my face when I realized.....Derp!
I recently read an article (I'm very sorry, I searched and searched for the article again, but I couldn't find it, but this is not my idea, I am not plagiarizing!) that discussed the human need to rehash our most painful memories. This seemed so strange to me at first. Why would anyone want to dredge up old hurts on purpose? As I continued reading, however, I began to understand. The idea, in short, is this: When we reevaluate those most painful memories, or share them- if they are met with understanding and empathy, say from a friend or counselor- it begins to bring healing to the injury. If you discuss that memory with someone who really doesn't understand or care to, they will not see the effect it has had on you, and therefore will not be able to provide support, understanding, empathy etc. If this happens, then you just opened up your heart and let someone in, only to be told you're wrong to feel that way, or they may laugh and brush it off as a minor incident. To them, it probably is a minor snippet in the vast span of a lifetime and they are unable to understand why that little incident is so important and/or devastating to you. This negative or neutral reaction, only reinforces the negativity associated with that memory and nothing changes. The memory stays the same, including the pain.
On the other hand, when met with support, sympathy, empathy, care, etc. that memory slowly starts to change. Our brains alter our memories every time we revisit them. The changes are minor but when a painful memory is met with positivity, it begins to lose its edge. The more times you share that memory and it is received in a positive way, the more the pain associated with that memory will fade and all that is left is just another memory. You are replacing a negative feeling associated with that memory, with the positive feeling of being heard, accepted, understood, etc.
I had read this article somewhere around a month ago. I've been struggling with the idea ever since. I've always felt some need to vent about painful memories but never understood why. I assumed it was some childish need for attention. This article allowed me to reevaluate. I understand now why I needed to unleash these hurts but now the question was "how?". How do you tell your story without sounding self-absorbed? Do I talk about it for the millionth time with my poor, understanding husband? I've already talked with him about these things but sometimes he feels more like an extension of myself, and talking to yourself can help you clarify what you want to say, but it doesn't offer any new peace or enlightenment on the subject. That was when I remembered the blog I had started those few years ago as a nervous, awkward wreck of an angst-ridden teenager. My first thought was "I can't use that! I've ruined it with all of the complaining, whining, petty ranting, and general poor grammar and silliness of my self at that time." But the more I thought about that article, the more an urge developed within me to share my story. Even if it's on a small blog, unheard of by most. I needed to get it out in the open, stop hiding it, start embracing it.
My story isn't one of horrific abuse, neglect or any other traumatic event(s). I really have had a great life, provided to me by loving parents, with the kind of family everyone dreams of having. I grew up in a wild state where I learned from a young age, how to fish,
how to hunt, how to shoot, how to ride a fourwheeler (yes that's is its name to me. Not a "quad" or some other Lower 48 term for this great Alaskan transportation staple) etc. I was given a phenomenal education by my mother for the first 7 years, by a private Christian school for 3, and by another, (far better) private, Christian, college prep school (upon our move to Colorado) for the remainder of my highschool "career". My parents worked hard to ensure that I was given the best possible education, that I was set up for college, and that I had a firm faith foundation to carry me through the rest of my life.
My story seems flawless. But that is what happens when the struggle is not manifested in physical means, but in your mind.
I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I was diagnosed soon after my graduation from highschool. I knew from the age of 14 that there was something wrong with me. In 7th grade I met a girl who would later become my very best friend and confidant in the entire world. She later revealed to me her story of struggling with severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. As we talked, something shifted. For the first time in my life, everything that I felt, the inner workings of my mind, were finally explained. As she spoke, it felt like she was reading out of a chapter of my life (albeit, stronger and more severe). I truly believe she may very well have saved my life. Had I never known that there could be an answer, I hate to say it, but I have strong doubts about whether or not I would have kept going.
On the other hand, when met with support, sympathy, empathy, care, etc. that memory slowly starts to change. Our brains alter our memories every time we revisit them. The changes are minor but when a painful memory is met with positivity, it begins to lose its edge. The more times you share that memory and it is received in a positive way, the more the pain associated with that memory will fade and all that is left is just another memory. You are replacing a negative feeling associated with that memory, with the positive feeling of being heard, accepted, understood, etc.
