Otis and Me: The first chapter of my battle with OCD

I'd like to take some time to make myself vulnerable today. I haven't shared much about this with many people beyond my immediate family and my church family. It's hard to talk about.

This post makes reference to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), depression, anxiety, and suicide. Please be aware that it may be triggering. If you or anyone you know experiences suicidal thoughts, please seek help immediately. 

Really, the journey begins many, many years ago. Now that I understand my diagnosis I can confidently say that I experienced symptoms of OCD and anxiety as young as fifth grade. These memories seemed insignificant for most of my life. I just thought I was a very passionate, perfectionist, "type A" personality that was prone to worrying and people pleasing, and determined to be successful in every endeavor I took on. 

The older I got, the more I worried. The more I worried, the more out of control my thoughts became. The more out of control my thoughts became, the more desperate I became to alleviate the anxiety that accompanied them. Sadly, I didn't realize the slow decline my mind and soul were taking. I honestly thought it was normal to feel this way and I dealt with it as best I could. It was after the birth of my second child in July of 2013 that things took a distinct turn for the worst. Six months into Noah's life a very precious girlfriend of mine loved me enough to share that she was worried about me. That December I sought help for the first time. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and went through a wonderful program at HCMC in Minneapolis, MN specifically developed for expecting and postpartum mothers experiencing anxiety and depression. The program was an incredible blessing to me. 

To read more about this program, check out this website. If you are in or near the Twin Cities, I'd encourage you to be aware of this fantastic resource! 

God used that time of trial to grow me in so many ways, and even provided opportunities to share Gospel truth with some of the women I was in the program with. It was one of so many ways I have seen God use my weakness for His glory.

Over the next few years and four more pregnancies, my mental health suffered more and more with each hormone fluctuation. I learned many coping skills and ways to manage my symptoms. Practices such as Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction, journaling, and basic healthy habits like exercise and diet management paired with medication seemed to keep things in check until June of 2018. 

Something about this last pregnancy seemed to flip a switch. We went through a drastic amount of life change all at once, and it triggered my symptoms to such an extreme that I wanted to take my life. It wasn't that I wanted to die, I just wanted an escape from the exhaustion of fighting the battle in my mind every second of every day. My husband had the foresight to realize that something wasn't right, and took me to see my midwife immediately. The team sent me straight to Mayo for an evaluation in the ER.

No one talks about how dehumanizing it is being admitted to the ER for mental health issues. After being told to strip down to absolutely nothing and put on the horrible paper scrubs, they confiscated all my belongings and put them in a locked cabinet. (Even my underwear people. I mean, seriously?!) Since we didn't know how long the wait would be, I asked for my Bible and journal. The nurse left to get permission from her overseeing doctor before bringing them in. They had to glance through both of them briefly to make sure there wasn't anything potentially dangerous to take out (like my favorite pen). They offered me a "safety pen"...a ballpoint ink cartridge enclosed in a soft rubber tube. Thanks, guys. All I wanted to do was write out my thoughts, which at this point are screaming bloody murder in my head. But I couldn't even keep my dang pen to do it. The pen was what really made me aware of what was happening. 

Let's pause here for a moment. Do you have any idea how much courage and humility it takes to admit that you need to go to the hospital? To actually speak out loud the horrifying images and thoughts running through your mind in these moments? Then to be stripped of everything and forced to wait, being denied your medications, food, comfortable clothing, and something as simple as a pen? I know that some of you who might be reading this have lived through this experience before, too. I want to say way to go. You are strong, brave, and courageous. And my heart hurts with you.

My circumstances were a lot better than most in that I made it into the ER before I made any attempt on my life. My situation is referred to as "suicidal ideation". The idea sounded really great at the time, though I didn't make any plans, and I told someone before it ever got to that point. I can say that the baby still growing in my womb probably saved my life. I was certainly comfortable with the idea of harming myself, but I couldn't stand the thought of hurting my baby. I was also very fortunate because a room opened up almost immediately after the doctors decided to admit me to the mood disorders unit. I was wheeled up to the psych floor with a security guard, in my lovely paper scrubs, and had to go through a lot of the intake headache all over again. Strip down. This time my bags were searched. Drawstrings removed from my pants, necklaces and headband taken, purse gone through and locked up. I was led to a room with bare white walls, a desk, a cd player, and a chair. The bathroom door couldn't shut all the way. There were even bars on the other side of the window, just like in the movies. I guess I can thank Hollywood for halfway decent expectations. A nurse would pop by every 15 minutes to look in the room and make sure I was still there and breathing.

