Editor and Founder Vrinda Pendred discusses the news, negativity, and OCD

I think we can all agree that it’s been a pretty crazy year – a year that the news / media have recorded meticulously, one way or another, to ensure that we can’t get away from what’s happening. As someone with OCD, I have found this especially hard – but not as hard as some others will have found it, and that is what I’d like to talk about this month.

Bad News

When I was a child, from a very young age my English teachers would make us read local newspapers, cut out articles of interest and paste these into our notebooks. Then we had to annotate the articles and present them as ‘news broadcasts’ for the rest of our class. I found one such notebook in the loft, a few years back. Every article had the date included, so I could calculate how old I was. At the age of eight, I was reading about lethal injection, politicians having illicit affairs, and mothers killing their children. I like to think we can all agree that this was wholly inappropriate reading material for a class of eight-year-olds. And yet it was a standard part of the curriculum at the time – and we repeated the exercise every year until I was fourteen.

As I grew older, these news stories affected me more and more. I tried to minimise the damage by focusing on the Weather section, but all these stories were about people losing their homes or lives to natural disasters. I finally told my mother what was going on (I wish I’d thought to tell her sooner!) and she rang the school to have me excused from these ‘current events’ tasks. I was the only student who didn’t participate. I felt ‘outside’, like a ‘weirdo’…for not wanting to discuss rape and murder at the tender age of thirteen.

By this age, I was already aware that the only news that ever seems to get reported is bad news – very, very bad news. And nothing has made that clearer to me than this last year. I’m not saying that COVID-19 isn’t real. I don’t want to get political about the subject, whatever your views might be. What I am saying is that we need to think about the way such things are reported – and how those reports affect us, especially if we already struggle with anxiety.

Fear Sells

In the earliest months of COVID-19, I recall that every time I walked past the giant TV in the Reception waiting room at my office, all I would see was a death count ticker emblazoned across the screen. I’m sorry to say that the way many people reported it or discussed it online, it felt as if people were almost excited to see just how bad things could get – like it was a thrill to be part of something that big, that historical. And the mainstream media feed off that feeling. It’s how they make their money. Fear became a pandemic in itself.

For the first time in history, constant hand-washing and use of sanitiser was suddenly government guidance – a rule, even, if you wanted to enter a supermarket or go to school. And setting aside any public debates over the necessity of such rules, I couldn’t help but think: what of all the people officially diagnosed with OCD who had spent years on medication or in therapy to try to train themselves out of such behaviour? I can only imagine how confusing this last year must have been for those people.

It is my opinion that no matter how bad things get, the media should not be allowed to make money off of stirring up people’s deepest fears. Even if there are things we need to know for our own safety, I don’t see how broadcasting a live, up-to-date rising death count helps anyone. It doesn’t protect anyone from viral transmission. It simply puts people into a state of distress (which, by the way, weakens the immune system). And for those of us who live in a fairly constant state of anxiety anyway, that distress is magnified that much more.

But this fear mongering didn’t begin with COVID-19. To give a personal example, after my first son was born it seemed that every single news headline was about babies and toddlers dying in horrific ways. It had probably always been like that, but I didn’t notice it until it became relevant to my life. It hit me that this is what all parents have to face every day – headlines like that. It’s awful for anyone, but as someone with OCD, I lack the ability to filter it out. I can’t stop myself from visualising it, almost living these headlines in vivid detail. I dwell on them. I experience the stories as if they have happened to me. And I don’t just forget them a few days later. To this day, I still remember the worst of these headlines going right back to when I was seven years old. I dwell on them.

Now that my eldest is a teenager, I can’t seem to escape stories of knife crime, school shootings, suicide, self-harm, drug abuse, and so forth. It is all around me. Apart from Greta Thunberg’s climate change speech in 2019, I’m at a loss to think of any inspiring, optimistic headline news about teenagers at any point during my lifetime. In mainstream media, teenagers continue to be presented like characters out of The Outsiders (or, in the world of YA fiction, as unrealistic superheroes).

Shutting Out the Darkness

For me, the solution has been to ignore the news. I haven’t watched it in about fifteen years. I don’t listen to it on the radio, if I can help it. I don’t really read it. On the rare occasion that I do, I have my news settings adjusted so that I only hear about major political events – which also aren’t happy, but at least I don’t tend to have murder and death shoved in my face from all directions.

I don’t want to fill my head with darkness and negativity. I don’t want to come away hating or fearing my fellow man. I don’t want to go to bed at night and be kept up with visions of all the horrible things that could happen to me or my loved ones. I want to be aware of anything truly important and relevant, but I don’t want to spend my days too scared to leave my house, convinced that just about anything could kill me.

If you have OCD, you may be just like me. If you have a loved one with OCD, please be mindful of what they might be going through – especially at a time like now, after a year in and out of lockdown and being told that it’s vital to our survival that we all behave in ways we were previously told were signs of mental illness. Believe me: it’s not easy.

Final Thoughts

Again, I am not trying to be political about this. My focus is simply on the news, and how the constant negativity and fear we are sold isn’t good for anyone – but it is especially difficult if you have OCD.

Interestingly, if you do a search for ‘happy news’, the results are still pretty dark – someone risking their life to save someone from a terrifying scenario, or finding a new antibiotic to try to combat a fatal disease that could be caught at any moment. Literally every ‘happy’ or ‘uplifting’ headline I can find essentially boils down to: ‘Here’s something good that came out of an otherwise depressing / terrifying situation.’

I suppose I’m not helping anything by complaining here…! But consider this a call to action: let’s all try to get away from the darkness. Instead of, ‘That’s good, despite how awful things are,’ let’s just find some genuinely great stories to share, and spread some joy and positivity around the world! In fact, why not share one right now, in the comments box at the bottom of this article? And please remember to subscribe to this blog so you don’t miss any future articles.

And finally, if you’d really like to get into the mind of someone with OCD and learn what it’s like to live with – and try to overcome – not just this condition but fear in general, please read my novel Equilibria:

Anna Nolon is obsessive – about everything. She worries about her grades, her appearance, germs, the pattern of her footsteps, the number of syllables in the words she says, her parents’ approval, the future and, most of all, death. It’s okay – so does everyone else. This is Equilibria: the first society built to accommodate OCD. But when Aaron comes along – the strange new boy who doesn’t quite fit into that pristine society of Holy Balance and Order – Anna is forced to look at the dark shadows hanging over her and decide if perfection is really what she wants.

US Readers  UK Readers

Until next time….

Vrinda Pendred is a graduate of English with Creative Writing at Brunel University. She completed work experience with Random House and proofread for Mandala Publishing. She is married with two children and lives in Hertfordshire, England, where she does freelance editing and proofreading. She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with five neurological conditions: Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, High-Functioning Autism and bipolar disorder.  In 2010, she founded Conditional Publications with the intention of providing a creative outlet for people, and (hopefully) changing a few minds out there about what neurological disorders really are – including not just the limitations, pain or frustration, but also the more positive, beneficial ‘symptoms’ of these strange conditions.

She made three contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD. Since then, she has released a novel entitled The Ladder, inspired by her personal struggle with bipolar disorder, as well as a number of short stories, the YA sci-fi /fantasy series called The Wisdom, and Equilibria, a YA dystopia about a society engineered for people living with OCD.

Last time, we talked about what it’s like to have OCD as a child, and some ways to recognise if your child has it. At the end of that article, I mentioned that there are medical causes of OCD, but that I think the specific obsessions we develop stem from life experiences and emotional problems. A huge part of my recovery from OCD was intense self-reflection and identification of the roots of each one of my obsessions – and that’s what we’re going to talk about this month.

OCD Origins

It is generally accepted that to have OCD, there needs to be some kind of medical / biological predisposition to it. All the evidence points to it being an inherited genetic trait, and this is definitely the case within my family. However, my personal theory is that these inherited traits could lie relatively dormant unless triggered / activated by certain experiences in life.

To give a very personal example, I have mentioned in previous articles my former fears of hands coming at me through walls or from under my bed, and a man appearing in my room with an axe raised to strike me. For years, I lived with the conviction that someone was following me, hunting me, and that there was no escape from him. It hit me in my 20s that I knew exactly who this ‘man’ was – actually, not a man at all, but a boy not much older than me, who abused me when I was very small. Up to that point, I had sincerely believed that series of experiences no longer affected me. It was a revelation for me, to see that I had been carrying them with me for so long, in an abstracted way.