I had read this article somewhere around a month ago. I've been struggling with the idea ever since. I've always felt some need to vent about painful memories but never understood why. I assumed it was some childish need for attention. This article allowed me to reevaluate. I understand now why I needed to unleash these hurts but now the question was "how?". How do you tell your story without sounding self-absorbed? Do I talk about it for the millionth time with my poor, understanding husband? I've already talked with him about these things but sometimes he feels more like an extension of myself, and talking to yourself can help you clarify what you want to say, but it doesn't offer any new peace or enlightenment on the subject. That was when I remembered the blog I had started those few years ago as a nervous, awkward wreck of an angst-ridden teenager. My first thought was "I can't use that! I've ruined it with all of the complaining, whining, petty ranting, and general poor grammar and silliness of my self at that time." But the more I thought about that article, the more an urge developed within me to share my story. Even if it's on a small blog, unheard of by most. I needed to get it out in the open, stop hiding it, start embracing it.
My story isn't one of horrific abuse, neglect or any other traumatic event(s). I really have had a great life, provided to me by loving parents, with the kind of family everyone dreams of having. I grew up in a wild state where I learned from a young age, how to fish,
My story seems flawless. But that is what happens when the struggle is not manifested in physical means, but in your mind.
I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I was diagnosed soon after my graduation from highschool. I knew from the age of 14 that there was something wrong with me. In 7th grade I met a girl who would later become my very best friend and confidant in the entire world. She later revealed to me her story of struggling with severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. As we talked, something shifted. For the first time in my life, everything that I felt, the inner workings of my mind, were finally explained. As she spoke, it felt like she was reading out of a chapter of my life (albeit, stronger and more severe). I truly believe she may very well have saved my life. Had I never known that there could be an answer, I hate to say it, but I have strong doubts about whether or not I would have kept going.
After that day, I began asking my parents to take me to the doctor and have them run tests or whatever they needed to do. I was convinced I had found the answer to the problem of myself. My parents are not in any way neglecting, but they didn't think there was any reason to take me in to a doctor. I explained everything to them as best I could, but with the way that I am affected, it is extremely hard to communicate what goes through my mind, to someone who has never experienced the effects. I have argued with my own mind for years. I can get so flustered and anxious that I no longer remember what I truly want, and start questioning my own motives, my thoughts, everything. Needless to say, they assumed it was teenage angst and thought nothing more of it. By the time I graduated highschool, my symptoms had begun getting worse. I had seen a doctor for breathing problems (which I wrote about in one of my previous posts). They told me that what was happening to me, were minor panic attacks, and anxiety which were making me feel like I couldn't catch a deep breath. Understanding this, my parents sent me to a counselor in hopes of helping. After several sessions, my counselor told me that she believed I was obsessive. Being only a psychologist and not a psychiatrist, she could not legally diagnose me, or test for the compulsive side of OCD, but she knew without a doubt, that I was obsessive. I remember thinking, "I knew it!!". I returned home and informed my parents of the discovery. (This is where I do get frustrated and fault them to a point.) They did nothing. I believe that they simply did not want to believe that there was anything wrong with their precious daughter and so they chose not to. Life went on. I began smoking cigarettes occasionally to try to relieve stress. (By occasionally I mean once or twice in a month.) This later turned into an addiction for about 2 years. Eventually everything spiraled out of control and all boiled down to one night. I had attempted to move out of the house after a massive fight with my mom. -- We never got along back then. I misunderstood her, she misunderstood me, and it eventually turned into a power struggle. I wanted the freedoms that I thought should have come with turning 19, she wanted me to follow her rules and restrictions seeing as how I still lived in her home. There was no "coming to a mutual understanding". My mom loves resolutions to problems. The issue is, she doesn't always know what that resolution should look like, meaning we never came to one and so our problems never went away. They were buried until such a time as we needed them for ammunition in