Organized Chaos - Volume 7
Beth's Convocation
The following was delivered as a convocation speech by the writer at her high school.
If you've delivered a speech or written an essay or article about your relationship with OCD, why not send it to Organized Chaos? We might be able to feature in an upcoming issue. [1]
The June after my high school sophomore year I left school with an adrenaline rush. My older brother and I were going to Washington D.C., and I was going to my first ever REAL concert. Unlike the past concerts I had gone to, this one featuring Franz Ferdinand was in a room, not a pavilion, and was comprised of people in their teens and up, not middle school girls with their moms. I asked my brother what I should wear repeatedly, and took a long shower that day, knowing that the crowd would force me to be in contact with a lot of people.
To our surprise, upon our arrival we found out that Franz Ferdinand was filming a DVD. Though the band's entrance on the stage soon pushed this out of our minds, the people with the camcorders decided to scan the crowd at the end of the show. Everyone was ecstatic. Pushing each other they screamed and yelled, shoving the 'rock on sign' in front of the camera. I, having no time to properly decide what to do, simply shrunk back, grinned, and WAVED. Though it didn't seem like a huge deal at the time, I ended up reflecting on this moment for at least two days straight. I was obsessing in an irrational manner. In my mind I created a scenario where the members of Franz Ferdinand -- Alex, Nick, Paul, and my favorite golden-locked hobbit of a man, Bob -- sat in front of a television screen watching the DVD. Inevitably I would appear, small, nerdy, with a huge smile and a wave. They would retort: "What is she doing there?" and also notice that I was the only one wearing a skirt. Thinking this I got sick to my stomach and was unable to get up from my bed. At that time I felt that their entire DVD's success was my responsibility.
It is that feeling of responsibility I want to address. It is so critical to recognize the difference between consequences of one's action that are realistic and those that are not.
Most people can draw the line between the rational and irrational -- knowing when to be responsible for oneself and fixating on the power one has. Many of us are constantly reminded of this power. Yet after years of education here I have found that one of the most important lessons I have learned is how to actually make myself feel less responsible for assumed consequences of my actions.
It seems contradictory to say that one should actually shirk the yoke that we were born to wear, should step back from the challenges that face us. I certainly do not mean such grand statements. I am actually trying to express something on a much smaller scale.
The summer after that tenth grade experience with the concert I found myself becoming increasingly involved with, well, my own mind. Eventually, I was diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
I would spend hours at a time checking my guinea pigs' cage in the basement. This was comprised of giving them vitamins, oranges, fresh food, fresh water, making sure their cage top was secure, sharp objects weren't in the room, the roof wasn't leaking, the cage wouldn't fall off the table, the lights were out, and the door was closed. This was every night and more than once as I was unable to leave them without returning to check just one last thing. After returning to my room, I started praying for their safety and that I had not jeopardized their health in any way. My final night with my guinea pigs during which I was sobbing and unable to stop refilling their water bottles alerted my family of the condition I was in. Though my mother was hysterical, my older brother was calm, and with puffy eyes I listened to him as he tried to convince me to put down the water bottles and leave the guinea pigs. The next day my mom decided that I should bring the guinea pigs to our good friends, and the day after that I should see a therapist.
Debbie was not the intimidating woman whom I thought she would be. Sitting on the edge of the couch I found that it was a relief to talk about what had been happening. After a while we discovered that I was afraid of spreading germs to others and that my thoughts would hurt whoever I thought about. I learned that OCD in general can be separated into two things. There are the obsessions, such as my fear for my guinea pigs, and then there are the compulsions, the often senseless actions one will make to try to bring relief from the obsessions. These often involve checking things like the stove and front door.
I do not know if I can express how amazed I was to have someone understand, and actually know why I was doing what I was doing. It turned out that I was not the only person in the world who thought the way I did. She even was helping me try to stop these irrational acts that tortured me so much. She introduced me to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, a development for people suffering from OCD that focuses on having the sufferer confront his or her fears. With increased exposure they develop steps to relieve their obsessive symptoms and eventually overcome them all together. This planned reaction to a fear has been found most effective in the face of OCD, the victim being able to use it in the future when exposed again. Debbie and I started using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy immediately, designing a plan for what I should do when I became anxious and experienced the by then familiar feeling of being stuck between two walls. The fact that I had OCD still hadn't actually sunk in however, until my habits got so bad that both my family and Debbie had to convince me to start augmenting the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy with medicine.