Figuring this out was extremely empowering, because it meant I could put a name and a face on my previously faceless pursuer. And that meant I could reason with myself, ‘That was years ago. I don’t know him anymore. And to do what he did, at the age that he did it, he had to have been abused himself. That means he’s not scary or dangerous – he was a victim too, and the whole story is very sad.’ I could feel sorry for both my childhood self and that lost little boy I once knew – and begin to put it behind me.

Similarly, I have spoken about my obsession with keeping things straight and in order, needing perfectly even handwriting strokes, and so forth. In short, it was a need for control. I even tried to control my friends – what they did and what they said. It wasn’t because I’m a controlling person, although people definitely thought I was – I remember being called ‘bossy’ for years. I was too young and insecure to explain what was really going on. In fact, I found it all exhausting, and I frequently chose to be alone: socialising just felt like too much work. Sometimes it still does.

So why did I do it? Because my home environment felt so out of control. I would liken it to anorexia – it’s a way of getting control over something, when everything else feels out of your hands. No one actually wants to stop eating; they desperately need to feel like just one thing in life is theirs, even if everything else is spiralling and sweeping them away. In my case, I grew up in a household of domestic violence. All my ‘bossy’ and neurotic behaviour was my way of holding things together when I felt like everything around me was falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it.

Being exposed to violence at a very young age also meant that I never had that childhood sense of invincibility. I always knew my time on this planet was finite and one day I – and everyone I knew – would die. This was another source of terror for me, namely because, again, it’s completely beyond my control. It is unknowable and unstoppable. I can’t stand feeling helpless, and I often feel a need to save people: I think part of what scares me about death is that I can’t save anyone from it. To cope with these fears, I hoarded – useless items, photographs, videos, music, memories (diaries, letters, etc.). A few years ago, our external hard drive broke and I lost 7 years’ worth of home videos. I went through a very sincere period of grief akin to what I felt when someone I loved died.

But It’s Not All About Trauma

You might be reading this and thinking all of these are extreme examples – surely not everyone with OCD has lived through abuse and domestic violence! And that’s true. I have a number of friends with OCD, some whom I’ve known since we were small. (I think there’s a certain personality type that goes along with anxiety disorders, and it’s common for us to be drawn to each other without quite knowing why.) I recall one of them, in particular, didn’t really display any signs of OCD until we went to high school. She found herself in such a new environment, a small fish in a big sea of new, complex social interactions and intense demands from school itself. She started drowning under the stress and overwhelm and she began coping with it via compulsions. I have heard many others share stories like this, so I think it’s pretty common.

What Does All This Mean for Me?

If you have OCD yourself, try to strip away the compulsions and look at what lies beneath all those coping mechanisms. What are you really afraid of? What’s the source of it all?

Will this immediately ‘cure’ you of your OCD? No. But in my experience, it is the first step to self-empowerment – to understanding what’s really going on, gaining greater self-awareness, and beginning to be able to look all those old fears in the face and accept that probably a lot of them no longer have a place in your life; you’ve just got used to them, over the years. And that means you can begin to let them go.

If your compulsions stem from problems that are happening right now – well, I’d say that identifying those underlying fears and worries could help you think of ways to get out of those situations, or at least give yourself a break from it, to ease the strain.

In the same way, if you’re a parent of a child with OCD and the compulsions seem to go through the roof whenever your child has a growth spurt or during adolescence – give yourself, and your child, a break. I suspect a lot of it is a reaction to a time in their life when everything feels out of their hands. Part of the solution is, without a doubt, to look for ways you can help ensure that their environment is as stable, controlled, predictable and supportive as possible. Then take things a step further: get creative and think of simple, healthy ways you can give your child greater control over their lives. It could be as simple as giving them more choice in what they eat at meal times.

To give another personal example, our youngest (currently four years old) doesn’t have OCD (at least, there are no signs yet), but he absolutely refused to eat anything we gave him at meal times. I had come to dread these times of day, as I knew it would be a battle and involve a lot of screaming and tears. (All he wanted to eat was cheese.) We tolerated it when he was smaller, but at four he really needed to start eating better, especially if he is due to start school later this year. So I came up with the idea to let him look through the cutlery drawer and choose his fork / spoon. It hit me that maybe if we gave him this little bit of control, he would feel more comfortable giving up control over what food he ate – and it worked. It can still be a challenge sometimes, but on the whole, he’s very good at meal times and takes great pride in choosing that fork / spoon. Hopefully, by the time he goes to school, he’ll be conditioned enough into eating a variety of food that he won’t be bothered by them inevitably not letting him choose his cutlery…!

Final Thoughts

The takeaway, here, is that our obsessions and compulsions can start out small and then spiral in a big way, until they take over our lives, even when the original source of those obsessions has been gone from our lives for years. We condition ourselves over time to respond in certain ways, even when we know it’s not good for us – and I think all of it boils down to trying to get something under control, when everything around us feels so out of control.

Peeling back the layers and examining those sources can help us see what inspired the obsessions. Facing them head on can help us overcome them. That is the first step in reconditioning ourselves. Our brains are amazing things, and we can continue to train them all through life. It is never hopeless.

Thank you so much for joining me again, this month, as we continue our exploration of OCD. Be sure to subscribe to this blog so you don’t miss any future articles.

And finally, if you’d really like to get into the mind of someone with OCD and learn what it’s like to live with – and try to overcome – not just this condition but fear in general, please read my novel Equilibria:

Anna Nolon is obsessive – about everything. She worries about her grades, her appearance, germs, the pattern of her footsteps, the number of syllables in the words she says, her parents’ approval, the future and, most of all, death. It’s okay – so does everyone else. This is Equilibria: the first society built to accommodate OCD. But when Aaron comes along – the strange new boy who doesn’t quite fit into that pristine society of Holy Balance and Order – Anna is forced to look at the dark shadows hanging over her and decide if perfection is really what she wants.

US Readers  UK Readers

Until next time….

Vrinda Pendred is a graduate of English with Creative Writing at Brunel University. She completed work experience with Random House and proofread for Mandala Publishing. She is married with two children and lives in Hertfordshire, England, where she does freelance editing and proofreading. She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with five neurological conditions: Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, High-Functioning Autism and bipolar disorder.  In 2010, she founded Conditional Publications with the intention of providing a creative outlet for people, and (hopefully) changing a few minds out there about what neurological disorders really are – including not just the limitations, pain or frustration, but also the more positive, beneficial ‘symptoms’ of these strange conditions.

She made three contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD. Since then, she has released a novel entitled The Ladder, inspired by her personal struggle with bipolar disorder, as well as a number of short stories, the YA sci-fi /fantasy series called The Wisdom, and Equilibria, a YA dystopia about a society engineered for people living with OCD.

Welcome back! Last time, we talked about what OCD really is, versus the media stereotypes, and I promised we’d spend the coming months exploring this subject further. This time, we’ll be looking at what it’s like to have OCD as a child, and some ways to recognise if your child has it. Rather than attempt to give an exhaustive list of things your child might do, I thought I’d share some of my personal experiences. Remember: every child is unique and will have his/her own unique obsessions and compulsions. That said, when I was in my 20s I started talking to others with OCD and realised we had a lot of childhood experiences in common – things you don’t typically hear about in OCD documentaries, so you might not realise they’re part of the disorder.

My Earliest OCD Memories

My OCD may have started younger, but my first memories of it are from when I was around 6 or 7. I decided the ‘correct’ way to walk was in a left-right pattern, which meant that when I stopped walking, I had to finish on my right foot. If I was stopped on my left foot, it felt so wrong. It is impossible to describe the sensation to anyone who hasn’t felt it for themselves. It was genuine distress – not just emotional or psychological but physical, too. It was almost as if I had bugs crawling all over me and I had to get them off. I was overtaken with a combination of terror, deepening dread, and physical revulsion. I’d attempt to fix things by taking a step with my right foot – but it was unnatural, an unnecessary step taken while standing in place. My brain knew the step was forced, and so it didn’t feel like ‘enough’. I would then stamp my right foot over and over until I felt a sort of ‘click’ in my brain that allowed me to relax again. I had cleared the bugs from my skin, so to speak. There was no way for me to explain any of this to those around me, not even my parents. Believe me, I tried, but I could see the confusion on their faces, hear it in their voices, and I recall growing frustrated to the point of anger – not with them but with myself for so obviously being ‘weird’ in a way that others just didn’t get, and having no way to explain myself to them.