our next blow up match. -- I was meeting with my parents to discuss my moving back in. They gave me an ultimatum and said if I wanted to live with them, that would be ok, but I needed to do a few certain things. The sad part is, since I was never the type of girl to sneak out and go party, or anything like this, the ultimatum wasn't some big dramatic "No more partying and you have to get a job". I already had a job. The ultimatum was "We want you to clean your room (after having told me I didn't need to) and cook dinner (which I already did after coming home from a full day of working on the school salon floor) and do dishes (which were supposed to be my mom's job)". I know what you're thinking. "Ok and? That's not a big deal, if that's all they want you to do, you've got it lucky!" I know I did. However, because my form of OCD, as we later found out, is tied tightly with anxiety, small, simple things like altering plans, new schedules, or in this case, changing rules, threw me into a panic. I was angry because changing the rules all of a sudden didn't seem fair to me, but mostly I was having severe anxiety over everything that is constantly going on in my head. I felt like I was now to be a tenant living in my parents home, instead of their daughter. I felt like they didn't love me as much as they had before. I felt unwanted and misunderstood. But most of all, I felt so conflicted inside. I knew that even though some of the new rules were "unfair" they didn't warrant this much of a reaction. Why was I so upset?? I had a panic attack that night. It was all I could do to not run out of the house, screaming, pulling my hair out, anything self destructive.
My mind was at war within itself. I can't describe that feeling to someone who has never experienced it. Surprisingly a quote I came across on Facebook the other day had the most accurate description I've ever found: "Having anxiety and depression [and in my case, OCD,] is like being scared and tired at the same time. It's the fear of failure but with no urge to be productive. It's wanting friends but hate socializing. It's wanting to be alone but not wanting to be lonely. It's caring about everything, then caring about nothing. It's feeling everything all at once, then feeling paralyzingly numb."
There is absolutely nothing logical about the way my mind was working. I was so scared, angry, sad, lonely, literally every emotion all in one mind, each one screaming to be heard above the others. This was my reality. This was my version of "normal". I couldn't pretend to be "normal" anymore. I told my parents "you are the reason I'm in therapy". I've never regretted any words more in my entire life. While they didn't handle everything perfectly, they were only doing the best they knew how. I began sobbing and asking "what's wrong with me?!" over and over. It was the only thing I could hear clearly in my own mind. That was the breaking point. My parents saw, for the first time, what I had struggled with my entire life. The warring of thoughts and emotions in my mind, the struggle with knowing I shouldn't be angry over something small, and that realization making me even more angry. The knowledge that something is wrong with me, and being completely helpless to fix it. Knowing that I was hurting the people that I loved the most, but not knowing how to stop, or how else to get my point across. That night my mom told me, "I understand now. We are going to get you help. Tomorrow we will call and find someone to meet with you. I'm so sorry we didn't see this before". I wanted to scream "I've told you! I've told you for years!!" But I never let them see that side. Yes, I had tried to explain to them, but all they ever saw from me was a grumpy teen, who wanted to be alone. I didn't let them in, I didn't let them see what was really going through my mind. How could I? I barely understood half of what I was thinking myself.
After that day, I was able to meet with a psychiatrist who told me, within the first 10 minutes of talking with him, "Oh yes. You are dealing with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's not the stereotypical kind. You don't seem to have a need for everything to be in complete order."
If anyone has ever seen my room or my lockers in highschool or my car, you'll know that's the gospel truth! I'm a wreck! I thank my artistic (and lazy) side for that.
"But you are definitely suffering from obsessive thinking and high anxiety. Your kind of OCD, if you will, is triggered by anxiety, but your anxiety is triggered partially by your OCD, so it's really a vicious circle".
Finally! Someone who understands!
After meeting with, we'll call him Dr. S., I was prescribed a small dose of both antianxiety medication and medication for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. After a couple of days, my world suddenly opened up. I had never known happiness like that! I didn't know that I could be happy without something constantly hanging over my head, just waiting for the happy moment to be over so it could swallow me back up into a never-ending pit of isolation, fear, and bitterness.
