When Phobias Attack........

Growing up with OCD was a huge trial for me. As I am sure it is for everyone that goes through such. Anxiety had become my doppelganger and followed me wherever I went. I had soon developed phobias far more terrifying than my brain could actually conceive or form into words. My main phobia at ten years of age was doctors. I equated them with pain, needles, and all of the unholy procedures that pinched, poked, and prodded. Taking me to the doctor was pure hell for my parents. I admit it. I feel bad for them looking back at that time. In fact I just called my mother about fifteen minutes ago and apologized again for it.....lol.

My mother and I had stopped into the local store on the corner. It was called the Piggly Wiggly. I loved this store not because of what they sold but because it had a huge goofy smiling pig cartoon on the sign. Pigs are my favorite animals. They are so wiggly, and fat, and cute. We had been walking when my ankle brushed up against a floor glass display case. It cut me right above my ankle and I freaked. My other phobia at that time was blood, specifically the letting of my blood. While I was over dramatically engaging in the fear that I was going to bleed to death in the middle of the Piggly Wiggly store my mother was holding my leg up and applying pressure to the wound. It was in truth a decent amount of blood and the sales clerks grabbed rolls of paper towels and wrapped my ankle and on we went to the doctor's office.

The doctor was a younger guy that smelled like antiseptic and too much cologne. We sat in his tiny room waiting to hear about my ankle and I secretly prayed that he could slap a band aid or gauze on it and I could go home untouched by my other phobia....needles. It was not meant to be.

Now, to his credit, he had no idea that I was terrified of stitches, per say. Mainly because I had never had any before. I however, was smart enough to know that stitches meant that your skin was actually sewed back together with a needle. He made some comment under his breath about popping a couple of stitches in it. This was all I needed to hear. My octaves got higher and louder as I proclaimed,"Stitches? Stitches? Stitches!!!"

My mother knew this was not going to be pretty. I am not sure if she asked for people to hold me down but it usually took three just to give me a shot. This was going to be much worse. Now, I should mention that I was usually fine until I saw the needle, then I panicked and needed to be held down. A phobia of abject terror would wash over me and I was no longer in control of my body.

We were ushered into the medical procedure room. It was the usual pastel white and blues all sterilized rooms tend to be with the slick smooth paper over the place you lay on. There were several people in the room now. I couldn't count them but my mother claims it was five or six. I wasn't able to see what they were doing but when they stuck the needle in the wound to numb it I felt it. This prompted me to lift my other leg high in the air and almost kick the one nurse in the face. There was a lot of Nelly put your leg down comments.  They went unheeded and I started screaming," There's a string on my toe!" over and over again. I have no idea why this was important but I was not truly really me anymore at this time. They removed said string and started to stitch. My mother had read or heard somewhere that if she pinched my earlobe it would distract me from the horror that was being done to my leg........it doesn't work......never has....and didn't on this occasion either. What I found that really worked was to reach up tightly grab a large fist full of my mothers long lustrous hair and yank her down to my face while screaming as loud as I could ,"God hates me!!!!" in her ear repeatedly. I was truly possessed by my own terror. They had so many nurses holding down my legs they had no one left to hold down my arms, which allowed me to become like Linda Blair in the Exorcist and flail my hands. Something I had never reacted to this extreme before or since. I would not have been surprised had I been able to turn my head 360 degrees while spitting out pea soup.

 I remember that as soon as they were finished my mother pried my hand out of her hair and long red strands fell to the floor. I am sure her scalp was in agony and I may have even made a bald spot or three. I had received three stitches. I don't remember pain, I only remember intense fear. It was the straw that broke the camels back as my mother from then on refused to be the one that had to take me to get my shots or any stitches that may arise. That would now be my father's job. He was stronger, taller, and he had shorter hair.

 I am positive that this was a learning experience for all of us. For me I learned I had a phobia of the likes I was unable at that time to control. My mother learned not to be around me while I was freaking out on this level or at least not with her hair down. My doctor learned that maybe he should ask if his patient has a phobia about needles before he just mumbles the word stitches so nonchalantly like it's not a big deal. To some people it is a big deal. A very big deal!