Hoarding

Also around 6 or 7, I hoarded like crazy. For example, I saved every single empty toilet paper tube and any other cardboard I could find, in a big paper bag in my wardrobe. I liked to glue and tape them together to build telescopes and binoculars. It’s a standard childhood activity, except my collection grew a bit extreme. I couldn’t throw any cardboard away. One day, my mother found my collection and threw it out. It took me years to forgive her for that. It wasn’t really about the cardboard – it was the emotional distress it caused me to see it go.

When I was 9, I had moved onto other types of paper – namely, homework assignments. I went through a phase where I resented a certain teacher so much that I went on a homework striking and repeatedly told her I’d lost the worksheets. She would give me new ones (looking back on this, although I had good reason not to like her, she was also immensely patient with me, tolerating those excuses and giving me new copies of the work), and I would throw them in my wardrobe. Some years later, I found them all, still in there – hundreds of sheets of paper I didn’t need, and to throw them out even long after the incident felt somehow wrong.

Hoarding can also be invisible. I have been hoarding memories since I was about 7, when I got my very first diary. For years, I felt compelled to document every last detail of each day of my life. I don’t know just how many diaries I filled up, but they are still in my loft, taking up multiple large cardboard boxes. (I often consider typing them up, in case something happens to the originals.) By the time I was in high school, it felt like there was just so much to document that I didn’t have the time or energy for it anymore. I was overwhelmed and frequently missed days or even whole months. This was a source of great anxiety and distress for me for many years, as I thought of how many memories I had let slip by without being recorded. See, I was convinced one day I’d get in some terrible accident and get amnesia, and that my diaries would be my only link to who I was. I was terrified that my identity might be lost forever. (This also tied in tightly with an intense fear of death.) My mother once asked, ‘What if you forgot you had a diary?’ which didn’t help. I considered leaving myself reminders about this, too, to tackle every possible eventuality. (Incidentally, things like Alzheimer’s petrify me too. I suppose that’s scary to everyone, but I recognise that to worry about it as much as I do, at 37, is a little extreme.)

Similarly, I used to keep logs of things like…every time I cried and how many minutes it went on…my favourite song for each day, with the date…every film I’d ever seen and how many times I’d seen it, and so on. (It is still hard to explain to people why I know I’ve seen Aladdin more than 80 times. The only reason that figure isn’t precise is that I made a conscious effort to stop counting after 66. I can’t tell you how hard that was. I imagine it’s all a little like quitting cigarettes – no exaggeration.)

I also continue to have an obsession with taking photographs. I got my first camera with my own allowance money when I was 9 and I just never stopped. When my external hard drive broke a few years ago and I lost 7 years’ worth of home videos, I experienced a period of grief that was identical to the grief I felt when a loved one passed away. Bear in mind that it’s never just about the lost videos, for example. After some deep contemplation, I came to see that particular incident was about me being forced to face my own mortality (we’ll explore this idea in a future article).

Monsters Under the Bed

I think all children go through periods of fearing the dark, or worrying there’s a monster under the bed. But I never knew anyone who had any of this as bad as I did. Sometimes I still struggle with it. In some ways, I think my children are more together than I am.

For years, I felt a presence following me around the house, trying to get me. (Occasionally, I still sense it watching me from the bottom of the stairs, if I get up in the middle of the night.) I would run into my room and shut and lock the door to get away. I would check that lock over and over and over and over and over again before I was convinced I was safely hidden away. (In fact, I did this in the daytime, too. I kept my door locked every time I went into my bedroom, for no real reason at all other than that it gave me comfort.) Keep in mind that the obsession was the worry that I was being followed. The compulsion was me running and hiding, and checking that lock. It’s important to keep these distinctions clear. In retrospect, I can see that every time I ran and hid, I was feeding the fear and allowing it to grow bigger. I was making the problem worse.

But when you’re 8 years old, you don’t understand this, and I’m not sure what amount of reasoning would have got that message through to me – particularly because even once hidden in my room, I didn’t feel safe. Somehow he (it was always a he) would suddenly be in my room with me. Maybe he could walk through walls – or maybe he was waiting for me in the room, all along. Remember, this was the obsession. The compulsion (the action I took to feel better) was to hide in my bed. Then he was under the bed, waiting to grab me, so I couldn’t let any part of my body dangle over the edge. I also couldn’t let my ears show – I don’t know why, but it was imperative that I keep the blanket over my ears or he would get me. (I didn’t stop doing this until I was in my 20s. To this day, the act of sleeping without the blanket over my ear feels like a tremendous feat of daring.) I had to sleep with my back to the wall, so that I could face the room and see him there, and be better able to dodge and run. I used to plan my escape, so I’d know exactly how to get away when he came at me with the axe I was certain he held. All of these scenes ran through my head in meticulous detail, as if it were really happening to me. I frequently opened my eyes to check for him. All of this meant it took me ages to get to sleep. (Tourette’s didn’t help!)

I also obsessively prayed that no harm would come to me or any of my loved ones. I never felt these prayers were precise enough or covered enough people, so they would get longer and more detailed every night, until again it just kept me up for ages. I’d have to do this in my head at sleepovers – I couldn’t just not do it. I felt responsible for everyone’s lives. If I missed those prayers for just one night, someone would die and it would be all my fault.

Wide Open Space

When I was around 9 or 10, I started having showers, and this became a new source of distress for me. I had an almost physical sense that someone was about to grab me from behind. I’d turn in circles to make sure I could see what was coming and run before I got caught. Even when I could see I was absolutely alone in that shower, I feared hands would burst through the shower walls and get me anyway. I’d wash and get out and run from the bathroom as quickly as possible. Similarly, I couldn’t bear being in an open field. Again, I thought someone would get me from behind. For the same reason, I couldn’t sit in an aisle seat, such as in a cinema. In exams, they separated the desks to prevent cheating and there was so much space around me that I couldn’t focus on the test. My mother had to speak to my teachers, to allow me to sit the test in another environment. (I remember my extremely understanding maths teacher Mr Wittevrongel allowing me to do the test in his adjoining office, with him standing in the doorway to make sure I wasn’t cheating. The clutter of his office gave me immense comfort.)

Media Influence

When I was 7, I saw a documentary about tornados and was convinced they were a very real danger to me (despite living in Arizona at the time, where they are extremely rare and don’t do much damage). I had endless nightmares about them (there were usually several tornados all coming for me at once). This went behind normal childhood fear. I visualised intensely and ran over my survival plan over and over again in my head, night after night after night. I knew exactly which items I would take with me in the event of evacuation, and where I would go to hide from the storm. I kept those chosen belongings next to me in bed every night. This ritual continued for years.

I also saw a bit of Unsolved Mysteries around that time (why I was allowed to watch this at age 7, I will never know!) where they talked about a 9-year-old girl who had gone home with a stranger and been discovered in pieces in his fridge. This continues to haunt me today as a mother. Naturally, this would scare any child, but I took it several steps further, involuntarily imagining myself as that little girl, going through every single moment of it in vivid detail – and not just once, but multiple times a day, every single day for an incredibly long time. It’s good to be wary of strangers, but I was terrified of talking to just about anyone.

Self-Harm and Other Coping Strategies

There are lots of ways to hurt oneself. I never slashed my wrists, but I still pick at scabs, and it used to be much worse. I have a deep scar on the left side of my nose due to picking too many times at one particular scab. Thankfully, no one can see it, but it took me many years to come to terms with the fact that I had done that to myself and that it was permanent. (Cue yet another period of coming to terms with my own mortality…!) I also would twist my hair around my finger until it turned into a knot, and then yank it out of my head. This falls into the category of ‘stimming’, a common feature of autism, but it also crosses over with OCD, because I did it to relieve myself of intense anxiety. My bedroom floor used to be covered in knots of my hair (well, sort of – I hid them under a big rug, out of shame). It’s a good thing my hair has always grown so quickly, or I would have been bald (which does happen to people with the same compulsion – it’s a common one). I also constantly picked (and still pick) at my fingernails and cuticles. It really goes way beyond normal nail biting (I managed to quit that years ago). I can’t go anywhere without nail clippers and a file, because the slightest crack or jagged edge gives me so much anxiety and physical discomfort that I can’t focus on anything else until I deal with the problem. It’s not vanity – it’s horrible.