After a while I began to understand why I was so volatile, "dramatic" as some would say, in school days. I understood why I ruined every relationship I had. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, so how could anyone else? How could I expect to be given grace when no one knew that I needed it? That broke me. I had always assumed that the broken bridges were the fault of everyone else. I now had to accept that they were my own fault. Even if I didn't realize what I was doing, how to stop it, or how to change, they were still my fault. I then began to hate myself for this disease. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Why does it have to be my fault? There has to be some small part of the blame I can place on them right? Sure, maybe, but what good will that do me?
I had to come to this conclusion: They (any/all other people that I had relationships with) had reacted as best they could to my situation. I now know that when these issues would flare up for me, I became aloof, moody, rude, snarky, and distanced. To anyone, this is a "turn off" so to speak and of course people don't want to be around someone like that! How could they know that I really wasn't trying to behave that way, and that I was just trying to muddle through and make sense of what was happening inside of my own jostled, chaotic mind? I had to release blame from them. But I also had to release blame from myself. I am not a cruel person. I am not mean, I am not vindictive, I am not aloof, reserved, distanced. I am a people person. I love people with my whole heart. God called us to love everyone and that's what I strive to do. People are my passion. That is one of the reasons I chose to work in the cosmetology industry. I get to meet new people, have meaningful, influential, empowering conversations, and even change peoples perspective of themselves daily!!
Most of the relationships I built before I was introduced to myself (the person free of the chains of anxiety, depression and OCD,) failed. It's a sad, disappointing, painful fact. But I had to stop trying to find blame. In all reality, what I found, was that they failed because of massive misunderstandings. I tried to act like everyone else. I tried to act flawless. I never let on that I'm a complete mess. So how on earth could I dare to expect people to see that I'm flawed and broken, if I never let them see it, and didn't quite understand it myself? I misunderstood myself, I misunderstood them, and they misunderstood me. There is no reason to hate anyone; other people or myself. Misunderstandings happen, and we have to move on.
I found someone who understands my struggles, who loves me in spite of them and also loves me because of them.
Someone who knows how to bring me back from my episodes. I call it bringing me back because when I'm not in my right mind, I don't feel like myself. I feel like a miserable shadow of myself. I feel like I'm stuck in the bottom of a deep, muddy, soggy pit, and the more I try to claw my way out, the wider and deeper the pit becomes.
This picture is eerily accurate to how it can feel.
I found someone who, no matter how many hours he has to spend, how many jokes he has to make, how many hugs he has to give, is more than willing to do so, to bring me back to the surface. Bring me back to the sunlight. Bring me back to myself. And now my support system is growing. My parents now know the majority of what I have gone through, what a "bad day" looks like in terms of my disease, and how to help. My mom has become my warrior and is constantly watching out for me. I've never seen her so fired up when things happen or someone unknowingly triggers my anxiety or obsessive behaviors. She comes to my rescue and sometimes I have to calm her down. The more I learn about my condition, the more I am able to love myself. I used to say, given the chance, of course I would change the way things are. Looking at it now, I don't think I would. I would be sorely tempted, don't get me wrong. But I wouldn't be the same me. I wouldn't be the way that God intended me to be. Sometimes I can become angry with God and ask Him how He could do this to me. Excuse me. God is God! He knows what He's doing far better than I do! If He made me this way, there's a darn good reason! Who knows. Maybe I'll get to help someone else who is struggling like I was. Maybe the way I see things will be useful in the future. I can't even pretend to fathom His plan, but I definitely can't question it.
Fast forward 2 years.