So this long drawn out post is mostly about how in the midst of a complete terror you can come out of it. I no longer after two kids, many surgeries and numerous  i.v.s have phobias towards needles or stitches anymore. I still freak out a teeny bit when I cut myself but not to the point of flipping out uncontrollably. Phobias can change. I have also learned to control my breathing and how to calm myself so that I don't get to the flailing my arms and legs point. It is a really good thing to learn. I actually find the whole thing funny looking back on it. My mother, however, remains traumatized by it. It is something I wish I could take back, but such is life and once you do something you can never take it back now can you? Just remember if someone you know has an extreme phobia of something and they have to have it done, be there for them. Try to be understanding and supportive. Always....Always, put your hair up as high as possible, just in case.


Neurotic Nelly

Control

I don't like roller coasters. I hate them with a passion. I hate the speed, the turns, the going up and over. I loath being out of control.  That is exactly what living with OCD is like. The ups and downs. The speed rushing through day after day of unwanted images and thoughts. The feeling of falling over the edge. The being upside down and seeing how far you have to fall. The fear of crashing into the earth at break neck speed and the loss of control to stop it. The image of my feet dangling hundreds of feet above the ground. The roller coaster of life where most people scream with joy and throw their hands up in the air. I sit there grinding my teeth and holding on with a white knuckle grip. I hold on so tight that my hands cramp and my nails have gauged my palms.
I hate the loss of control. Control of my surroundings but mostly the control of myself.
I don't feel the need to control others but I must always be in control of myself. I do not drink. I am not fond of the taste, but worse yet, I detest being drunk because I am not capable of being in total control. I am a self control freak.  I hate pain medication. It makes me feel groggy and not in total control of myself. I only take it if I can not stand the pain. I would rather be in physical pain than feel out of control. I like plans and lists.They comfort me. I do, however, like to be spontaneous. It doesn't bother me to not do things in the plan or lists. I still like to write them though. I would love having a maid. However, if she cleaned my house it would be wrong. Wrong because it wasn't done the way I do it in the order I would do it in. I would love to be the parent that can let the children decorate the Christmas tree. Oh, I let them put the bulbs on but as soon as the leave the room I have to rearrange them. OCD has taken away the easiest things a parent can do from me. I have been dubbed the Christmas tree Nazi. Not a pleasant name. It is sadly not untrue. I can not look at it unless it is perfect. My husband usually puts the tree up and ushers the children away from me because I can easily get cranky until it is perfect. I would love to be the parent that lets them throw tinsel everywhere( I have banned tinsel from my home), put up paper rings(reminds me of nursing homes), and place the bulbs all willy-nilly. I also must have white lights, no multi-colored lights please. This is satisfying to me to have it perfect but it hurts me when I realize that I can not share it with my kids. This coming Christmas I am going to get  another tree and let them decorate theirs while I decorate mine. That way I can have them participate with me. That's what living with OCD is all about. Finding ways around our illness so that we can still participate with others in a meaningful way.
Slowly I have learned to loosen the grip of the roller coaster. I have learned to let some things go. Others that I can not let go of I find ways around them. Like the Christmas tree thing. It is possible to find ways around my disorder. It just takes a little more creativity. A little more gumption to come up with ideas on how to do what I want without being held back by my OCD and all that comes with it. So, although I still hate roller coasters maybe I can find a way to be less scared of them. I can maybe learn to accept less control of myself. It is a work in progress.
Life is always a work in progress and I am ok with that. [tweet this].
                                     Neurotic Nelly
                                       

Rant, Rant, Rant

In the last few years a couple of really good movies about mental illness have been successful  They had all the things in them that made them interesting. They were a love story of sorts. I really appreciate the awareness and those that made these movies great. A Beautiful Mind was about schizophrenia. Silver Linings Playbook is about Bi-Polar. I haven't gotten to see the Silver Linings one yet so don't tell me how it ends...
As Good As It Gets was a brilliant movie about OCD. I always liked the t.v. show Monk as well. Both of these has put OCD more in the fore front than it has been before and yet I am dissatisfied. It seems that OCD is viewed as funny and stereotyped. If you were someone that had never come across a person with OCD you might make some generalizations just from these two shows. I would like to take a minute to enlighten you If you permit me.

