Post 4: My Story

“I think your child may be retarded” complements of my first grade teacher.

“I think your child may have ADD” complements of my third grade teacher.

Both of these phrases truly came from both of my teacher’s mouth, aimed directly at my parents. I won’t go into details about what my parents did or said after each of these comments (it wasn’t pretty, let’s just say that) but it was a sure sign something was wrong with me.   I mean I was constantly washing my hands, I would not touch anything that was not for sure clean, I had no friends, and I had the temper of a bull fresh out of pen and I refused to do certain things at school. My parents clearly knew I was not retarded so they ventured down the path of maybe ADD. They took me to the doctors, which I can’t remember to much of, but I do remember the doctor grabbing my hands at the end of the visit (oh man was I mad, I hated being touched) and he said “OCD not ADD,” and that’s where my story begins.

It was about the first grade when I started hating germs. I wouldn’t play with anything outside or inside. I couldn’t stand to be touched and/or touch foreign objects for that matter. I washed my hands literately every thirty seconds. I remember I would just keeping pumping the soap on my hand until it oozed down around my tiny hands and that still was not enough soap. I remember thinking the more soap the more clean my hands would be.  I had to have a fresh towel every time I washed my hands and I had to use the towel to open the door each time. If I forgot to use the towel to open the door the whole routine would have to start all over. You may think well that’s not so bad for a kid to want to have clean hands, but I washed my hands so much my hands became raw and red. My poor mom hand to wash towels every day and keep gallons of soup on hand at all times.

I also remember I could never never use a public bathroom, which turned in to me staying home a lot and making family trips very short.

Another fond memory I have is that of homework time. I could only touch the text book for so long before the sick feeling came crawling up my stomach and I had to go wash my hands for 10 minutes. That’s where my school work would suffer. It was the same way at school, but there were no sinks in our classroom and the teacher could not let me go to the bathroom every ten seconds. When this happened I would refuse to do the work saying it was too hard (just so I wouldn’t have to touch the book) or get so mad they wouldn’t let me go to wash my hands I would just throw myself in the corner and cry. (Looking back I kind of see where these comments came from now). I was not an easy student to deal with, but neither was this mind of mine.

Bed time was another big memory; I slept with my mom till I was 12 because I was so nervous someone was going to kidnap me. I even had to sleep in between my mom and my sister, thinking that if a robber came in the window they would see my sister and take her first. Sick I know!!

Sleeping in my own bed that was a chore all on its own. I would have to wash my hands really well and then get right into bed, if I touched anything from that towel in the bathroom to my bed sheet I would I have to go wash my hands again. Honestly I can remember having to get up at least 20 times one night either because I touched the light or the dresser or a book that was left on my bed.

My hands never felt clean and I ever felt safe. Now it would be easy to blame my parents say if they were ax murders and I was just rebelling, but that’s not the case at all. I come from a very normal family. It was my brain, this chemical imbalance that would just fight me every day all day. It truly felt like I was at war with myself. It made me as depressed and angry as a child, until that doctor’s appointment.

It was the doctor’s appointment that changed my life when I was a child. He figured out that it was not ADD that it was OCD and sent me to counseling. I was in counseling for a good year before I learned to suppress and control my compulsions and my obsessions. Once I was done with counseling I felt good like I was a brand new kid and I was, but there was always the possibility that my disease may return. OCD is not curable, only suppressible. It could come back at any time if the wrong thing happened to me, and it did when I was 19 years old.

When I was 19 my dad died. (OCD is retriggered when and emotional and or devastating thing happens in your life). I can remember that day like it was yesterday, he knocked the chair over and I just rolled over in bed, thinking oh my mom will get him. See my dad was diagnosed with cancer two months earlier and it had been a roller coaster ride with him in and out of hospitals and him being sick. We were all so tired! That day that I chose to roll over and not go see if he was ok, that was the day he died. His death and blaming myself for it triggered my OCD  to come back and bear its ugly head. I now was a checker.

It started at my work one day, I found myself going back and forth and checking all the closing things that needed to be done like locking the windows and  empting the water bottles. It would take me a half hour to close a room when it should have only taken me 5 minutes. Then I noticed myself checking my check book over and over again when I was balancing it. It would take me almost two hours to add two little receipts into the book. Then I started to notice myself checking the alarm clock over and over. Then it was my purse I had to check, check again, and then recheck to make sure everything was still in there.  I was being taken over by the obsession of “what if” and I was feeding the “obsession” with compulsive checking. It was starting to rule my life and I hated it. I almost did not want to leave the house or change anything in fear that I would have to check it. The worse is when my friends started to notice, I had no idea what to say, so I just stopped hanging out for a while. OCD has once again taken over my life! So what did I do? I went to my doctor and he listened to my whole story and he prescribed some medicine that slowly started to work. I still check things but in moderation. It does not take me forever to leave the house in fear that the refrigerator is not closed. The thing is it is suppressed again and I can live my life without my mind at war with itself again.

This is my story; this is why this project is so important to me. In elementary school my teachers would have labeled me and sent me to the resource room instead of dealing with me. I don’t want other children with OCD to go through this. It took almost two and half years to find out what is wrong with me and that’s not right. I wish I had a teacher who could recognize the signs and help me oppose to just setting me aside.