There is absolutely nothing logical about the way my mind was working. I was so scared, angry, sad, lonely, literally every emotion all in one mind, each one screaming to be heard above the others. This was my reality. This was my version of "normal". I couldn't pretend to be "normal" anymore. I told my parents "you are the reason I'm in therapy". I've never regretted any words more in my entire life. While they didn't handle everything perfectly, they were only doing the best they knew how. I began sobbing and asking "what's wrong with me?!" over and over. It was the only thing I could hear clearly in my own mind. That was the breaking point. My parents saw, for the first time, what I had struggled with my entire life. The warring of thoughts and emotions in my mind, the struggle with knowing I shouldn't be angry over something small, and that realization making me even more angry. The knowledge that something is wrong with me, and being completely helpless to fix it. Knowing that I was hurting the people that I loved the most, but not knowing how to stop, or how else to get my point across. That night my mom told me, "I understand now. We are going to get you help. Tomorrow we will call and find someone to meet with you. I'm so sorry we didn't see this before". I wanted to scream "I've told you! I've told you for years!!" But I never let them see that side. Yes, I had tried to explain to them, but all they ever saw from me was a grumpy teen, who wanted to be alone. I didn't let them in, I didn't let them see what was really going through my mind. How could I? I barely understood half of what I was thinking myself.
After that day, I was able to meet with a psychiatrist who told me, within the first 10 minutes of talking with him, "Oh yes. You are dealing with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's not the stereotypical kind. You don't seem to have a need for everything to be in complete order."
If anyone has ever seen my room or my lockers in highschool or my car, you'll know that's the gospel truth! I'm a wreck! I thank my artistic (and lazy) side for that.
"But you are definitely suffering from obsessive thinking and high anxiety. Your kind of OCD, if you will, is triggered by anxiety, but your anxiety is triggered partially by your OCD, so it's really a vicious circle".
Finally! Someone who understands!
After meeting with, we'll call him Dr. S., I was prescribed a small dose of both antianxiety medication and medication for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. After a couple of days, my world suddenly opened up. I had never known happiness like that! I didn't know that I could be happy without something constantly hanging over my head, just waiting for the happy moment to be over so it could swallow me back up into a never-ending pit of isolation, fear, and bitterness.
After a while I began to understand why I was so volatile, "dramatic" as some would say, in school days. I understood why I ruined every relationship I had. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, so how could anyone else? How could I expect to be given grace when no one knew that I needed it? That broke me. I had always assumed that the broken bridges were the fault of everyone else. I now had to accept that they were my own fault. Even if I didn't realize what I was doing, how to stop it, or how to change, they were still my fault. I then began to hate myself for this disease. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Why does it have to be my fault? There has to be some small part of the blame I can place on them right? Sure, maybe, but what good will that do me?
I had to come to this conclusion: They (any/all other people that I had relationships with) had reacted as best they could to my situation. I now know that when these issues would flare up for me, I became aloof, moody, rude, snarky, and distanced. To anyone, this is a "turn off" so to speak and of course people don't want to be around someone like that! How could they know that I really wasn't trying to behave that way, and that I was just trying to muddle through and make sense of what was happening inside of my own jostled, chaotic mind? I had to release blame from them. But I also had to release blame from myself. I am not a cruel person. I am not mean, I am not vindictive, I am not aloof, reserved, distanced. I am a people person. I love people with my whole heart. God called us to love everyone and that's what I strive to do. People are my passion. That is one of the reasons I chose to work in the cosmetology industry. I get to meet new people, have meaningful, influential, empowering conversations, and even change peoples perspective of themselves daily!!
Most of the relationships I built before I was introduced to myself (the person free of the chains of anxiety, depression and OCD,) failed. It's a sad, disappointing, painful fact. But I had to stop trying to find blame. In all reality, what I found, was that they failed because of massive misunderstandings. I tried to act like everyone else. I tried to act flawless. I never let on that I'm a complete mess. So how on earth could I dare to expect people to see that I'm flawed and broken, if I never let them see it, and didn't quite understand it myself? I misunderstood myself, I misunderstood them, and they misunderstood me. There is no reason to hate anyone; other people or myself. Misunderstandings happen, and we have to move on.
I found someone who understands my struggles, who loves me in spite of them and also loves me because of them.