For eight days, the routine was the same. Wake up to the loud speaker announcement for breakfast. Vitals taken. Go to morning meeting. Do puzzles. Talk to the psychiatrists doing rounds. Go to group. Eat lunch. Nap.  Go to group. Eat dinner. Try to get through a chapter of the workbook. Try to practice coping mechanisms. Write scripture on my dry erase wall. Try not to think about the horrible mother I am for not being there for my kids, the horrible wife I am for not being there for my husband, the horrible friend, daughter, and sister I am for not wanting to tell my loved ones. Eventually they got me on a stronger anti anxiety medication, sleep meds, and a followup appointment with a local psychiatrist and sent me home. 

Plenty of other things happened in those days that maybe I'll expand on some other time. I see now that God was in it. The point is, that was really just the beginning of a long and painful journey. About seven weeks later my dear baby Ezra was born and I was able to followup with my new doctor to get on a better course of medication. I was shocked when, after an hour of grueling questions and honest and sometimes embarassing answers, my doctor asked, "has anyone ever suggested a diagnosis of OCD?" 

There it was. I was very confused at first. I had the same silly impression of what OCD meant as most people do. Constantly washing hands and being afraid that there are germs covering everything you touch. Doc suggested we go home and do some reading. I learned very quickly that my impressions were way off base. Sure, some people struggle with contamination as a subset of their OCD, and it's no joke. That is not how mine manifests. I learned that I struggle primarily with harm, relationship, perfectionism, and religious OCD. 

I'm not going to take the time right now to elaborate on what that all means. I would, however, love to share a resource with you if you are interested. This is a great website that talks about what OCD actually is. 

I began to understand that the thoughts that have consumed me so viciously for years and years were NOT normal. The way one fear or thought could spiral out of control was not normal. The feelings that came from that and the ways that I attempted to self sooth were not normal, either. 

This was a bit overwhelming, as you can imagine. 

I did something a little crazy to help me be able to swallow my diagnosis (and accompanying medications...) a little bit easier. It's going to make me sound about as crazy as I (clinically speaking) actually am :) I gave my OCD a name. I call it Otis.

Otis is basically a really, really crappy roommate. I never invited him, he just moved in. He lurks in the dark corners of the basement speaking lies, making noise, and wreaking havoc as he sees fit. He feeds on the wounds of my past, relationships gone sour, fear, pain, and moments where I am lacking faith. He never helps clean the house, gets super pissed off when I talk or think about Jesus, and tries to stand between me and everything good in my life. He does his best to convince me I am not lovable, I am not capable, and that I will never be useful, helpful, or beautiful. He tempts me with alcohol, drugs, sleep, avoidance, isolation, bitterness, anger, self harm, and points out every possible way to escape my circumstances. I resist. He pushes harder. On and on it goes. 

Since June of this year, I feel like I have spent every waking moment fighting with Otis. He infiltrates my dreams, robs me of my peace and joy, and seems to think that he has the power to make life not worth living. I may not ever be able to evict him. I may not ever be able to silence him. And though I pray for it daily, I am slowly learning that the best option is to learn how to live with him.

And I sure as hell don't want to. 

So there is my long, drawn out introduction to Otis. You'll have to know who he is if you are going to be a part of my life going forward. This is part of my story. A testimony in the making; or so I choose to believe. I felt led to introduce him because I think...no, I am certain, that God will use this battle to strengthen someone else, or maybe many "someone elses". I don't know a lot about how that will look, but I do know a couple of things for sure.

"All things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28

"Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:8-10.

His grace is sufficient. I love Him, He has a purpose for me, and He is allowing me to endure this trial for His glory. It will work out for my good, or He wouldn't allow it in my life. I have to pray that God will help me to believe these truths again every morning. He faithfully answers. And I continue to live, one moment at a time.