My official diagnoses are OCD and bipolar II disorder.  I guess what I’d like to demonstrate here is how much more these conditions are than what you typically read in the books, and how many other problems and oddities can come along with mental disorders.First, the OCD.  It developed when I was just a child.  I was afraid that by making mistakes or feeling the “wrong” emotions, I would harm my parents.  I would say magic words and draw pictures of my family which I believed would keep everybody safe.  I also remember seeing and hearing strange things as a child, from a talking flower to a nonexistent bobcat to a bedroom full of lizards.  This continued for some years (through elementary school) but is no longer such a problem.

In elementary school I moved to a new town and the kids at the school were really mean.  I got made fun of for the effects of what I now know to have been mental disorders.  At the time, I thought I was just a weird kid who deserved it.  When I was 12 years old, the OCD became an even bigger part of my life.  I still feared harming my parents and other loved ones, but now I would seek reassurance from them rather than drawing “magical” pictures.  I started to write lists of things I needed to do — an innocent habit at first, and one that even helped me at the time.  But it soon grew into an obsession.  The lists were never detailed enough, never in the right order; you get the idea.  I would also brush the carpet in my room (and sometimes the rest of the house) by hand whenever it got “messed up” (all the threads not facing the same direction).

Soon OCD was my life.  My family moved again and I became obsessed with keeping my stuff packed in organized boxes.  I would pack and repack but it was never right.  So I got rid of things.  Tons of things.  I wasn’t “allowed” by my OCD to decorate my room or have normal things like extra pillows.  Only the bare minimum was acceptable.  I soon went from being a straight-A student to nearly failing in school.  Teachers and parents said it was because I was “lazy”.  I turned to self-injury (something I had been experimenting with since early childhood) on a more regular basis.

In adulthood, I developed new obsessions — I owed someone money and was incurring tons of interest; I had been in a car accident without knowing it; I had run somebody over in my car.  I developed the classic “bump-checking” compulsion, as well as constantly worrying and checking about bank accounts I had never opened, or car accidents that never happened.  My biggest obsession was (and still is) a fear of developing amnesia.  The related compulsion is arranging things so that certain things touch and others don’t and everything is perfectly categorized — an impossible standard, and yet I can’t stop.

I also developed avoidance as an adult.  I would avoid school because it was simply too scary.  I had a panic attack at work one time — partly the result of my OCD and its inability to tolerate chaos — and became terrified of crowds.  I have only had one panic attack since, over the arrangement of items in my room.

Bipolar is also tough to live with, and for me it enhances the OCD.  Manic: compulsive.  Depressed: obsessive.  I think one way to explain it is I’m like a bottle of champagne that alternately bubbles and goes flat.  Or, like a conducting material when manic (and I see and feel and hear all the beauty in the world and want to capture it forever) and an insulator when depressed (and I feel cut off from everything).  Bipolar messes with my (almost nonexistent, but getting better) sleeping and eating schedules, which is rough.

I have other problems too.  I have huge problems with executive functioning — the ability to plan and carry out steps.  I have trouble making simple decisions and doing simple things like dressing and preparing meals.  I have synesthesia, which is not all bad and in fact mostly good, but sometimes it feeds my OCD.  I have trouble communicating verbally because I think in pictures and symbols and sometimes loosely-connected words, not in linear sequences of words.  It’s easier for me to communicate through poetry, math, or music.  I have tics, which are related to “bad” OCD thoughts — some of them are words and some are muscle-tension related.  I have also had problems with coordination, ever since I was a child.

Well…in conclusion, I think the main problem with this essay is it shows my compulsions but not the intense pain behind them.  OCD is a mentally painful and taxing condition.  I hate doing all the things I “have” to do as a result of OCD, but I can’t stop, or at least it will take years of intensive therapy for me to stop.  If it’s enjoyable, it’s probably not OCD.  If it feels like you are being driven to do something you really know you don’t want to do, it probably is OCD.  In this essay, I also wanted to show that the problems of a person with a mental condition go far beyond the diagnostic criteria for that condition.  Hopefully I have succeeded somewhat.