I also spent a lot of time straightening out my books so they were all even, organising them in height order, things like that. In school, my handwriting needed to be in perfect even strokes. I hated pens (compared to pencils) because there would be breaks in the strokes, and then I had to press really hard to fill in the gaps, to make that ‘click’ in my head. Then the letters would look uneven in depth of colour and I just couldn’t stand it. When I was 11, I earned myself the ‘friendly nickname’ of Psycho Woman because I spent a lot of class time frantically erasing the tiny pencil marks left on my desk from when we switched classrooms and someone else used my desk. Then the eraser marks would show up whiter than the natural grain of the wood, and I’d spent yet more time rubbing at it with my fingers to make the colouring even.

Social Life

Other students would draw on my desk on purpose, right in front of me, to laugh at my response. That might sound like bullying, but I don’t hold it against those kids. They weren’t really doing anything anyone would typically class as hostile. They thought I was being silly and it was all a game. I played up to this image by over-dramatising my reactions and laughing along with the other kids. I didn’t want to admit just how serious it was for me, because by that age I was old enough to know something was very wrong and what I was doing was not ‘normal’. I sincerely believe that if I had taken the time to explain to those kids what I was going through, and shown them just how much pain it actually caused me, they would have backed off (even if they also thought, ‘God, she’s weird!’). Perhaps when they grew up and became more aware of the world and things like OCD, they remembered me and realised what had really been going on…or maybe not. As I said last time, OCD is very misunderstood. (And maybe they don’t remember me at all – always possible!)

At least I didn’t lose any friends because of that behaviour – but OCD still impacted my social life, mainly because of how controlling I was. Other people just didn’t understand that pencil marks on a desk represented a life or death situation. They didn’t understand how imperative it was that we carry out certain rituals, to ensure that some indefinable disaster didn’t occur. I had no choice, as a child, but to force these things on them. They had to do things my way. Not only that, but controlling them meant I didn’t have to deal with any kind of unpredictable behaviour. I often ran through imaginary conversations in my head, even, and then couldn’t stand when others didn’t follow the script I’d written for them. Often it was easiest just to stay on my own so that I didn’t have to worry about what others did. I didn’t like being bossy. I didn’t like being in control – it was exhausting. I just didn’t know what else to do. So for a long time I preferred to play on my own, away from people.

Final Thoughts

There is so much else I could mention. OCD simply consumed me, until I was in my late 20s. I fed that monster everything I could, letting it grow and grow and grow until it was hard to find me amid that devouring fear. Where did it all come from? There are the medical causes, of course, but I think the obsessions we develop actually stem from life experiences and emotional problems. A huge part of my recovery from OCD was intense self-reflection and identification of the roots of each one of my obsessions – which we’ll talk about next time. Be sure to subscribe to this blog so you don’t miss any of these articles.

And finally, if you’d really like to get into the mind of someone with OCD and learn what it’s like to live with – and try to overcome – not just this condition but fear in general, please read my novel Equilibria:

Anna Nolon is obsessive – about everything. She worries about her grades, her appearance, germs, the pattern of her footsteps, the number of syllables in the words she says, her parents’ approval, the future and, most of all, death. It’s okay – so does everyone else. This is Equilibria: the first society built to accommodate OCD. But when Aaron comes along – the strange new boy who doesn’t quite fit into that pristine society of Holy Balance and Order – Anna is forced to look at the dark shadows hanging over her and decide if perfection is really what she wants.

US Readers  UK Readers

Until next time….

Vrinda Pendred is a graduate of English with Creative Writing at Brunel University. She completed work experience with Random House and proofread for Mandala Publishing. She is married with two children and lives in Hertfordshire, England, where she does freelance editing and proofreading. She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with five neurological conditions: Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, High-Functioning Autism and bipolar disorder.  In 2010, she founded Conditional Publications with the intention of providing a creative outlet for people, and (hopefully) changing a few minds out there about what neurological disorders really are – including not just the limitations, pain or frustration, but also the more positive, beneficial ‘symptoms’ of these strange conditions.

She made three contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD. Since then, she has released a novel entitled The Ladder, inspired by her personal struggle with bipolar disorder, as well as a number of short stories, the YA sci-fi /fantasy series called The Wisdom, and Equilibria, a YA dystopia about a society engineered for people living with OCD.

Editor and Founder Vrinda Pendred discusses what OCD really is, the key categories of obsessions / compulsions, and identifying the roots of your obsessions

Following on from our series on Tourette’s Syndrome, now we’re going to look at a related condition that often comes alongside Tourette’s, or you can have it all on its own: OCD.

OCD is another one of these very misunderstood conditions. TV shows like Hoarders: Buried Alive show just one side of the disorder. In my opinion, they’re exploitative and don’t inspire sincere sympathy. People watch them for their shock value. In reality, you likely wouldn’t know if someone had OCD. We’re not all buried alive under mountains of rubbish (although that could happen). Most obsessions aren’t so visible – and that means they’re not as widely publicised. In fact, even people with OCD may not realise they have it.

So, now that we’ve established what OCD isn’t, lets talk about what it is. To do this, we’ll break down the name of the condition. OCD means:

O – You have obsessions. This doesn’t mean you’re obsessed with trains or some celebrity. It means you fixate on things that – and this is the crucial distinction – make you suffer in some way. We’ll go through some examples later in this article.

C – It’s not enough just to have obsessions. To be diagnosed with OCD, you need to have compulsions, too. This doesn’t mean you compulsively lie or steal things or eat chocolate or spend too much money. It refers to any actions you undertake in order to cope with the discomfort arising from the obsessions.

D – It is a disorder. I want to emphasise this because so often we hear someone say, ‘I’m OCD about cleaning,’ (as if ‘OCD’ is a verb) or, ‘I’m really OCD about taking care of my books.’ That is not OCD. It is a preference, not a source of distress. OCD means it causes you to suffer in some way.

So, let’s go through some examples. Please don’t imagine this is an exhaustive list, because it isn’t at all. It’s just a sampling of common categories of obsessions someone with OCD (maybe even you) might struggle with.

Violence

What you’ll soon see is that the obsessions basically amount to dark thoughts (although I don’t think that term quite does them justice). Naturally, a common theme of dark thoughts is violence. For instance, for decades I couldn’t use any kind of even slightly sharp knife because every time I went anywhere near one, I would have the most intense, detailed visions of using the knife to slice open my arms, chop off my fingers, stab myself, stab others – you name it. Obviously I was never going to do any of these things! Hence the compulsion, which was to avoid knives altogether. The visions were so real and overwhelming that I didn’t trust myself. I had to do something to stop myself, or at least stop the upsetting visions my imagination brought to life for me.

Death

This leads us onto the subject of death. I still struggle near train tracks, because I can’t seem to help imagining throwing myself onto them. I see every brutal detail: the moment of realising what I’ve done, the panic on seeing an oncoming train, the knowledge that there’s no time to get away, the feeling train hitting me (and visions of it from third-party perspectives), being smashed or maybe severed, how quickly I’ll die or perhaps bleeding in agony until I finally die off…. Fun, yes? I’ll let you work out how long it took me to bring myself to go anywhere near the edge of a train platform.

Home was not a safe haven. For years I could only sleep on my left side, stemming from a long time when sleeping on my left meant my back was to the wall, allowing me to face the openness of my room. That meant I would see when the faceless man appeared, the one with the axe, who I was convinced would come for me in the night. And let’s not forget my terror of hands punching through the walls to grab me in the shower. This wasn’t simple fear. I dealt with the fear by developing self-soothing strategies, like counting (which, over the years, became an obsession in itself and wreaked another kind of havoc in my life).

Death, in general, has also plagued me from time to time. In my second year of university, I didn’t sleep for five straight days because of all the visions that hit me every time I was alone in the dark without distractions from my thoughts. The exhaustion resulted in me missing lessons and getting a zero on a key paper (which, thankfully, I was allowed to redo). My own mind was my worst enemy and I didn’t know how to make anyone understand or how to help it. In fact, when my teacher wondered why I had missed all the relevant lessons, I lied because I couldn’t bring myself to admit what was going on. It just sounded so stupid, and I didn’t expect anyone to take me seriously.

Cleaning

Alongside hoarding, I think this is the most common OCD stereotype. Yes, it is a common manifestation of OCD but not everyone does it. I never have, for instance – but I do understand it. It’s important to see that the cleaning is not the obsession: it’s the compulsion. The obsession is a fear of germs or illness, a conviction that one has contracted a deadly disease and is going to die or pass it on to others. In a way, it’s another death obsession. So if you like your kitchen in neat order, that is not OCD – you just take pride in your home.

