Photo by Jacob Walti on Unsplash

Growing up, I was what more tactful people would call “quirky” and what just about everyone else would’ve referred to as straight-up weird. It’s not like they were wrong or anything; after all, I was that girl in middle school who spent more time scouring the pull-down world maps to test her theories on where the Lost City of Atlantis might have actually been located than doing actual work. I wore questionable outfit choices that should have never seen the light of day, briefly changed the spelling of my name to “Kaydee,” and enjoyed scaring my fellow drama club cast members with my over-the-top gory stage makeup skills (despite the fact that none of the productions we put on never called for the aforementioned gore).

I tried my best to own it, to boast the fact that I “marched to the beat of my own drum” — but the outward quirks were only a thin veneer, and underneath, I was struggling. Unlike the mismatched patterns that I flaunted, there was no deluding myself into believing that it was normal to panic about my food being contaminated to the point that any small speck of dust warranted trashing the whole thing. I knew that no one “normal” constantly worried about contracting diseases from every surface they touched, obsessed over the risk of rabies from every animal they came in contact with, or thought those they loved would die because they happened to think negative thoughts. I was ashamed of my irrational fears; I didn’t dare tell anyone about what was going on in my head, not even my parents, and I turned inward instead of seeking help where I so desperately needed it.

My one exception to that rule was the internet. I spent countless hours on the Q&A forum Yahoo! Answers, seeking reassurance that all the things I was so terrified of wouldn’t actually happen. I prefaced a lot of my posts with “sorry, I know I’m being a paranoid freak but…” and didn’t find much of the reassurance I sought out in the first place, because my mind was quick to counter the community’s answers with downright outlandish (if not impossible) well, what if… scenarios. Several respondents even told me that it sounded like OCD, but I quickly brushed it off based off my misconceptions and very basic research. At the time, I thought I didn’t have compulsions (unaware that seeking reassurance was one) and I knew that I was nowhere close to organized, obsessively or otherwise — and while a small part of me recognized myself in some of the signs and symptoms, I quickly berated myself: Stop trying to make yourself fit a diagnosis for attention. You can’t even keep your room clean, in what world do you have OCD? Having scary thoughts from time to time is just part of being a person. Grow up and learn to deal with them like everyone else.

After awhile, I thought I had successfully done just that. The fears that had plagued me for as long as I could remember simply faded out at some point and were replaced by typical student worries; grades, relationships, and all the other trappings of college life took the place of the endless stream of anxieties. I finally felt some semblance of normalcy — I was no longer overwhelmed by school work and made stellar grades, got involved on campus, and even joined two different Greek organizations. I chalked it up to an environment that I enjoyed and to having finally stopped letting those thoughts ruin my life, but whatever it was I wasn’t going to complain.

And in my last semester of college, it came back with a vengeance.

I began having multiple panic attacks a day and anxiety so bad that I had to be constantly moving around or I would immediately begin to break down. I obsessed about my health, afraid that every tic of my body spelled rare, disfiguring disease. I still wasn’t a “neat-freak” in the traditional sense, but every single other detail in my life had to go exactly as I planned it or I would become even more anxious and lash out. I was emotionally volatile and on edge, but still, I brushed it off as a side effect of my new birth control or it being some senior year stress. Foolishly, I brushed it aside as best as I could, figuring it would subside after graduation.

Needless to say, it did not — the next few months saw me spiral into one of the darkest times in my life. I was afraid to leave my house because every excursion was an opportunity for something to go terribly wrong. I could hardly eat anymore and dropped thirty pounds, couldn’t touch my pets, and couldn’t make decisions (even over something as simple as choosing where to eat) because even the slightest “error” in choice might cause irreparable harm to someone. At stores, I had to buy everything that I touched even if I couldn’t really afford to because I had contaminated it and couldn’t risk getting someone sick — or worse. I was terrified that I would black out or sleepwalk and hurt myself or others (despite having no conscious desire to do so) and seriously considered tying myself to my bed or having someone lock my room from the outside every night; I refused to let myself take medication that might’ve helped me in the off chance they caused me to lose total and absolute control of my body and mind. I felt safest alone because I knew that I couldn’t hurt anyone else, even accidentally, and that if I were to lose control and hurt myself I probably deserved it. It felt like I was drowning, and I didn’t know how to swim in the slightest. A lot of that time is a blur of fear and confusion for me, but I distinctly remember just sitting down and sobbing because I was so, so afraid of myself and would have given anything for it to stop.

After what seemed like forever, I got into therapy and on medication, but it took an even longer time for me to accept my diagnosis of OCD. I wanted to blame my symptoms on everything else: the aforementioned new birth control, the stress of a breakup, or even attention-seeking. I maintained that I had not been like “that” before, almost forgetting my ordeal of years earlier that seemed like child’s play in comparison to the nightmare I was living in now (that upon further reflection was simply a toned-down version of the exact same thing). It took me awhile to even fully recognize that OCD manifests differently in everyone. Even after accepting it myself, some of those closest to me doubted the diagnosis. I heard the same thing that I’d told myself for years — “but you’re not a neat freak! How can you have OCD?”

And you know, my room is not spotless, it never has been and likely never will be — you can ask my parents, who fought me on that since I was 7. I can religiously take my medication and go to therapy, but I’m never going to make my bed on a daily basis. I still cringe a bit when I explain that I keep a meticulous bullet journal because it seems almost cliche, especially if I mention that it does help manage my anxiety, but the rest of my desk is a mess of papers and half-empty water bottles. I no longer have to scrub my skin raw in the shower with antibacterial soap or go through hand sanitizer at an alarming rate, but it doesn’t mean the urge isn’t still there on particularly bad days.

So no, I’m not a neat freak, because that’s not the way that my particular OCD manifests but it doesn’t minimize the years I suffered in silence and the hell that OCD put me through. I still have days where I struggle very deeply and privately with intrusive thoughts, still have some compulsions that I just can’t shake, and I still can’t use public bathrooms. But I can now drive without having to circle around the block an odd number of times after hitting a pothole to make absolute sure that I didn’t hit someone without realizing, I can enjoy spending time with my friends without having to excuse myself for an anxiety attack in their bathroom, and if that means I’ll always still leave my bed unmade in the mornings — then so be it.