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I have a type of OCD which I finally understand to be Obsessive-Compulsive Spartanism.

For more than thirty years I suffered in embarrassed silence, not sure what was wrong with me.  I suspected it was OCD, but my particular symptoms were documented in none of the textbooks on the subject.  I didn’t clean or check, and I certainly didn’t hoard.  What was wrong with me?

By age 16 I was so desperate for help that I began starving myself.  By age 18 I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for anorexia and bulimia, and that’s when I first attempted to explain that I was constantly bothered by the presence of stuff in my room – that I had to have specific numbers of everything, but I could never quite decide what those numbers should be.  I felt silly saying all this, and the look of pure cluelessness on the doctor’s and nurse’s faces only served to amplify my isolation.

Years of self-abuse, self-harm, excessive drinking and depression followed.  I spent hours in libraries and bookstores trying to understand what was wrong with me, but still found nothing.  Then came the internet.  I searched and searched and came up empty-handed.

One spark of joy, the only thing that kept me alive all these years, was that out of more than twenty mental health professionals from whom I sought help, one prescribed SSRI medications and I experienced enough relief from my symptoms to be able to function (somewhat) in life.  Seeing how much relief I got from SSRIs, I became more convinced that I might indeed have OCD.  But still none of the literature covered my specific symptoms.  So I continued my journey through life alone and frustrated.

And then it happened.  Thirty years after my admittance to the psychiatric hospital for an eating disorder, I was in an online forum, not unlike this one, listening to everyone describe hand washing and hoarding for the millionth time, and as usual having my posts ignored by everyone, when suddenly one angel popped onto my screen and said those magic words:“You have obsessive-compulsive spartanism.”

So I looked it up and, surely enough, it described my symptoms.  There isn’t that much information on obsessive-compulsive spartanism.  But it is there, and it is OCD.  Finally I had a name for my condition and for the first time in my life, I felt that I could talk about it.

The moral of this story is that OCD is more than just the textbook symptoms that are rehashed over and over.  But many sufferers are never made aware of this.  And many people suffer alone and in silence, unaware that they are not alone in suffering from a well-known condition that can be treated with SSRI medications.

I wish the OCD community would be more open-minded and understand that we do not all fit into one neat little box.  Certainly the majority of OCD sufferers experience the most well-known symptoms, but theirs is not the whole story of OCD, and any responsible educators on the subject have a duty to leave no sufferer in the dark.

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I have had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder since I was 9 years old.  I am now 19.

My Nan was severely ill and died in 2002 and since then I have suffered with OCD.  I remember having to tap the bedrail four times before bed time so she wouldn’t die.  When she died, my OCD got worse and I still feel I have to do certain things to stop others dying.  There are times when my OCD restricts me from doing ‘normal’ things.  Some days I cannot get dressed quickly because of my rituals and obsessions, such as making sure my hands are clean and doing certain things the right number of times.

I have facial tics and have to do them a certain number of times, which caused me to get bullied in high school.  If something I touch is ‘contaminated’ I immediately have to clean my hands and can’t get anything that is clean near them due to my fear of getting diseases and illnesses.

Seeking reassurance is a main part of my OCD, and it helps me calm down, but it’s not a good thing to seek when having OCD, so I am working on not doing it so much.  It’s a struggle!

I have to turn the taps off with tissues so I don’t get any germs, and open the doors with tissue too.  I even have to wear tights under my trousers so I don’t contract any diseases when sitting down anywhere.  The anxiety is physically and emotionally draining.

Most days, the only thing I can think about is my OCD.  Will I get any germs from this?  What will happen if I do that?  If I don’t do that, my mother will die.  The rituals are exhausting and when you have OCD, it feels like your thoughts are in control, not you.

I started my treatment in 2008 (which was when I was diagnosed) under the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Team (CAMHS) and my school work and family life suffered due to me having Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.  There were many times when I never went to school due to my OCD.  I was also diagnosed with Clinical Depression and stayed in bed for most of the day, lost my appetite and lost a lot of weight.  Eventually, I dropped out of my A-Levels in 2010 and started working in Administration.  However, due to me becoming ill I had to leave in April of this year.