Religion

Religious obsessions are a very common manifestation of OCD. Many people imagine they might break the fundamental rules of their religion, or simply disrespect the religious service by shouting out. They have thoughts that might be deemed sinful and then feel guilty, worrying God has heard them and they will be punished. They might act out any manner of compulsion to counteract this. I have never experience this kind of obsession myself, despite being raised religious. However, I did use intensive prayer to combat other obsessions – for example, my conviction that my loved ones or I would die in the night. For at least a decade, I was convinced one of us wouldn’t wake up the next morning.

Sex / The Body

Basically, if there’s anything at all to feel embarrassed or guilty about, it’s a potential obsession. Sex is a key part of this, and it can get particularly wrapped up with religious beliefs / obsessions. There may also be bodily obsessions, such as the feeling that you’re going to take off your clothes in front of work colleagues or inside a church. The general population might have a passing thought like this, but for someone with OCD the vision feels so real that it could actually lead to self-imposed hermitage.

Hoarding / Spartanism

Just as cleaning isn’t really the obsession, hoarding isn’t either. It’s the compulsion, to counteract the obsession, which I think comes down to feeling out of control. Speaking personally, I have lived through periods of hoarding (particularly as a child) and a lot of it came down to fears of amnesia – and why did that matter? Because I felt like time and life were slipping away from me and everything was beyond my control. Collecting things was a way of holding onto something, preserving it, giving it a kind of eternal life.

The inversion is spartanism, which refers to obsessively getting rid of things. I’m not sure this is precisely the same, but I have experienced this to a degree, as well. For example, when the shampoo bottle starts running low, I feel physically anxious about the fact that it’s nearly gone but not quite, every day until it’s fully empty. I feel tempted to throw it away just to get rid of the anxiety, even if there’s still some shampoo in the bottle. Some people take this to greater extremes and feel like they need to get rid of everything they own. I still believe this must be the compulsion, not the underlying obsession.

Superstitions / Magical Thinking

This is sort of a catch-all ‘miscellaneous’ category. I remember as a child being told that old schoolyard rhyme: ‘Step on a crack, break your mama’s back.’ As soon as I heard this, I knew it was just a silly song…but part of me had to ask: what if I was wrong? I didn’t want that kind of responsibility on my shoulders, so to be safe, I spent years walking with my head facing down. Looking back, all of these things – avoiding pavement cracks, straightening stacks of books, not sitting in the aisle seat in a cinema, and so many other compulsions – were ways of getting control over my life and environment when I felt otherwise powerless.

The Roots of OCD

The medical causes of OCD are similar to those I’ve discussed for Tourette’s Syndrome (as are the medications, e.g. SSRIs). That said, my own experience has taught me that although the propensity towards OCD is genetic, the form your OCD takes is unique to you. Your own life experiences are what shape your individual obsessions. I spent years examining mine and this is part of what helped me overcome them – identifying the lingering monsters, accepting that they were gone, and then consistently reminding myself that I didn’t need those coping strategies anymore. This is easier said than done – as I say, I spent years doing this and sometimes the obsessions can still hit me. We’ll talk about this more in later articles.

The important point to take away from all this is that OCD is not hoarding or hand-washing – it’s a portfolio of coping strategies for when life knocks you around. Medication can help, but it isn’t a lifelong solution because it doesn’t teach you how to cope better with the challenges in your life. And no one can tell you to just stop doing these things because it isn’t really about the aversion to knives, the counting, the hoarding, the cleaning, and so forth – it’s about the fears that underlie these things. It’s about how out of control you feel over your own life and environment. The only way to overcome that is to find healthier ways to start feeling in control – and that’s hard.

Final Thoughts

Over the next series of articles, we’ll be looking at OCD from different angles – what it’s like to be a child with OCD, how it can change as you move into adolescence, holding down jobs or relationships when you have OCD (or being in a relationship with someone with OCD), the impact of pregnancy and childbirth on a woman with OCD (and the impact of fatherhood on a man with OCD), the influence of the wider world around us (like the news and social media), and positive steps we can take to try to get control of OCD. Be sure to subscribe to this blog so you don’t miss any of these articles.

And finally, if you’d really like to get into the mind of someone with OCD and learn what it’s like to live with – and try to overcome – not just this condition but fear in general, please read my novel Equilibria:

Anna Nolon is obsessive – about everything. She worries about her grades, her appearance, germs, the pattern of her footsteps, the number of syllables in the words she says, her parents’ approval, the future and, most of all, death. It’s okay – so does everyone else. This is Equilibria: the first society built to accommodate OCD. But when Aaron comes along – the strange new boy who doesn’t quite fit into that pristine society of Holy Balance and Order – Anna is forced to look at the dark shadows hanging over her and decide if perfection is really what she wants.

US Readers  UK Readers

Until next time….

Vrinda Pendred is a graduate of English with Creative Writing at Brunel University. She completed work experience with Random House and proofread for Mandala Publishing. She is married with two children and lives in Hertfordshire, England, where she does freelance editing and proofreading. She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with five neurological conditions: Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, High-Functioning Autism and bipolar disorder.  In 2010, she founded Conditional Publications with the intention of providing a creative outlet for people, and (hopefully) changing a few minds out there about what neurological disorders really are – including not just the limitations, pain or frustration, but also the more positive, beneficial ‘symptoms’ of these strange conditions.

She made three contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD. Since then, she has released a novel entitled The Ladder, inspired by her personal struggle with bipolar disorder, as well as a number of short stories, the YA sci-fi /fantasy series called The Wisdom, and Equilibria, a YA dystopia about a society engineered for people living with OCD.

Editor & Founder Vrinda Pendred shares a letter written to her local MP urging attention to be given to child & adolescent mental health.

So far in this series on Tourette’s Syndrome, we have discussed what Tourette’s is, the causes and triggers, key medications (including anti-depressants), as well as alternative treatments, such as diet and vitamin regimes, and even more extreme measures. We then talked about the grief process and how it relates to Tourette’s, how being diagnosed can be scary, and having to deal with bullying and teachers. If you missed any of these articles, please click one of the links above to read them.

I am so sorry for taking so long to write the next instalment in this series, but it’s been a difficult time, personally – for reasons directly relate to the series. On the back of that, I thought today I would share a letter I am sending to our local MP regarding our situation. If any of this resonates with you, I would urge you to take action wherever you are, too. If you’re in the UK like me, please click here for ways to contact your local authorities.

Dear ……….

I am writing regarding the shocking lack of care and support for children with special needs in the Stevenage area.

My son X is now 12 years old. He was diagnosed with autism around the age of 6. During that assessment process, the specialist at the Child Development Centre (CDC) told me it was ‘obvious’ that he also had ADHD, but NHS policy is that he can’t be assessed for two things at once, so they put him on a waiting list for a separate ADHD assessment. We waited and waited. It’s now been about 6 years and it still hasn’t happened.

Meanwhile, his mental and emotional health has tumbled year on year. By age 7 he was nightly having violent fits of rage at home, screaming, slamming doors, throwing and breaking things, slamming his head repeatedly against walls, screaming that he wanted to die, over and over. Still, we received zero support. The primary school he attended had placed him with a teacher who thought it sensible to throw him out of class every day rather than help him. She was fired and replaced by another teacher who did the same thing. She was fired and finally he was placed with a teacher who was simply nice to him and could see his potential and he did quite well.

There were then ups and downs over the years depending on teachers’ attitudes. In year 6, all the teachers had no time or patience for him and it got back to the stage it was at age 7. X actually began self-harming, ripping literally all the skin off the back of his hand, or his whole cheek, and gushing blood everywhere, then scabbed over for weeks and weeks. Much of this came down to him developing Tourette’s syndrome and OCD. One of the teachers flat out refused to listen to any of my insights about Tourette’s (I have it myself). She rejected my request to apply for him to have extra time on his SATS due to the distraction of tics and ADHD issues. I had to go behind her to the Deputy Head to arrange it.

Things got worse and worse and, as I was then on maternity leave for a year, I took him out of school for the final months of year 6 and home schooled him. The result was that he did so well on his SATS (112/120, with 100% on one of the maths reasoning papers) that he was placed in the top set for everything at secondary school. I tried to apply for him to have an EHCP through the local authority, to give him a positive start to his return to school. This application was previously made by the primary school. Both times, he was rejected on the grounds that he’s ‘too intelligent’. They disregarded all our points that intelligence doesn’t matter if you can’t make it through a lesson and learn any of the material.