 Not everyone with OCD is a clean freak. Hoarders are also sufferers of OCD.
Not everyone with OCD have a fear of germs. Every fear or phobia is specific and just as people are different their fears are different. Many of us are clean freaks and germ-a-phobes but there are a lot of people with OCD that are not.
For some reason with the exception of the OCD t.v. series the mentally ill are played by male actors. Mommy Dearest was about Joan Crawford and is so far the only female role that I have found about OCD. She was quite harsh and I am fairly certain she had much more than just OCD.

So the generalizations we are left with are that only older men in their fifties have this disorder. That we are rigid and angry people. That we can not communicate efficiently with others. That we are all clean freaks and are terrified of germs. That we are hateful and resentful. That we are terrified of everything in our environment  That we are to be laughed at. That we can not have real relationships. That we are damaged and sad. That we can't be beautiful or sexy.  That we can not have beautiful romantic love stories written about us.That we are old curmudgeons shuffling around. That people with OCD are violent (American Psycho) or abusive (Mommy Dearest). That we are incapable of living full and happy lives. That we don't deserve to have more realistic movies written about us because it is not sell able or interesting.

This is not accurate at all. OCD people are most often kind and extra sensitive. We worry about not being accepted and loved. All of us have OCD traits but we have different personalities. Some are more pessimistic and some of us are optimistic. We are all different and should be represented in that fashion. Frankly, we deserve better and more accurate depictions.
I would like a movie with a beautiful actress like Jennifer Aniston playing a real depiction of OCD. Instead of being afraid of something small like outdated milk she could have real phobias. That would be nice. Yes the milk the thing is funny but not all of our phobias are. They are real and they are terrifying  We laugh at some of our issues but it is not all fun and games. OCD is a debilitating mental illness. Her love interest could be some one like Gerard Butler. They could be in a diner and she could say" I have intrusive thoughts. I am so terrified of the images and voice in my head that I have hidden all the knives in my house and I only cut things when the house is empty just to avoid the fear. I am not violent but I am afraid I will stab someone."

Gerard,"That's ok. We can just order out all the time."

Jennifer," I am afraid to take elevators. They make me feel like I am suffocating.I have anxiety attacks in them"

Gerard," No problem. We can always take the stairs."

Jennifer," I pull out my own hair until I have bald patches and I can't stop or I pick my skin till it bleeds. I have scars.'

Gerard," You are the most beautiful woman in the world."

Jennifer,"I had to give up driving. Every few blocks I have this terrifying fear that I have hit someone. I know I have not but the doubt and fear is so real I have to get out and check.'

Gerard," I would happily drive you anywhere you need to go."


Jennifer," I touch things several times until it feels right and it makes me late all of the time. My friends are embarrassed to be seen with me but I can not stop the urge."

Gerard," I don't care, I love you."

Jennifer," I know I have a lot of issues, but I promise you that no one will love you as much as I do. No one will ever be as loyal or good to you as me. Because I care on levels most aren't capable of."

Then they could pan to her room when the stress has gotten to her and they could show what it's really like for us. They could show him holding her as she rocks back and forth crying the corner. They could show how she feels like a failure and how she is devastated. How she is terrified of having children because she could pass it on to them.They could also show her being productive with her life. They could show the ups and downs of finding medications that work. They could show the terrible side affects that come with these trials. They could show how she goes to a therapist and gets help. Because that is much more accurate than being afraid of milk or stepping on a crack in the pavement. Because OCD is not a joke. Because OCD is much more than an hour long movie played by a cranky middle age man who hates dogs or likes cleanliness.

