The Monster

I once heard it said that mental illness is almost impossible to grasp unless you truly have it. A psychology teacher told me that. Since then, I have wanted to challenge that notion. I have OCD, and I want you to understand everything that means.

Imagine you want a glass of water. You go get a glass, right? Me, I go to the cabinet, select a glass, and then I inspect it. I am looking for poison. You may ask yourself why a person would do that. Well, if you believed there was a chance you might pick a glass with poison, wouldn’t you check too? Now, picture you’re very thirsty. You just want a glass of water. But the first, second, third, and fourth glasses were in the “maybe containing deadly toxin” pile. Eventually, you decide to risk it. Now the rest of your day is wondering when you’ll get sick: when death will arrive. In your mind, you prepare for the last few hours of your life. Stress increases as you wonder if it will hurt. Your behavior gets even more erratic; after all you’re about to die! Shouldn’t you be with your friends? Or telling your crush you love her? Or hugging your mother tight? You curse yourself for choosing a glass: better to go thirsty than drink a glass that probably has poison. You worry and worry. 

What you have to understand is that these thought cycles are a tunnel. The simple thought that, “Maybe that glass has poison,” is your entry point. You’re in the dark but the light is right behind you. Take one step backwards and you’re back outside. Why on earth would a glass have poison? That is genuinely absurd. If you could just pick a glass up and drink from it you’d stay outside forever. I can’t. I check, and I’m in the tunnel. By the time I’ve checked the first glass, I can’t see light behind me. I can’t see light in front of me. All I know is that I’m afraid of poison. Every step takes you deeper into the dark. My mother speaks to me, but I’m long gone.

Do you see the mistake my mother made by talking to me? She snuck up on a terrified animal flailing around in the dark. Of course, it bit her. I don’t much care for comparing myself to an animal, but, hey, this metaphor runs deep. 

So there is a fairly typical sequence of events, spelled out slowly and painfully. The name of the game is irrational fear. And checking. Always checking. Sure enough, I do indeed search every glass I drink from for poison. Some of the other things I do are relatively harmless. Every time I walk by the carbon monoxide detector I check it five times. Look at it, look away, look at it, look away, etc. Oher compulsions are a lot more rigorous. Once upon a time, getting into my bed took one or two hours. There was a drawn out ritual. I had to check every lock, pray the right way, organize my bed the right way, and I had to do it without making a mistake and without thinking the wrong thing. If a thought popped in my head such as “boobies,” or “fart,” I was starting everything over. I was petrified anyone would find out about that particular absurdity. 

I think that identity is an underrated aspect of the struggle to be alive. On some level, this thing we do is a crazy rat race to be “seen.” We want to be understood, for at least one person to look us in the eyes and know our entire being. Me? I’d like to look in the mirror and figure out who the hell is staring back. In my worst moments, I see a monster. I see a slave to the whims of a mental disorder. Everything I do, everything I believe, everything I feel is OCD. My feelings are obsessions. My actions are compulsions. Most of all, my head just hurts. It really sucks.

It can be hard to be a good son or a good brother. You want to care about your family more than you do yourself but there is a war brewing in your mind. It can be hard to be a friend. Over the years, there was a lot I just couldn’t do. I couldn’t have fun riding a bike because I was sure the cops would come. I couldn’t go to public events because I was sure there would be a terrorist attack. I couldn’t meet new people because I was sure they would hate me. For every irrational fear, there is an irrational act. For instance, at public events, my head is on a swivel, I gauge escape routes and I walk long distances to stay out of crowds. Around people, I straight up don’t talk. I don’t even think I’m shy: just driven to fear. 

That’s my story. Hopefully, I proved my psych teacher wrong! With time, everything gets better. The past few years have seen my symptoms lessen. Sometimes, I grab a glass without even a glance. I can leap into bed without a second thought. There are bad days, bad months, a few bad years, but that’s the journey. No one lives without struggle.

All of that progress is because of me. I fought back tooth and nail, and I scrapped my way to the place I am now. I'm extremely proud. I have only one real piece of advice. Talk about it. Tell someone, anyone, anything. It’s the first and best step you can take. My fight began because I told my family and my friends that I was in a tunnel, and I needed help getting out. 

I am a young man with a mental disorder. A disorder which I plan to beat the living shit out of as best I can. I literally can’t imagine being cooler than that. And so, I accept my identity. Guys and girls, but especially guys due to stigma stuff, let’s just start blurting this stuff out. I’m not saying we should share our feelings, I don’t care about that stupid crap. I’m saying we call our brains out on their bullshit...with the boys along for the hang (or family or a doctor) Let’s take some of that toxic masculinity I read about in the newspaper and use it to commit aggravated assault on our mental struggles. Probably don’t quote me on that one.

I know who I am, and it’s not the monster. The monster isn’t happy. I am.