When I was 18, I was transferred to the Community Mental Health Team (CMHT) and had the opportunity to do a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.  The course helped me understand that my thoughts and obsessions are not me; it’s OCD!  I have obsessions and intrusive thoughts regarding death, contamination and bad things happening.

I have learned a lot from my treatment and I am now learning how to manage my OCD and get better.  I have good days and I have bad days.  I know one day I will be free from OCD, one day it will have no control over me and that ‘it’s always darkest before dawn’.

Chloe’s tips:

• If you think you have OCD, please see a GP.  They will give you the help you need.
• Remember to do things you enjoy, like reading or cooking. I enjoy writing poetry.
• I find that eating and sleeping well really helps me manage my OCD.  If I don’t get the right amount of sleep, I’m very emotional and irritable.
• Talk to someone you trust about your OCD, whether it’s a family member or a friend.
• OCD does not have to define you – you are you, not your OCD.

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

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Claire is a freelance filmmaker and fellow sufferer of OCD.  When she was going through an extremely rough time with her OCD over Christmas, she decided to use her skills to create a film that would attempt to challenge OCD stereotypes, as well as help raise awareness about the conditions.

Living with Me and My OCD features interviews from OCD sufferers, including Claire’s twin sister Jane (who also assisted with the film process) and their parents.  Further interviews were conducted with people found on the Internet, from all over the world, and friends who revealed their OCD after she spoken to them about her own difficulties.

The documentary also features discussions with Vice-Chair Catherine Mills of the national charity OCD UK, who supported the release of Check Mates as well.  Organisations such as Mind, Anxiety UK and Time to Change have also been supportive, promoting and sharing the documentary’s trailer and links.

But more than that, the documentary features Claire’s own personal, honest and emotional diary entries, which paint a harrowing and inspiring picture of what it’s really like to live with OCD each day.  The film marks one of the first times when viewers get an inside view of how draining and upsetting OCD can be and how it can affect every aspect of your life, from work to social life.

Claire says, ‘I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the amazing responses and support this campaign and project has received so far; everyone has been wonderful.

‘I was thrilled when I contacted Conditional Publications and they agreed to an interview, after researching their organisation and coming across their book Check Mates.  Interviewing Vrinda and Sharon was a lovely experience; they were really inspirational and friendly.  It was great to meet some of the people involved in the creation of this incredible book.

‘What I want most from this documentary is for the OCD community to come together and join this campaign to raise awareness regarding OCD.  This has already started to happen.  Let’s get OCD talked about more, banish the stereotypes and help everyone feel comfortable living with their OCD.  It took me ages to come to terms with my OCD; I understand how tough it is – I really want to help as many people as I can.  Remember, you’re never alone.’

We at Conditional Publications urge you to be among the first to watch the trailer for this inspirational documentary.

If you want to chat, get involved or e-mail Claire directly about the project, she welcomes you to contact her at clairewatkinson@hotmail.co.uk.

Please also visit the Facebook page, and you can follow every step of the project on Twitter too.

Finally, Conditional Publications wish to say a massive thank you to Claire and Jane for including us in the project, and for putting the message out there in bold visual form.  Conditional Publications is all about people like you, and we can’t wait to see the film in its entirety!

Conditional Publications – Facebook

Conditional Publications – Twitter

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

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‘Rick’

My Story

Every moment, I know its going to happen.  The other shoe is going to drop and I will die.  From my own hand, maybe, because it will be so awful. I will not be able to handle it.

It’s morning.  The worst for me.  I’ve been up most of the night tossing and turning.  There is no such thing as healthy sleep.  I try to get out of bed, and I can’t because I am being crushed by my own thoughts.  Thoughts of my hell day flash through the diseased filters of my mind.  Welcome to me.

To understand this, or to understand depression in general, you ‘un-sick’ people out there need to get into the mood…and you must be willing to ‘feel’ …even though – actually, especially if – it hurts.