Secondary school has gone horribly wrong. X was getting thrown out of class and sent to detention every single day until I made the school understand that it was ineffective on him because he was being punished for things often beyond his control and he just needed patience and understanding. Within the first month of school, the head of year told me maybe X didn’t belong in mainstream school. But there is nowhere for him to go unless a) we can somehow send him to private school or b) my husband or I can quit our job and homeschool for him, which I don’t think would benefit him. We can’t afford either option. The schools for children with special needs are all for kids with learning disabilities. X got placed in the top set for all classes. The SENCO agrees he doesn’t belong in a special school. She agreed there is nowhere really for kids in his position.

The head of year also told me X ‘just needs to learn to control the Tourette’s’, demonstrating a total lack of understanding of this condition. When I explained that is like saying a diabetic just needs to learn to control their insulin reactions, he didn’t understand how it was related, convinced Tourette’s is a psychological issue one can train oneself out of. I actually rang Tourette’s Action for help and they said they could give the school staff training. I’ve told the school. I don’t know if it’s being taken up. And for the record, X isn’t yelling swear words in class. He’s jerking around physically and can’t stop it, and then being yelled at by school staff and thrown out of class for being ‘disruptive’. Then he gets angry and he’s told his anger is unacceptable. Most of the staff won’t listen to anything I have to say regarding their attitudes to his condition, or his heightened anxiety and self-loathing being at the heart of every scenario. In fairness to the staff, I appreciate X can be challenging – but he is also a wonderful boy at the heart of it all, a boy who is struggling in a system he can’t fit into. That’s not necessarily the school’s fault – but it does demonstrate why he should have had intervention all those years ago when we first started applying.

When we first tried to get X diagnosed with Tourette’s to make it official with the schools, the GP decided he was an expert and that X didn’t have it and needed no referral. We had to fight to get the referral to the paediatric neurologist at the hospital, who said it was ‘obvious’ X had it and needed help and they were shocked at the attitude we had faced with it from other professionals. They then referred X for support at the Children and Adolescents Mental Health Services (CAMHS). That turned into a review meeting with a different person at CAMHS, every few months, telling the story from scratch each and every time and being told each time that we’d have regular sessions set up soon. After over a year had gone by, I got quite frustrated and was finally told they had no doctors. They were trying to interview for the position and not getting anywhere. After about 15 months, a temporary doctor was brought in from London and saw him six times and then said she had to ask permission for more sessions, after not addressing anything we initially sent him there for. She has said we really need to get him that EHCP but can’t try applying again until we have that ADHD diagnosis in writing.

We had a review meeting at the hospital regarding the Tourette’s. I took that time to ask yet again for the ADHD assessment to be done. This doctor at the hospital was also temporary and admitted she knew nothing about the local system. She sent a referral to the CDC, who wrote to me to say it had been ‘refused’ due to needing information from the school. Why can’t they just contact the school!? The GP rang me and said they had a copy of the letter and yes, the school need to do the referral. The GP said they personally have no involvement in the process. I asked the school and they said they never make such referrals and have no permission to do so and it needs to go through the GP. I rang the CDC again and was told to speak to someone who never answers her phone and won’t return my calls.

It has been SIX YEARS. Every single institution has failed us – the schools, the GP, the hospital, the CDC, CAMHS, and the local authority. Who cares how smart my child is if the teachers tell me he can’t make it through a single lesson without support that they can’t afford to give, and so he’s being kicked out of class left and right and spending most of his days in learning support not being taught anything. He is failing all his classes. Each report card is worse than the last. He is gaining a bad reputation that has led many parents to talk about him and stop talking to me, and led many children to walk away from him so that he’s losing good friends and falling in with the misfits and getting into terrible trouble. He’s only 12, so there is still time to turn it around before he’s at an age when things like drugs and alcohol abuse come into the picture. My child has so much potential and everyone is just leaving him to the most awful fate I can imagine. Moreover, my husband is a social worker and we have identified that X displays every warning sign for potential suicide. I keep saying if he really were in that position, he would probably be dead by the time any of these institutions took the time to intervene.

And X can’t be the only one. There must be other children lost in this outrageous system, simply because a bunch of adults think it’s somehow more important to fill in such and such form than to help a child in crisis – which is exactly what my child now is. Even if he somehow comes out of this okay, he can never get these precious years back. He will never be a child again. He is so angry and depressed and hates himself so much and thinks so badly of himself. It is beyond heartbreaking to see and hear. This is going to impact him forever, one way or another. This system CANNOT go on the way it is. It’s actually criminal. You see all these NSPCC adverts about children being abused at home. What about the abuse and neglect they suffer from government-funded institutions?

This NEEDS attention NOW.

Thank you for your time,

Vrinda Pendred

In our next article, we’ll be talking about how Tourette’s affects self-esteem, especially during adolescence. Please be sure to subscribe to this blog so you don’t miss out. Finally, if you’d like to read a detailed depiction of what Tourette’s is really like to live with, please read my short story The Passenger, available on Amazon Kindle and the Kindle phone/tablet app.  US Readers  UK Readers

Until next time….

Vrinda Pendred is a graduate of English with Creative Writing at Brunel University. She completed work experience with Random House and proofread for Mandala Publishing. She is married with two children and lives in Hertfordshire, England, where she does freelance editing and proofreading. She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has five neurological conditions: Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, High-Functioning Autism and bipolar disorder.  In 2010, she founded Conditional Publications with the intention of providing a creative outlet for people, and (hopefully) changing a few minds out there about what neurological disorders really are – including not just the limitations, pain or frustration, but also the more positive, beneficial ‘symptoms’ of these strange conditions.

She made three contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD. Since then, she has released a novel entitled The Ladder, inspired by her personal struggle with bipolar disorder, as well as a number of short stories, and a YA sci-fi /fantasy series called The Wisdom, all available for purchase from Amazon.

Editor and Founder Vrinda Pendred discusses when we should show patience and understanding – and when enough is enough.

Friends and long-time readers will know I’m an advocate of learning and understanding, when it comes to neurological conditions. Those closer to me will also know my strong anti-abuse stance, and I’d like to take a moment to explain how I think this fits in with having patience and an open mind.

I grew up with an abusive father. He was very violent toward my mother, both in word and deed, and when I was ‘old enough’ he edged dangerously close to moving on to me. When I became a mother myself, I took the view that he wasn’t going to change, no matter how much I tried to help him, and I couldn’t have the poison in my son’s life. It has now been five years since I last spoke to my father.

My father has the sort of old-school pride that won’t allow him to see a psychologist, so he’s never been diagnosed with anything. But I’d put money on him being autistic, with OCD and borderline personality disorder. My own diagnoses and experience leave me wishing there were something I could do for him. ‘He almost can’t help it,’ I used to tell myself. ‘He finds emotions challenging. Be patient; he’s lost inside himself. You can see how unhappy he really is. He regrets the past, deep down, but is too scared to face up to all he’s done. He was abandoned and abused by his own parents. He just needs someone to love him unconditionally, like his parents never did.’ And so on.

I still think all of that’s true – except for one thing: he can help it. How? By seeing a doctor.

It sounds trite, but you can’t help someone who isn’t willing to help themselves. I recall a time when I was talking about my OCD and my father asked, ‘Where did all this come from?’

‘It’s genetic,’ I told him. ‘I got it from you and Mum.’

‘What are you talking about? You didn’t get it from me.’

I was incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? When I was growing up, you would sit down for breakfast, notice a fingerprint on the glass coffee table in the next room, and have to clean ALL THE GLASS IN THE HOUSE before you would eat with us.’

‘I – ‘

‘AND,’ I interrupted, ‘every time you came home from work, the first thing you’d do was go around the house fixing things. My best friend and I once deliberately ruffled the curtain a little, left a cupboard door open an inch, that sort of thing. You noticed everything within a minute. We timed you.’

‘Vrinda – ‘

‘And what about the time when I was nine years old and was so excited that my friend had loaned me her roller skates, I wore them all over the house. When I say on the sofa, I rested my feet on the coffee table and the wheels of the skates made the tiniest little scratch on the wood of the table. You went nuts. You screamed at me in my face and said we’d have to sell the TV to pay for a new coffee table. I was so scared. In the end, you found wood filler and fixed the scratch, but I never wore roller skates again. I was terrified.’

