When I was 12, I had a bunk bed, which had a a desk and lounge chair underneath.
I remember the frame used to shake profusely when I would get under my covers, moving all of my neatly-lined pens and pencils, notebooks and framed pictures of Harry Styles.
It used to drive me into states of delirium having to then tiptoe down the ladder, rearrange my stationary and my school shoes – which were lined up, equidistant but not touching – and creep back into bed, only for the slightest movement to leave it destroyed.
At the time I thought it was just something everyone did. I thought I was just tidy and very proud of the cleanliness of my environment.
The thing that worried me, however, was the shame, guilt, frustration and intense anger I would feel if I didn’t go back down the steps to fix the mess on my desk.
I told the school nurse about this and she diagnosed me with mild OCD and that was that. My mum had to come into school for the appointment, which added another layer of cold dread to the whole thing. But it was never spoken about again.
The language around mental health often makes it seem like an all or nothing situation. You either have a severe issue or you don’t have one at all.
It feels like you’re not allowed to be somewhere in between – if you do, it’s not real, it’s just a personality trait.
I was told my condition was mild, so I did nothing. As a result, my OCD has become a constant companion, not going away, not growing, just there. It’s become a parrot on my shoulder.
I wouldn’t be surprised to find out my that situation is common. I imagine many of us feel like this. We have something that we know is treatable and can become manageable, but we end up just living with it, allowing it to become our normal.
It allows us to feel less shame – if we get to know it and welcome it in.
As a child I wanted to be in control of my things under the bed, as an adult this need for control manifests itself in my work.
This leads to crashes and burnouts, or continual panic and anxiety, leading me to believe (almost every day) that as a freelancer, I will never work again. But without a more formal diagnosis I feel like I am brushed off as ‘just another stressed millennial’.
And that’s the thing, mild mental health issues – and conditions like anxiety – have been boiled down into slogans that big companies can splash over cheap mugs and t-shirts.
We’ve also seen it plastered over expensive designer items, too. Ashley Williams’ fall 2018 collection featured black fluffy sliders with ‘anxiety’ bedazzled on them. And who can forget Viktor & Rolf’s instantly meme-able ‘I’m sorry I’m late I didn’t want to come dress’?
Seeing it described almost as something cute frustrates me, because it often then leads people to not think of it as something they can gain help for.
It becomes, much like OCD, an adjective; a temporary description of your mood or personality, rather than something we have to live with and navigate.
Don’t get me wrong, the frequency in discussion of topics like anxiety isn’t a bad thing – they’re positively brilliant.
But it can often be easy to convince yourself that you’re absolutely fine when your anxiety or OCD is only mild because the conversation we see online or within the media only focuses on cases that are far more intense than our own.
It leaves us feeling like we aren’t worthy of help and that we should just suck it up and move on.
What made me seek help was realising that my mental health was valid and that I deserved support. I looked towards the LGBTQ+ community and saw how our narratives are often buried in favour of the more headline-gripping stories and it convinced me to open up and start getting help.
For the past six weeks I have been seeing a brilliant LGBTQ+ therapist and it’s been tough, but necessary.
Before, I attempted to self-manage my OCD, which led to complex, inadequate and harmful coping mechanisms that just became ‘part of my character’.
I would isolate myself, drinking just that slight bit too much for no other reason than to feel like all the stresses of my mind would take a weekend off. It wasn’t healthy, or what I should have been doing.
I still have behaviours – such as, if I’m reading a book and I misread one word I have to start the paragraph again (I can go from Bank to Tooting Broadway and have read one page) – and I don’t expect that that will change straightaway. But I am glad I now have someone who can help me explain why I do this.
I’ve lived with these mannerisms for so long that I forgot to keep assessing the state my mental health was in.
Talking often feels like something that doesn’t do anything, but what it actually does is allow you to hear yourself loud and clear. It’s so important that we talk because it allows us to vocalise just how we feel, which is so often the hardest part. Make sure you’re talking to the right people, at the time that is right for you.
Therapy has made me realise that this is only the start of the journey, but it’s a journey that is now moving forward.
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/02/06/i-didnt-think-my-ocd-was-severe-enough-to-seek-help-12192128/
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