What is the worst thing that ever happened to you ?  Did someone close to you die ?  Were you in a terrible accident? Did someone you love dump you for another?  Did a close friend betray you?  How did you feel when you first learned of death and/or betrayal?  Did you feel lightheaded and confused for a moment?  Then did the train hit you?  As the initial days wore on, did you feel ‘better’, or did your gut remain tight and your breath short?  Did vivid images attack you – e.g. how the person died and what he or she felt?  Or did you picture your love in bed with another?  Or did you picture your best friend having good times with others, but not you?

You must feel those feelings here – as though it just happened. Do it. Not just for a moment.  Rather, close your eyes and hold the thoughts with all your might.  Go deeper – what is the morgue going to do to the loved one that died?  What acts is your love doing with the ‘other’ person?  What are all the places and events going to be that you will never enjoy with your friend?  Keep your eyes closed and force the images to stay in your mind.  Make the images and feelings go round and round – like a carousel.  And feel the blackness.  Feel the short breath.

Don’t open your eyes: I can’t – even with my eyes open.  Those harsh, tortuous feelings never leave.  Rather, they attack like an onslaught – it’s like right before you thrown up – the sick feeling, the acid in your stomach.   But the feeling stays – you can’t throw up for relief.  Rather, the feelings pull you down, and down.  And it gets darker and darker.  Keep your eyes closed – try to open them, but do not let yourself open them.  Feel the despair.  Feel yourself unable to move.  Feel yourself cry.  And feel what it would feel like to believe it will never go away.

Now, imagine having these symptoms arise and fall at whim.  Imagine them holding on and terrorizing you for hours, or even days.  Imagine you have absolutely no control over them.  Imagine that you have to function at work, at school, among friends, at family functions – sometimes while your gut is coming out.  Imagine that they appear to be with you for the rest of your life.

Imagine the feelings never going away.  Unlike other post-catastrophe mental states, there is never the occasional or sporadic relief that the mind creates for self survival in emergencies.  Imagine sometimes being in the dark hole every waking minute.  Imagine that you cannot even see straight – like you are partially drunk.  Imagine that those feelings mentioned previously never go away – those from the death, the heartbreak, the betrayal.  Rather, they ebb and flow all day long, or suddenly, out of nowhere, they attack without notice.

Can you feel it, even for a moment?  If so, welcome to major depression.  Lucky you, though.  You can put this writing down and leave.  I cannot.

What is this called?  Some tell me I am a ‘major depressive’.  Some say I am bipolar, because I have incidents, though not frequently, where I am acting in a sort of manic stage – very outward, intense, wired, like on speed, doing things I otherwise might not – and then I crash.  But the lows far exceed the highs.  Some say I am OCD – I can’t let things go.  I’ll do things over and over and over – to be perfect and lose the forest  through the trees.  I also have panic attacks.  Sometimes I’m unable to get off the floor, even to do something as simple as take a shower.  Often I just want to stay in my house and not talk to anyone.  To sleep.  That is my savior. Sometimes weekends at a time.  What the fuck am I?  Does it matter?  Maybe for insurance purposes.  Maybe for the meds to be prescribed?  The many meds.  I am an addict.

Writing this is kinda good and kinda sucks.  It is good because others who suffer will read it, and perhaps this will help them know they are not alone.  It sucks because it puts things into words and reminds me of what I am – fucked up.  If I don’t have my six little pills every day, bad things happen.  Actually, bad things happen even if I take the pills, but without them, I get much worse.  But is it the addiction to the drugs which makes it worse – i.e. without them I freak?  Or, do I truly suffer from chemical imbalances?  I am not willing to try life without them.  Before I began to take them, I almost died.  For me, it works like this: survival = drugs.  No drugs = death.  I

n my sick head, I am so afraid of the impending disaster, and that it will cause my death, I am unable to think that someday I will die anyway, so I might as well enjoy life while I can.  That, however, would be a healthy thought – I am unable to accept it, or believe it.  Because it is bullshit – failure and disaster are my world.  Joy is for everyone else.  They are all so lucky, I think, because at least they don’t suffer from my hell – that which I cannot get away from.

