When I Realized (Memoir Monday)
I first began suspecting I wasn't normal at around age nine. You see, for the life of me, I couldn't get myself to sit in the car without a barrier between me and the seat. I was terrified and I wasn't entirely sure why, but I knew if I sat down without my pillow, something bad would happen to me.
I remember a childhood acquaintance looking into the backseat of our beater, wondering why I was so weird--that's what his expression said. I remember trying to hide the pillow, but he saw it. That was clue one that I wasn't quite like other kids.
I grew out of that stage--for a while--but what came next was baffling to me: I had to do everything at least three times or more, but always in odds. Evens were bad (especially twos and fours, hence the poem I posted last week.) If I failed to do things in odds--such as passing a display at the store--it meant that I wished someone harm and I was a bad person.
After that came the thoughts. I was twelve when they started.
A word to someone who knows nothing about OCD: For some of us with this disorder, intrusive violent thoughts are "normal." We don't act on them. We're TERRIFIED of hurting people, as a rule.
The thoughts had been getting bad around the time of a youth retreat with my church. But during dinner the first night, a friend said something, and all at once the violent thoughts started pounding me. I was so overcome with fear of myself, that I ran outside, crying. A youth leader came out and asked me what was wrong. I told them. They told me it was just Satan wanting me to leave, because I was BEGGING her to take me home so I could be away from everyone. What if my thoughts weren't just thoughts? What if I actually followed through with them? (Remember: this was all before my diagnosis.)
A pause here. Satan was a part of the attack. He fed it. But there was and is something chemically imbalanced in my brain. So if any of this is sounding familiar to you, don't be deceived: you need medical help. From a professional. Don't let this go. I did, and it could've cost me a lot more than it did.
Depression hit me over the head at age thirteen. I was getting dark inside, emotionally. At age seventeen, I finally confided in an adult. He brushed it off: didn't want to hear it, didn't bother talking to my mom.
It wasn't until spring of 2002 that I told my mom that I needed help. But more on that another time.
On an ending note for this post, let me just say that I thankful for all of the helpful people God has put in my life: doctors and a loving mother and a few good friends. Without their help, I'd be--well, you wouldn't be reading this post.
__
Thanks for reading this edition of Memoir Monday. I am open to questions and will try to answer them honestly in a timely manner.
I remember a childhood acquaintance looking into the backseat of our beater, wondering why I was so weird--that's what his expression said. I remember trying to hide the pillow, but he saw it. That was clue one that I wasn't quite like other kids.
I grew out of that stage--for a while--but what came next was baffling to me: I had to do everything at least three times or more, but always in odds. Evens were bad (especially twos and fours, hence the poem I posted last week.) If I failed to do things in odds--such as passing a display at the store--it meant that I wished someone harm and I was a bad person.
After that came the thoughts. I was twelve when they started.
A word to someone who knows nothing about OCD: For some of us with this disorder, intrusive violent thoughts are "normal." We don't act on them. We're TERRIFIED of hurting people, as a rule.
The thoughts had been getting bad around the time of a youth retreat with my church. But during dinner the first night, a friend said something, and all at once the violent thoughts started pounding me. I was so overcome with fear of myself, that I ran outside, crying. A youth leader came out and asked me what was wrong. I told them. They told me it was just Satan wanting me to leave, because I was BEGGING her to take me home so I could be away from everyone. What if my thoughts weren't just thoughts? What if I actually followed through with them? (Remember: this was all before my diagnosis.)
A pause here. Satan was a part of the attack. He fed it. But there was and is something chemically imbalanced in my brain. So if any of this is sounding familiar to you, don't be deceived: you need medical help. From a professional. Don't let this go. I did, and it could've cost me a lot more than it did.
Depression hit me over the head at age thirteen. I was getting dark inside, emotionally. At age seventeen, I finally confided in an adult. He brushed it off: didn't want to hear it, didn't bother talking to my mom.
It wasn't until spring of 2002 that I told my mom that I needed help. But more on that another time.
On an ending note for this post, let me just say that I thankful for all of the helpful people God has put in my life: doctors and a loving mother and a few good friends. Without their help, I'd be--well, you wouldn't be reading this post.
__
Thanks for reading this edition of Memoir Monday. I am open to questions and will try to answer them honestly in a timely manner.
No comments have been added yet.