Hollywood if you are going to crack open the door of mental illness then lets be real for change. Let's break open the door frame and release the truth of mental illness.  Let's represent how it really is for people that have OCD. Don't sugar coat it. Don't make it your personal joke. Don't make us all men living alone in a dank apartment or house. Show us as beautiful men and women because that is what we are. We are not just crazy lunatics locked in the attic. We are everyone. We are many. We are  contributing to our communities and taking part in our own lives. Show our humor but also show our pain. Show our  capacity to love and learn. Show how we overcome our difficulties. Show us as real identifiable people. We are not Jack Nicholson. We are not Faye Dunaway or Christian Bale. We are strong and we are loyal and loving. We are just like you. Represent us fully and see how many of us come out of the shadows and stand up and say I have OCD. Help the world to really understand us. Help us to accept our own illness and for once not be ashamed.
                                    Neurotic Nelly

Bravery

I think I am a pretty intelligent person. I am not a college educated person. I didn't graduate high school. I was an A B student until my mental illness became a problem with going to school. I am not stupid either. I try to learn something new everyday. You can never learn too much. Today I am trying to learn to be brave. I have had small moments of bravery in my life. Nothing heroic or anything to really write about. Things that took courage to admit or do. I need a cold hard hit of bravery. I need some courage because, frankly,  I am in short supply.
I do genealogy  I love to find what set of circumstances and people made it possible for me to be here in this moment. I was thrilled to go back hundreds of years. I discovered warriors and kings. None of their riches passed down to me. I am starting to believe that the bravery also failed to pass as well. Today going to my doctors office, we had to go up four floors on the elevator. No big deal. That is until five people walked in the elevator with me... I had to close my eyes and breathe. I could feel the lady touching my shoulder with her arm. It felt like we were sardines packed in a tin and I wanted to scream. Deep breaths. Then on the second floor some guy was going to get in. Thankfully the doors were shutting and he thought better of it. I actually said aloud,"No, go away." Not my proudest moment.
I realize that if you dropped an elevator on the ground next to my warrior ancestors they would be scared of it too. However, this is not 1300 a.d. and everyone here has used an elevator at some point.
I am terrified of rabbits. They creep me out like nothing I have ever come across.Rabbits. That's right, I said it. I realize it is stupid and silly. How many people have you heard of that have been mauled to death by a rabbit? None.
Last Fall I went outside on my porch. Something caught the corner of my eye. As I turned to look at it I saw that it was a rabbit  My mouth got dry and sweat started to form on my forehead. I quickly turned and squeezed my eyes shut. I tried desperately to will it away, When I opened one eye the cursed thing was still there chomping his evil jaws at me. Ok, he was probably just happily munching on a dandelion but still he obviously, doesn't posses the ability to be mentally willed away. I bet he was wondering what the crazy red haired lady was doing freaking out on her porch.
I can just see my ancestors going to protect their land from invaders and charging. Swords ready for battle and their kilts swaying as the run. Then as they get to the battle field they stop and look down. "Oh My God a rabbit! Fall back men! Fall back!" And then run back home with horror on their faces.
 I obviously do not posses the warrior gene. If there is such a thing.
So maybe I am not tough as nails. Maybe I am not a conqueror of great lands. I am a different kind of warrior. I am a verbal warrior. I battle for mental health. I conquer my fears everyday. I fight for the end of stigma. I fight for acceptance and understanding. I am not brave in the warrior sense, but I am brave in writing my truths. I am brave in that I am honest. That I am a warrior for my mental illness. I am brave every time I get up out of bed and face the day. I am brave every time I sit down and type my dysfunction to the world. I am brave that I accept that there will people that will judge me. That there are people that will tell me I am stupid or wimpy. It takes courage to tell the world that I am a mentally ill person. It takes courage to admit that to myself. It takes courage to be abnormal. It takes courage to truly look at yourself and accept what you are. I am brave in that I am still here. When it seemed to be an easier option to opt out, I chose to live. I chose to endure. I am brave that I will not be put in the shadows and ignored. It is brave that I stand up and say I am here. I have a mental illness and I am not going away because it makes you feel more comfortable.  So maybe I am a warrior after all. Maybe I have the right amount of courage. Maybe I am brave. Just be on the look out for rabbits for me.
                                                                         Neurotic Nelly

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