Even after listening to all this, my father grew stern and said firmly, ‘Vrinda, I do NOT have OCD.’

I tried a different tactic. ‘Do you realise that as I’m a girl, in order for me to have Tourette’s Syndrome, I have to have inherited the genes from BOTH of my parents?’ Silence. ‘That means you HAVE to have SOMETHING. Feel free to look it up in clinical psychiatry books.’

When he didn’t respond, I asked, ‘Why are you so afraid of admitting it, anyway? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? It means that despite all your usually supportive words about my medical problems, you secretly feel these things are something to be ashamed of.’

He had no response for that – but he didn’t deny feeling that way, either, and he never saw a doctor, not for the OCD and certainly not for the more dangerous problems he suffers from that made my childhood a living nightmare. Naturally, this meant he never changed – so I changed. I stopped putting up with it and walked away.

I’ve had to walk away from a number of people, over the years, out of self-preservation. The number of birthday cards I get has diminished, but I’m much happier for it.

We can’t allow ourselves to get dragged down with people who are willing to let themselves fall apart. This was one of the main themes of my novel The Ladder. Something I think my father will never understand is that I still love him; I always will. And I pity him, because he is ultimately a prisoner of his own ego. But that doesn’t mean I have to keep him in my life, if his presence is destructive to me and my family.

It’s important to remember that no matter how much you love someone, you are not their therapist. If you are being mistreated, get out. It doesn’t matter if the abuser ‘can’t help it’. Point them in the direction of therapy and distance yourself until they’re better – if that ever happens. We should all try to exercise understanding for these people who may be in our lives, but we can understand and pity from a distance. Patience should be reserved for those who are really trying, and who really are getting better all the time – for those who want to get better.

I hope you all have (or can find your way to having) the healthy relationships you deserve. And if you found this article helpful, be sure to subscribe to our blog for more insights, as well as personal stories from our readers.

Vrinda Pendred is the Editor and Founder of Conditional Publications.  Additionally, she does freelance editing and proofreading and provides private English tuition.  She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, Autism and Bipolar Disorder.  Her ambition is to help others with such conditions find their voice through creative writing, and spread awareness to the general public.

Be sure to read her contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2015/05/13/understanding-doesnt-mean-accepting-abuse/feed/ 1 https://conditionalpublications.com/2015/04/28/making-relationships-work-when-youre-neuro-atypical/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2015/04/28/making-relationships-work-when-youre-neuro-atypical/#comments Tue, 28 Apr 2015 21:13:33 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=2088 Editor Vrinda Pendred shares the importance of being entirely yourself, in all your relationships.

I’ve been with my husband twelve years, now, and we have a lively nine-year-old son. Things are good for us – very good. But for a long time, they weren’t, because aside from the usual issues of growing up, money problems and emotional baggage, I’ve been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome, OCD, bipolar disorder, autism, ADHD and mild dyslexia – not to mention post-traumatic stress from being raised by a father I’m convinced has borderline personality disorder, on top of autism and extreme OCD. (I like to think everyone at my office regards me as charmingly eccentric, but I can’t verify this.)

I was diagnosed with Tourette’s when I was seven. A friend used to call me Bunny and point out every time I twitched my nose…and tell me to stop. I laughed it off and kept secret the fact that I’d torn the inside lining of my nose by scratching too much at an itch. It had bled and scabbed over, I kept picking at the scab, and now I felt the inexplicable need to stretch out my nose repeatedly to check if the scab had healed. It resulted in tearing open the wound over and over again with my twitching, and it was very painful. Yet somehow it felt satisfying. That, more than anything, I felt unable to share.

It wasn’t until I was 13 that I admitted to any of my strange thoughts and was finally diagnosed with OCD. Until then, I was convinced I was sick and crazy. I held my diagnoses close to my chest, terrified they meant I was broken, and certain all my friends would abandon me if they knew the depths of my insanity. This secret was eventually revealed in the most irrevocable way possible, when I developed symptoms of schizophrenia in response to prescribed medication and became convinced all of my friends were figments of my imagination – you heard me. What I didn’t know at the time was that you’re not supposed to give SSRIs to patients prone to manic episodes, as it can tip them over the edge, chemically.

See, I wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was well into my twenties. The diagnosis would have prevented a lot of heartache. I would have known, for instance, that the mood swings are made more extreme by pregnancy hormones. As I hadn’t yet been diagnosed, I spent the entirety of my pregnancy falling to pieces, screaming at my now husband, and nightly imagining all the ways I could kill myself. Visualising it brought relief, even though I had no intention of going through with it. Again, I felt unable to tell this to anyone. I genuinely feared the doctors would decide I was unfit for motherhood and take away my baby, so I hid the extent of my suffering for nine long months.

I was diagnosed with autism at the same time as bipolar. I’d suspected the ADHD a long time, so that came as no surprise. Dyslexia shocked me, as I’ve always been an avid reader, loved to write and I have excellent language skills. However, I have learned dyslexia is yet another of these conditions that is widely misunderstood, and I fit a less widely publicised description.

Returning to my marriage, my husband and I used to argue all the time, in our early years together. Now, we might have an argument once a year. What changed? Me.

That’s not to say my husband didn’t have his own challenges to overcome. He did. But there were many ongoing issues that were resolved simply by me learning to accept my diagnoses and stop keeping everything secret. I was so conditioned to hide myself, I would lock myself in the bathroom to cry in the dark, alone. I would smile and pretend everything was fine, because I was convinced no one would want to hear that I was suffering from intense muscle pain due to tics, or that I felt ugly and stupid because of the way my face kept contorting. When I failed socially, I believed people would think I was making excuses if I explained it as autism. I thought I’d be regarded as mad if I said I thought I was suffering a down-swing and expected to fall into a month-long state of depression, soon. And when those excuses sounded old, there was always the classic: I didn’t want to feel disabled. Talking about my problems would make it all too real and force me to acknowledge my lot in life.

These thoughts still run through my head, but these days, I choose to live by the principle: feel the fear and do it anyway. I’ve started answering my husband honestly when he asks how I am; if I’m in pain, I tell him. And you know what? He sympathises and lets me know he’s there. When I sense a mood shift I think will affect him, I warn him and he is understanding, accepting that at times I may be highly strung and at others, I may lie on the sofa watching TV every night for weeks, without motivation. When I don’t understand something social or I close off, I tell him I find it hard to open up and he respects that, gives me time – which, incidentally, encourages me to open up. Sometimes words get stuck in my throat and I can’t speak, if I’m seized by social panic. He helps me through those moments.

Of course, I’m fortunate beyond measure to have found such a husband. That said, it’s helped by the fact that he relates to some of my quirks, without qualifying for his own diagnoses. In fact, most of my close friends – including those who have stuck by me since we were little kids – have gone on to receive related diagnoses. My conclusion is that there must be certain personality traits we all share, as a result of our chemical imbalances. This allows us to connect on a deeper level, even when we seemingly have nothing else in common. We ‘get’ each other, as people. However, as children, we all argued like mad, too. Again, the difference has lain in maturing enough to talk about these things and try to understand each other. Before we developed that openness, it was easy to misunderstand each other’s quirks as deliberately hurtful. For instance, I used to think one of my friends was disinterested in what I had to say. I now know he’s very interested, but highly distracted because of his ADHD; so when I tell him something and he responds by changing the subject, I no longer take it personally. I know how hard he’s trying, and that he’ll address my comments in time, after he’s offloaded everything else fighting for attention in his head. He used to apologise profusely for seeming so rude, and get really down on himself. Now, we’ve learned to laugh about it and stop giving ourselves such a hard time for things we can’t really help.

Relationships are notoriously difficult to maintain when you’re what people like to call ‘neuro atypical’. But I don’t think they have to be. I think the secret, as in any relationship, is self-acceptance, honesty and trust. Be open about your challenges right from the start. If you experience rejection or general lack of support, it’s not a relationship worth pursuing. But if it is worthwhile – be it romantic or platonic – maintain that openness. Be wholly yourself, and return that acceptance when they’re open with you. Stop imagining your problems will burden your loved ones. They want to be there for you – as they know you want to support them.

If you have any tips for making relationships work, please share them by making a comment, below – and be sure to subscribe to this blog to read more insights and personal stories from our staff and our readers.