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By Nadja

NOTE: This story contains some depictions / references to violence / sex that some readers may find unsettling.  However, we do not believe in censoring anyone’s life story, so we have included it in full.  Please do not read if you are easily upset by such things.

Regardless of whether you believe in “Nature” or “Nurture”, I really didn’t have a chance. My poor, sweet Grandpa Ralph had OCD, except back then nobody knew what it was so they thought he was just doing weird things because he was drunk. The truth is, he was drunk because he couldn’t stop himself from doing weird things. I know this all too well. I spent my teens and early 20s drunk because alcohol is really good at drowning your obsessions and compulsions.
How did I get to this point?

I had my first panic attack at age 7. My Grandpa Ralph had just died and I was in the tub with my biological dad watching me. I. Flipped. Out. I had no idea what was wrong. I just knew that I wanted out NOW and I wanted my mom NOW and I wanted my dad gone NOW.

I discovered my dad was a child molester. He never touched me. With me he was just a watcher. With my siblings, only they know.  Our father was a nightmare of epic proportions. He was mean, heartless, soulless. He would scream at my mom and physically intimidate her. I have vivid memories of him chasing her around the kitchen tossing knives. One day he raped her right in our house with me there. I lived in constant fear that one day he would kill her. There were only two men who had ever made me feel safe.  Now one was dead and the other turned out to be a pedophile.

Enter my step-dad. He was my mom’s best friend at the time and he gave her the courage to leave and a safe place to stay. Even to this day he is the one person my biological father fears, but I’m not sure why. Eventually love ensued, they got married, and I got an amazing dad. I need you all to know that, regardless of all the other things I will tell you about him: my step-dad was a great dad and I will forever be grateful to have him in my life.

,Unfortunately, his brother was murdered and my step-dad was never quite the same. He became angry, agitated, and drank way too much. He tried to get help once, but it didn’t work. He just became meaner and more violent. My mom and I tiptoed around our house like mice avoiding a trap. You never knew what would set him off and send him into a terrifying blind rage. He threw things, he broke things, he punched through walls and doors over the most minor of offenses, and we were back to me seeing my mom get hit. One day when it was especially bad I went on autopilot, got in my car, and started the engine. My mom came flying out of the house screaming with my step-dad in pursuit, holding a gun. That was the single most terrifying moment of my life. Everything that happened after that point is a complete blur.

Now I’m an adult. I have my own house, my own marriage, and my own kids. I felt so scared and out of control for my entire life that I’m now obsessed with it. There are dangers, germs, and bad people out in the world that could hurt my babies! My husband could die at work! If I keep them trapped in this little house where I can control EVERYTHING maybe they’ll be safe and I’ll feel sane!

Unfortunately, all I’m doing is suffocating them, making my children miss out on experiences, my husband go mad, family members resent me, and friends leave me. I’m aware of what I’m doing but I can’t stop yet.

Help will come, just please, I beg of you, be patient just a little bit longer.

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

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It was a family celebration, Christmas. The events were just starting to dwindle and friends/family were heading home. There was snow outside and it was very cold. I was sitting on the couch in my little festive dress, which my mother had purchased for me.

Someone had left the television on, and it caught my limited attention span. It was the story of a young (but older than me) girl and her favourite teenager babysitter. They were close friends and the girl adored her.

One day, the babysitter drives the girl and herself to her boyfriend’s house. While in the car, (alone) the girl (whom I assume now was experiencing a sort of jealousy) notices a knife her babysitter has sitting in a cup holder.  Her babysitter returns to the car, only to have the girl stab her in the heart.

I felt a pain of revulsion in my stomach , and at the moment, my heart leapt from my chest.  I swiftly got off the couch, a weird feeling in my stomach.

I knew of murder (The Lion King was still fairly new, but Scar was pure evil), but I hadn’t comprehended it.

I had plenty of babysitters, as my parents worked full time jobs. I loved my babysitters.