At first I refused. I hated the idea of chemicals influencing the way I thought, that I didn't have control over my own mind. I eventually lost control anyways, though, to my OCD, and when I became afraid of thinking ANYTHING, the medication started to look necessary.
The day that marked my entry into junior year, the junior retreat, was one of the hardest days of my life and helped me realize the extremity of my disorder. I was constantly trying to sit on something, and could not even imagine sleeping. One of my friends stayed up with me all night, trying to help me with my problem. She took a blanket for me and draped it around a chair that I was afraid of sitting on. This girl was the first friend that I talked to about my OCD. I can still remember sitting on the stairs with her and telling her that I could imagine germs emanating from myself and spilling down each step. Though she was tired and had an immense amount of work to do, she stayed up with me until after three. When I finally went upstairs to get ready to go to bed, I snuck past my sleeping classmates to the bathroom at least ten times for a number of reasons: I had touched the door handle; I had dripped water on the floor; the trash can's lid was not completely closed. The night culminated with me cleaning the corners of the bathroom with a paper towel.
October was the climax of the disorder. During those days I was forced to time myself in the shower because otherwise I would clean both my own body and the bottles I used for an infinite amount of time. I would wear as many pairs of shorts as I could to school and hated sitting on something because I was so scared I would spread an unknowable disease. I found myself unable to pet my own dog.
During these times my mom would drive me and my little brother to school. In a manner very uncharacteristic of a sixth grade Gilman boy, Nate was not immature about my problem. While I spent forty minutes in the shower each morning, he sat on our stairs with his coat zipped up and backpack on. He did not question my habits, and aside from occasional outbursts that I deserved, he was the most patient little boy.
My dad, working in Washington D.C., would come home to spend a night with his family and end up having to confront my problems. Despite his fatigue, he never evaded this task, signing up for the OCD Newsletter and ordering a number of books on the subject. I remember falling asleep one night while he assured me that one day I would conquer my OCD and not need anyone to make sure I was going to bed instead of cleaning something. Though I wanted to believe him, I wasn't sure if it would ever happen. I am happy to say that he was right.
Out of everyone, however, I owe my current health most to my mother. Though it annoyed me, and still does, she has never ceased to point out when I am letting my obsessive thoughts take over. My fear of germs being carried by hair has always made me particularly sensitive to pillows. For years I have been flipping my pillow so one side is for when my hair is 'dirty' and one side for when it is 'clean.' When losing track I resort to covering the pillow with a clean shirt or case. This drives my mother insane. After all she has done, driving me to my doctor's appointments, washing at least three loads of laundry each day that only I believe is dirty, and sitting on my bed so I won't get up to wash my hands again, she cannot bear to see me sleeping on a shirt. So mom, you deserve to see me conquer even the smallest of compulsions, and I promise that I will not cover my pillow again.
My days, though not without set-backs, hold many small victories. My mother still washes clothes more than once a day, but just yesterday I wore sweatpants that I had slept in. Fearing that my hair was contaminated, I called one of my friends in search of help and the courage not to wash it. Despite his attempts to convince me that it was clean, I still took a shower. This past weekend, however, I didn't wash it for four days. In convocation I still find myself staring up at the ceiling, hands in prayer position, apologizing for a disturbing thought, but right now I am giving my convocation on how I have learned to counter these very thoughts and my reactions to them.
Every day I enter the senior room to see my classmates sprawled out on the couches, passing around buckets of food. Surprisingly, I often sleep on the couches and eat food off of the communal table as well. I become extremely happy to see everyone there because I know that finally many of my classmates have become relaxed. It was the very same stress that they went through that brought out my OCD, and is the reason for this convocation.
Feeling excessively responsible, whether for grades or a friend or a video shoot, inspires unnecessary stress. I felt responsible for my guinea pigs because I was, but I let this pressure take advantage of me. At the retreat I felt responsible for those who lived in the house we were staying in. I also felt responsible for my fellow classmates. Every time I sat on something I felt responsible for the health of whoever would sit there next. Every time I took a shower I felt it my responsibility to clean myself as much as possible, for I felt responsible for those I would come in contact with. Finally, every time I even thought about someone I felt responsible for their lives.
So obviously, I feel responsible for my actions. Isn't that a common phrase? "Take responsibility for your actions." Well, yes you should. But, please remember, there are times when you simply cannot fix the things and events around you. Despite what OCD tells you, there are things that are beyond your control.
[1] Send any articles you would like to submit to Organized Chaos to pperkins@ocfoundation.org.
