feeling" or "tainted" even when they appeared to be clean. Then the thoughts came. The ugly scary thoughts that turned my insides cold as ice. They made my palms sweaty and my heart jump in my throat. They showed me images of my parents suffering and dying in horrible ways. Car crashes, house fires, random crazy murderous burglars.....the most vile and scary things a kid could imagine and I was afraid it would happen to my parents, my friends, my aunts and uncles...ect. It made me think about death and the death of my loved ones, my pets, my friends, myself. It terrified me more than any boogeyman lurking in the closet or monster under my bed. It was the monster that lived under my bed, but I carried it everywhere I went. It lived in the recesses of my brain. It dwelled in the corners of my mind. It played in the shadows of my cerebral cortex. It left me unable to concentrate on anything else but the fear and the nauseous feeling it left in the pit of my stomach. I started to pray until it became a mantra. A mantra I said exactly the same way over and over and over and over, every time these images would pop up. I said them with tears in my eyes. I said them with my tiny fingers jammed so far into my ears that it hurt, while screaming "Shut up! Shut up!" over and over again. I hated the voice in my head but I didn't realize the voice was only in my head. I thought maybe others could hear it too. I didn't know it wasn't normal. All I knew is that no matter how hard I prayed, no matter how much I cried, no matter how loud I yelled it never went away. It never ceased. It never stopped. I said the mantra so often that after thirty years I still remember it verbatim. Most people have wonderful playful memories of the age of four and all of the innocence and laughter. All I have is the memory of : No No No, No No No, No No No No, No No No.
Soon the "No No No's" didn't work anymore and I resorted to slapping myself in the forehead. The pain made the intrusive thoughts waver. The shock of the slap gave me a instant relief but not for long enough. So I did it again and again. It got to the point that I would bruise my forehead from hitting it so hard, so often. When my slaps became not hard enough to shock the intrusive thoughts anymore, I started begging, pleading with my mother to slap me in the forehead. "Harder, Mom it has to be harder or the thoughts won't go away."
She took me to the doctor and he suggested it could be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but they weren't treating children for it at that time and certainly not children that young. He suggested that they not tell me anything about it or draw attention to it and maybe it would go away on it's own....it didn't.
The washing became not enough to quell the anxiety and fear. Now it had spread into things like counting. One, two three, four...... Now I have to start over again....One, two three, four. I don't like even numbers. Four is bad, I need three. Why is there four when there should be three.....One, two, three, four.....
And onto touching things to make them even. You touched that part of your right hand on the dollhouse. Now you have to make it even. Touch it in the same spot with your left. No, that doesn't feel the same. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Do you want your parents to die? Then touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again......
And finally it spread into checking. Are you sure you shut the front door behind you? I can see that it's closed but how do you know if it is closed all the way? It could be just halfway closed but not latched. Is it latched all the way? Turn around and jiggle the knob. Okay it's closed but are you sure? What if jiggling the knob knocked the door loose and it isn't really closed? Better go check it again. You don't want it to be open and something bad happen. Check it again. Are you sure it is really truly closed? Check it again. I am not convinced it's really closed. You may have knocked it loose. Check it again. And again. And again. And again.....
I was four and this had become my new reality. Not the reality of my friends who rode their bikes and played with their Barbie dolls carefree, but my reality. A reality where even if I rode my bike or played with my Barbie doll's my mind was sure to trick me. It was sure to plague me. It was sure to punish me relentlessly over and over again. It was sure to remind me that I was responsible for anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. It all depended on me. The future depended on my ability to touch things evenly, count correctly, have clean enough hands, and making sure the front door was closed and latched all the way. My family's life depended on it. It was a lot to ask of a four year old. And it continued that way with the guilt, shame, and anxiety of all four compulsions until I turned ten. Then it changed into something else entirely. Something much worse....I became a PureO.
Neurotic Nelly
Next installment: http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/what-it-became.html
Soon the "No No No's" didn't work anymore and I resorted to slapping myself in the forehead. The pain made the intrusive thoughts waver. The shock of the slap gave me a instant relief but not for long enough. So I did it again and again. It got to the point that I would bruise my forehead from hitting it so hard, so often. When my slaps became not hard enough to shock the intrusive thoughts anymore, I started begging, pleading with my mother to slap me in the forehead. "Harder, Mom it has to be harder or the thoughts won't go away."
She took me to the doctor and he suggested it could be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder but they weren't treating children for it at that time and certainly not children that young. He suggested that they not tell me anything about it or draw attention to it and maybe it would go away on it's own....it didn't.
The washing became not enough to quell the anxiety and fear. Now it had spread into things like counting. One, two three, four...... Now I have to start over again....One, two three, four. I don't like even numbers. Four is bad, I need three. Why is there four when there should be three.....One, two, three, four.....
And onto touching things to make them even. You touched that part of your right hand on the dollhouse. Now you have to make it even. Touch it in the same spot with your left. No, that doesn't feel the same. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Do you want your parents to die? Then touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again. Touch it again......
And finally it spread into checking. Are you sure you shut the front door behind you? I can see that it's closed but how do you know if it is closed all the way? It could be just halfway closed but not latched. Is it latched all the way? Turn around and jiggle the knob. Okay it's closed but are you sure? What if jiggling the knob knocked the door loose and it isn't really closed? Better go check it again. You don't want it to be open and something bad happen. Check it again. Are you sure it is really truly closed? Check it again. I am not convinced it's really closed. You may have knocked it loose. Check it again. And again. And again. And again.....
I was four and this had become my new reality. Not the reality of my friends who rode their bikes and played with their Barbie dolls carefree, but my reality. A reality where even if I rode my bike or played with my Barbie doll's my mind was sure to trick me. It was sure to plague me. It was sure to punish me relentlessly over and over again. It was sure to remind me that I was responsible for anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. It all depended on me. The future depended on my ability to touch things evenly, count correctly, have clean enough hands, and making sure the front door was closed and latched all the way. My family's life depended on it. It was a lot to ask of a four year old. And it continued that way with the guilt, shame, and anxiety of all four compulsions until I turned ten. Then it changed into something else entirely. Something much worse....I became a PureO.
Neurotic Nelly
Next installment: http://neurtoicnellyocd.blogspot.com/2014/01/what-it-became.html
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