Vrinda Pendred
Editor & Founder

Vrinda Pendred is the Editor and Founder of Conditional Publications.  Additionally, she does freelance editing and proofreading and provides private English tuition.  She is also a writer, and you can learn more about her personal work here.

Vrinda has been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, Autism and Bipolar Disorder.  Her ambition is to help others with such conditions find their voice through creative writing, and spread awareness to the general public.

Be sure to read her contributions to Conditional Publications’ debut release Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2015/04/28/making-relationships-work-when-youre-neuro-atypical/feed/ 5 https://conditionalpublications.com/2014/09/09/suicide-awareness-week-a-message-from-jennifer-scint/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2014/09/09/suicide-awareness-week-a-message-from-jennifer-scint/#respond Tue, 09 Sep 2014 19:22:15 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=1912 Sometimes openness is necessary to promote awareness and hope for others. Sometimes your journey is meant not to be hidden and kept secret out of fear of judgement, but instead be shared. I admit it’s uncomfortable and a bit frightening, but I have a great passion for erasing the stigma that surrounds mental illness and suicide, and I am not ashamed of my journey. If judgement arises, I am confident enough to know it is ignorance or lack of knowledge and understanding that on another’s part, and not me. My journey is not one I wish to remain silent about because of the stigma, but one I wish to share throughout my lifetime in hopes that it may inspire and bring hope to other sufferers similar to myself.

With that being said, today marks the start of National Suicide Prevention week. On the way home from class tonight, I was flooded with images and thoughts about my journey thus far and what I wanted to convey. I am eternally grateful for all the people in my life, even those no longer part of my journey, who have been by my side during the lowest times. For the times they have talked and listened to me, and the times no words were necessary – just the act of being there was enough. I am thankful for the countless times they have held the hope for me when I had so little of my own. I am thankful for the times they have literally saved me from succumbing to my illness. I am thankful for the tools they have given me, the love (albeit sometimes tough love), and the few who have never left my side or given up on me. Not only have you saved me throughout the years, but you empowered me to want to save myself, which is huge.

The journey continues, and with that, the struggle continues; the struggle to find hope in perhaps even the smallest things…a laugh, kind word, hug, song…something that will sustain me until I have the strength to get up and continue on. As far as I have to go, I am happy and proud of myself for how far I have come. It’s been a long, vastly painful journey, but what I have learned from the pain is priceless. It has moulded me into the person I am, the person I am coming to love more and more. There’s a reason we’re all here, and I am determined to keep fighting and hoping so I can find my purpose.

So with that, I want to thank those who have shared in my journey and will continue to share in it. You all are the biggest blessings I have. In a world of immense pain, you have helped me see there is also immense joy and hope. Thank you.

I challenge those of you who see suicide as a mere selfish act to really reach out and get to know someone with mental illness. You will soon realize  there is more behind the stigma that is so pervasive in our society. There is great pain, but also a yearning for hope, understanding, and acceptance. Reach out and be the face of hope to someone who might be thinking of ending their life.

Just listen. Don’t judge.

Jennifer Scinto, Conditional Publications

Contributor to Check Mates: A Collection of Fiction, Poetry and Artwork about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, by People with OCD

If you have a story or message to share, please contact us here. We don’t mind if your story is inspirational or simply a way of getting things off your chest.  We proofread all stories, but we censor nothing.  And if you want to make sure you don’t miss out on the stories other brave people share with us, be sure to click the ‘Subscribe’ button at the top-right of this page.

]]> https://conditionalpublications.com/2014/09/09/suicide-awareness-week-a-message-from-jennifer-scint/feed/ 0 https://conditionalpublications.com/2014/09/04/the-importance-of-asking-for-help/ https://conditionalpublications.com/2014/09/04/the-importance-of-asking-for-help/#respond Thu, 04 Sep 2014 06:22:06 +0000 http://conditionalpublications.com/?p=1905 Recently, a ‘Check Mate’ of mine sent a bunch of us a group message saying they were struggling to cope on their own and needed help. Around the same time, another friend made a public announcement that he had lost a loved one. Dozens of people flocked to show support. Some of us (like me!) haven’t even met him, but we care just the same, through the friendships we have formed online.

The key here is that while our support won’t help my friend grieve, or fix my other friend’s circumstances, neither of them is alone. They both have an outlet to release their difficult emotions.

So many of us – myself included – are afraid to reach out when we most need to. I was discussing this in that group message and we all agreed a lot of it comes down to fear of rejection. We worry we’re a burden on others, or that people will tire of our problems, or simply not care, and our feelings will be invalidated. We find it ‘easier’ to go it alone.

Message to self: this is STUPID.

It has never been easier to do anything alone. On the contrary, it’s stressful and overwhelming. And no one EXPECTS you to do it.

There’s a term in the world of investments that applies here: ‘diversification’. It refers to the art of investing in many different areas, each uncorrelated to one another, so if one area does poorly, the others will hopefully pick up the slack and you won’t lose all your money. The point? It’s a well-proven fact that putting all your eggs in one basket is a RISK.

None of us knows everything or is the best at everything. That’s the beauty of the world. There are so many varieties of people and lifestyles out there. They’re meant to complement one another. When you start a company, you don’t do it all on your own; you have a team, each member with different strengths to balance out each other’s weaknesses. I’m sure all of us would agree with this principle.

So why don’t we apply it to our lives?

We’re constantly told to be strong. When people ask how we are, we’re expected to say we’re ‘fine’ even when we’re not. If we’re unhappy, we’re meant to take some pills and shut up. But hiding your struggles / suppressing your sorrows until it’s too late is NOT strength. Admitting you find something hard takes courage, and being vulnerable with someone is a form of bravery. Swallowing your pride and fears and asking for help when you need it is one of the strongest things you can do.

I challenge you (and myself!) – instead of waiting until you collapse to ask for support, ask for it when you’re going through little challenges. The smaller the challenge, the simpler the support request. It doesn’t need to be drama all the time; regularly talking about the little things is just making conversation. Get people’s insight right away, when the problems are still tiny – before you feel like things are spiralling out of control. It will actually be less of a weight on your friends’ shoulders that way, too

If you have a story or message to share, please contact us here. We don’t mind if your story is inspirational or simply a way of getting things off your chest.  We proofread all stories, but we censor nothing.  And if you want to make sure you don’t miss out on the stories other brave people share with us, be sure to click the ‘Subscribe’ button at the top-right of this page.

No one knew I had OCD at that time.  If they had, perhaps this story would not have been passed on to me so early.  What was a joke to the general public over this year was, in fact, an obsession that had plagued me for 18 years.

At 11, 2012 felt like a lifetime away.  By 2010, the anxiety started to crush me.  I had a small child to think about.  Would I never get to see him grow up?  Would he never have a future?  I wasn’t ready to die.  I have brothers overseas whom I’ve never met – I was desperate to meet them before 2012 because a mad part of me was convinced I would never see them otherwise.  Perhaps if the world did not end, something would happen to prevent me from ever crossing the Atlantic.  Maybe I would never see my old friends back in my birthplace of America again.

I listened to podcasts about the prediction.  I watched documentaries.  I read books.  I was searching for some clever person who could contradict the prophesy in a more educated way, rather than simply dismissing it as nonsense.  These were my compulsions, my way of balancing the anxiety that consumed me as time passed, beyond my control.

Then suddenly it was the 20th of December.  Just one day to go.  I couldn’t sleep.  I KNEW it was stupid, yet I just couldn’t shake off the panic.

I can’t actually put into words what I felt about 2012.  It was terrifying to know that, if something DID happen, I could do nothing to stop it.  Time would march on without me.

On 21st December, at the zenith of the winter solstice, I was busy working and didn’t even notice the fateful hour had passed.  When I did at last check the time, I can’t say how relieved I was to see that we had all made it.  I had known all along that was what would happen.  But OCD meant I couldn’t fully believe that.

And thinking about it, I want to state for the record that 21st December WAS the end of the world as I knew it.  After almost 20 years, I can finally breathe easy.  I now truly believe that the world will carry on.  Life will continue.  All apocalyptic predictions are nonsense.  I can really say that, now, with conviction.  I couldn’t do that two weeks ago.

And it’s a beautiful feeling, realising that you just CAN’T predict the future. Que sera sera – whatever will be, will be.  There’s freedom in this new ignorance.

We made it.  Here’s to the future, whatever it may bring.