This picture is eerily accurate to how it can feel.
Fast forward 2 years.
I have since quit smoking. In approximately two months I have smoked a grand total of 4 cigarettes whereas, at my worst, I would have been smoking double that, daily. I don't have the cravings that I used to get whenever I would try to quit in the past. I eventually told God "I can't. I've tried and tried and I can't so if I'm supposed to stop, I'm going to need a little help. It's not going well on my own so if this is what you want, you're going to need to step in here". My cousin passed away this summer from complications with her lungs. I knew at that moment I didn't dare stay on the path I was on. I had to make a change for her. I chose to "Quit for Cat" as I fondly named my own little personal campaign. I may have made that decision but ultimately God was the one that made it stick.
Dr. S. was wrong about one thing though. I do have compulsions as well as obsessive thinking. I didn't know enough about them at the time to really know if anything I did was based off of compulsions. I have discovered a few since then, most of them are very minor however, and are not harmful. The problem now, is that I'm absolutely horrendous at remembering to take any sort of medication! Vitamins, cold medicines, including my antianxiety medication. Over the last two years, I've been extremely inconsistent with my medication to the point that it has stopped working, and is now causing me to revert back into my old mentality with all the same symptoms. Only this time, its amplified. It's petrifying. It's like I was finally saved from myself, and now I can feel myself slowly reverting, but until I can find someone who will see me (it can be really hard to get into any psychiatrist office around here) and we find a solution, I am powerless! I stopped taking the medication completely because every day that I took it, was miserable. I would become depressed, sometimes suicidal, and I knew that it wasn't me. That, at least, was the saving grace. I knew that tomorrow would be better and that I was only feeling that way because of the medication. But it has now been 3 months that I have been off of any/all medications and at first I was hopeful that maybe I didn't need them anymore. Newsflash. Slowly but surely the symptoms are coming back, small changes of plans throw me for major loops like they used to do. The smallest thing can set me off because my anxiety levels are already set so high, that the tiniest inconvenience feels like the end of the world. This makes it extremely hard to work, let alone attempt to manage a store. My sweet husband is ever so patient and never once has he gotten angry with me when I have a "crazy moment". I feel awful though. It is the most maddening feeling to know exactly what is wrong with you, but not be able to do a single thing to change/fix it! Knowing what is causing me to act that way, is actually, in some ways, worse than not knowing at all! Knowing just makes you feel even more clinically insane. It would be an effective form of torture if there was ever a way to make that happen! Just give someone a mental illness, show them how fantastic the cure/control can be, then rip it away and watch as they struggle with understanding exactly what is going on in their mind that is causing this feeling, but the inability to do a single blasted thing about it. One might think, "if you know that it's just the illness talking, why can't you just choose not to feel/think that way?" It's a perfectly logical question but trust me. I've tried. It doesn't work that way. I understand that my feelings are not always logical, but in the heat of that moment, understanding that almost makes it worse. You want to feel like your emotions are validated, and even though you know that they most certainly are not, and that they don't deserve to be, somehow this makes you angry as though some great injustice has been done. Somehow your illness still tells you it deserves validation for these horrible thoughts it plants in your head too, regardless of how little, if any truth, is in them.
Fortunately, I have found 2 options for psychiatrists and actually will be calling them today to find out if either of them can see me. Keeping my fingers crossed. Either way, whether I can get in soon, or have to wait another few months, I know that I'll be ok. I know that I am ok. I may feel crazy some days, I may have miserable moments. But I've already come this far, and there's a reason I'm here. There's a reason I have to go through this, and somehow, that makes all the difference.
Fortunately, I have found 2 options for psychiatrists and actually will be calling them today to find out if either of them can see me. Keeping my fingers crossed. Either way, whether I can get in soon, or have to wait another few months, I know that I'll be ok. I know that I am ok. I may feel crazy some days, I may have miserable moments. But I've already come this far, and there's a reason I'm here. There's a reason I have to go through this, and somehow, that makes all the difference.