Instantly, questions swirled in my mind, questions  I had never pondered before. Questions like: “How could she have done that to another human being when she loved her?” “Doesn’t she miss her?” “Wouldn’t it have hurt her?” “She was young, like me!” “Everyone will hate her once they find out the truth!” “God will punish her.”

That’s where the fear was born and that’s when the thoughts would cling to me.  They would continue to haunt my childhood and eat me up even into my adult life.

I began obsessing over stabbing people. I thought, “What if I could do such a thing for such a silly reason? God would hate me, everyone would hate me! I would hate myself!”

I went to bed with uneasy thoughts that night and a weird pressure – what I presumed was me thinking I was just going to stab my babysitter. I went to sleep hoping the thought would be gone the next morning. I was wrong.

Not only was the thought there to stay, but it drastically distracted me from school. I would look around at my classmates and ponder, “Do they have the same fears as me? Am I abnormal and crazy? Am I bad because I’m having such bad thoughts? No one else seems to have these thoughts or seems upset.” My teachers took note of my behaviour and informed my parents.

My stomach hurt and the thoughts lasted for weeks. My babysitter would come over and I would wake up very early so I could play Super Mario Brothers and distract myself from the fear that I would stab her before school.

My babysitter was an elderly woman and, to me, much like a grandmother. She would make lunch every day and play with us (I have two other younger sisters).

Sudden flashes of me wielding a knife and my hand covered with the blood of my babysitter flashed in my head. I would close my eyes, but these thoughts and images were mental. Eventually, the stabbing thoughts not only surrounding stabbing my babysitter – but progressed to my younger sisters, parents, and friends, too.

After a few months, I could no longer take it. I thought for sure one day I would crack and grab a knife. I felt sickened and crazy and evil. I liked my life, but I thought myself to be undeserving. As a six-year-old, I was considering some pretty terrible truths. One day, late, around 12:00 AM, I received the courage to express myself to my parents. The nervousness I felt while explaining nearly made me faint.

“This is it,” I thought. “My life will be over soon. Mom and Dad will hate me for having such bad thoughts, and they’ll put me away. Everyone will hate me. But I don’t want to kill or hurt anyone, so this is the way it’ll have to be.”

“Mommy, I need to speak with you of something very important.”

My Mom sat up from her bed and looked at me curiously. My Daddy sat up, too. They both cast worried looks in my direction.

“Are you sick?” She said getting out of bed.

Dad got out of bed and picked me up. He placed me on the counter in the washroom. (The washroom was like their examining place for when we were sick.)

“Daddy…Mommy…I have to tell you something because I can’t take it anymore. I’m having very bad thoughts. I think I’m a bad person. I’m worried I’m going to hurt people with knives.”

My Dad gave me an odd look.  “Do you feel like you’re going to hurt people with knives?”

I nodded.

“God doesn’t like people who hurt others. It’s wrong. People who hurt others go to hell.”

My stomach fell.

“No. Ray. Is that all that’s wrong? They’re only thoughts. You wouldn’t really do anything. They’re just thoughts that are disturbing to you. I’m glad you told us. Don’t worry about them. We know you’d never do anything.”

I felt my stomach float. For a second, I felt bliss. Now they knew. I confessed and they weren’t going to send me away forever! My Mothers smile reassured me. My mother was a nurse, she’d know if I were crazy or not! Perhaps I was just over-reacting. Perhaps now that I confessed, it meant I was a good person! What killer would confess their dark secrets?

For a few days, I felt free of the thought. But it came back. I was wrong about the confessing to my mother. I decided that from here on out, I would fight the thought. I realized that when I was distracted (in school, ect), I felt normal.

Maybe I could fight off the dark thoughts when I was bored by myself. Perhaps if it was true that I wouldn’t act on them, I would just suffer silently. I deemed myself insane and abnormal, but I wanted a childhood and I didn’t want to ruin it because I was different.

“All I want is my childhood. That’s all. Then I will confess my dark obsessions to the authorities and they can put me away.”

And that’s how I grew up. Every day, flashes of images of me wielding a knife would pop into my head, sometimes when I was at my happiest.  I still to this day cannot watch any gory movie, I still suffer from intrusive, unwanted thoughts.

