The Habits

When I first learned that I had OCD, neither I nor my family had any idea what Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was. I can’t speak for them, but I myself had never heard of OCD before. After all, I was only 8 years old. So one night when I was talking to my dad and started repeating myself for seemingly no reason at all, I was scared out of my mind.

We had just gotten home from dinner at a local restaurant. I was relaxing, just laying around in my pajamas watching the March Madness college basketball tournament with my dad when the game on TV went to halftime. I don’t remember what I said exactly, I just know that I said something, a simple sentence.

Then I said it again. And again. 8 times in a row I said it. When my dad asked me what I was doing, I said simply, “I don’t know.” Then I repeated that, too.

That was the first time I became aware of what I would later find out was my OCD.

On that night, March 25th, 1995, my life changed.

The next few days were a nightmare. I couldn’t speak without repeating myself. I couldn’t lift a fork to my mouth to eat. I couldn’t change my clothes, or walk over a threshold in a doorway. Walking out the front door of the house was an ordeal. Buckling my seatbelt was another. I didn’t go to school that Monday, or for the next two weeks. Instead, I went to several doctors trying to figure out what was wrong.

The first doctor thought there was some kind of deficiency in my nutrition, but made no mention of OCD. He drew some blood and ran some tests, but ultimately he couldn’t explain what was going on.

The second doctor’s waiting room smelled like popcorn. He didn’t diagnose me with anything either, but one thing he did say stuck with me. He said, “You’re not crazy, and you’re going to be OK.” But again, he made no mention of OCD.

It was late in the evening when we got to the third doctor, still trying to figure out what was going on. By that point, I hadn’t eaten for two days, though I was beyond hungry. So when I asked my parents for two chicken sandwiches from Burger King, they were happy just to see me want to tryto eat. My dad ran out to get food for me while my mom and I hung back in the waiting room. There was a “no food or drink” policy in the office, but the woman at the front desk was kind enough to let me eat the sandwiches by the door. That may very well have been the first time I saw food as a comfort.

Finally, the third doctor saw me, and by the end of the appointment, she had diagnosed me with OCD. To be honest, I don’t remember what happened in the moments after that. I don’t know if I had a moment of relief, or if I really understood at all what was going on, other than that I now could put a name to my condition. What I do remember is that after that night I began seeing this doctor regularly for Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) 3 times a week and that I would continue going to therapy regularly for the next 10 years.

As an 8-year-old with little to no concept of mental illness (they didn’t teach these things in third grade at the time), to me the idea of going to therapy was akin to going to any other doctor, or at least it was at first. At that point in my life, going to the doctor meant three things:

1) That you were sick;

2) The doctor would probably give you medication; and

3) Taking that medication meant that you would get better.

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