The thoughts have evolved, too. I have obsessed about shoving friends into incoming traffic for no good reason. I started not enjoying public swimming, as I feared I would hold people’s heads underwater and make them drown.

I have had thoughts surrounding sexually touching my younger sisters or other children, despite having positively no sexual interest in doing so. I’ve had thoughts surrounding if I said something horrible to a friend that would result in them committing suicide. I have had religious thoughts in defiance of God during Church.

I developed an obsession while learning to drive at 16 surrounding a fear that I would purposely drive pedestrians over. Because of this obsession, I refuse to drive, which makes life difficult.

I worry I’d choke or drown younger children or the elderly, so I refuse to babysit babies and I refuse to be around old people alone.

In an effort to fight these thoughts, I developed mental rituals (or sometimes physical), like saying, “No!” to myself out loud or in my mind, over and over again. I’ve tried to think of nice images (like a deer in a forest or my parents) to override the bad thoughts. I try to be extra nice and giving, thinking that perhaps this will make the guilt subside.

I’ve had physical compulsions, too. While younger, I developed a fear of germs and over-washed my hands until they bled. I pulled out my eyelashes and was forced to be monitored by a doctor because I could have eventually lost my eyelashes. I like to pull out strands of hair sometimes and I rub my nose. I scratch books because I like the feeling of scratching the pages – a habit which results in my family and boyfriend going insane (as it produces an screeching noise)!

I’ve never acted on any thoughts. I am now 21.

I’ve taken every sort of anti-depressant I can think of. While a few have worked and freed me from my thoughts, I did not enjoy their side-effects and am now in the process of dealing with the demons medicine-free. It’s not working too well.

No one who looks into my eyes would ever guess that at that one moment, in my head, I may be having an intrusive image of me stabbing them. I appear normal. I appear pretty friendly and down to Earth. I’ve confessed to a few close friends, but I keep the secrets of my dark gruesome thoughts to myself, mostly.

It’s a silent war waging in my head as I fight to relax myself, as I fight to free myself.

Balancing my life and these thoughts takes up a lot of energy. These thoughts distract me and cause me to distance myself from others. They distract me from school work. They keep me unorganized. But I still manage to maintain a seasonal job. I still have friendships. I still have family.

I’ve never known what I a normal life may feel like. I’ve battled these thoughts over and over to a point where this is simply my reality. I look enviously at most people – their heads clear, their perspectives and ambitions not over shadowed by intrusive images. And I realize how good of an actress I am. After all, it’s not easy multitasking these distracting thoughts and managing a social life.

Sometimes, I catch myself thinking; “Are they all acting too?”

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

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I have sexual OCD thoughts that are inappropriate and I think that also started growing up with a mentally ill mother saying crazy things around me all the time. I have obsessionsv/ compulsions associated with tasting non-food items: I don’t injest them, but have tasted many things, and I immediately wash my mouth out after! This started as a teenager – smelling nice shampoo and wondering if it tasted as good as it smelled…it doesn’t!

I am a nice person and most people recognize that. I don’t share these things with many people unless I really trust them not to judge me. I hate my OCD at times and then other times, I’m scared to be without it. It’s been a “Security Blanket” for me for many year, I feel to control a world that started so “Out of Control” as a child.

MC

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

amazon.com amazon.co.uk amazon.ca

At the launch, Vrinda Pendred (Editor & Founder of Conditional Publications), Sharon Meyer (Promotions & Communications Assistant) and Beth Barker, all writers for ‘Check Mates’, gave readings from the book, talked about its purpose, and shared a little bit about what OCD really means.

Watch Part One

Watch Part Two

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

amazon.com amazon.co.uk amazon.ca

VIDEO: Author, publisher Vrinda Pendred on how writers with OCD, Tourette’s & other neurological disorders came together to write international bestseller Check Mates.

If you cannot view the video on this page, click here to watch it ON YOU TUBE now.

Click below to order Check Mates, the first ever collection of fiction poetry and artwork about OCD

amazon.com amazon.co.uk amazon.ca