Perseverance

Perseverance

It was nighttime on the first day I was going to take medicine for my OCD. The journey ahead of me was daunting, and it seemed like I would never be able to take that first step, let alone go past it. My nine-year-old mind was afraid of who I would become once I started taking the medicine, almost as afraid of who I might become if I didn’t.

Creeping through the kitchen, I made my way to the bottle of liquid Paxil and took the phone in my other hand. I needed to know that I wasn’t making this journey alone, that there was someone beyond the four walls of my house who would love me no matter what happened when that orange liquid made its way down my throat.

I called my Nana.

Nana - my mother’s mother - was 72 then, and when she picked up the phone, just hearing her voice calmed my racing heart and jittery hands. She told me that she knew what I was going to do and it was so brave. She was so proud of me for taking that first step. And when that wasn’t quite enough, she told me that she was about to take her mental health medicine too, and if I wanted to take it with her, I would have to start on the count of three.

The idea that she took medicine too strengthened me, because I knew who she had turned out to be: the most loving person I’d ever met, someone who had endured the long-ago loss of her husband with bravery, someone who would take as much time as was needed to help children with various types of disabilities eat their lunch at her job in a local elementary school cafeteria. She was someone who I looked up to since the day I was born, and the very idea that she could do what she did while being on medicine – and that the medicine could have even helped her with it – made me tip the little cup down my throat, giving me the strength to begin my own journey.

Nana has been there for every moment before and since.

She helped me get over my anxiety to go on a school trip to Israel when I knew I’d be in a foreign country with no friends. We did everything from talking seriously about the problem to coming up with jokes about the trip that could make me laugh when I was away, giving me a smile even when she couldn’t be there.

She was there for me seven years ago, when I was in the hospital and terrified that I wouldn’t live to see the next day, and her voice kept me as calm as possible as I figured out next steps.

She listened as I poured my heart out to her years later, suffering from endless negative thoughts and desperate for anything that would help. When I needed to come home from school to seek more help from my therapist, I remember stretching out on her couch with my head in her lap, finally calm enough to just breathe.

She comforted me all those times just as she did when she held me as a baby, and when she learned that maybe that perfect baby wasn’t so perfect after all, she still loved me just as fiercely. I’ve never once had the feeling that she’s ashamed of me, even when I did compulsions in front of her as a child or told her all about the thoughts running amok in my head. All I’ve ever felt from her is strength, courage, and inestimable love.

And it’s not just for the bad stuff too - she’s always willing to participate in my positive obsessions. She probably knows far more about Lord of the Rings, Pokemon, and all my other fads than she ever cared to, and she still asks me questions when she knows I want to talk and reads my fanfiction even if she needs me to explain all the backstory over the phone.

She treats everything I’ve written like it’s the best thing in the world, even if it was a childish scribble on notebook paper when I was bored in school, and it was this encouragement that made me want to share my story on No Shame On U’s blog - in fact, she was the first person I called after I made the decision.

Nearly twenty years after that night in the kitchen, her help has given me the strength to accomplish a great deal more than I ever thought I would be able to. I still draw courage from her weekly letters and call her to share all the joys and sorrows of life. She picks up the phone with cheer no matter what and tells me how proud she is of me whether I’m sharing a success or brainstorming past a roadblock.

It is in large part thanks to her support that I am who I am today, someone who has not only achieved many milestones in life but who also feels comfortable sharing my story. When I write these posts, I wonder if maybe I’m helping someone like she has helped me.

From that day so many years ago until just last night, she ends all of our calls and her letters with one word: persevere. It’s a word that brings me strength every day, and I couldn’t be more thankful for Nana as she celebrates her 91st birthday.

Not just this post, but this blog, are for you, Nana - and I can’t wait to share more memories in the years to come!

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

The Social Price of OCD

The Social Price of OCD

My first friendship started in the sandbox, where four-year-old me was making a birthday cake for my feet and a fellow preschooler asked to help. It ended six years later at a pool party, after a huge fight, where she ended up splashing with the popular group while I sat alone and made up stories in my head.

I didn’t know to question friendship until then, but I’d always questioned social interaction. I might not have had Automatic Negative Thoughts (ANTs) about socializing before, but I knew there was something different in how I interacted with people.

I never knew what to do when interacting with other kids, and even if I tried the same things that worked for them, I’d get vastly different reactions. Even before the actual bullying started, I felt unsure about my role in the class, and honestly, I didn’t have much time to learn how to reframe my thinking.

I was learning different things: how to pretend to be interested in small talk when my brain was going haywire, how to hide my interests even if they were the only things keeping me sane, how to keep my conversation partners from noticing if I was doing a compulsion, or even how to escape a conversation to do a compulsion I didn’t want them to see. I didn’t have the time or mental capacity to learn social niceties when I was fighting so hard against my own head.

As a result, social interaction was never easy.

I never had many friends as a kid. Every time someone would make an overture, I would get so excited, even if it was something small that they were also doing with everyone else. I quickly and painfully learned that “best friends forever” did not apply to me and it was easier to talk to teachers and other adults because they were at work and couldn’t be rude to a kid. (Well, most of the time.)

It took until the end of high school to form my first friendship that’s lasted more than my first, doomed friendship, and I still question if I’ve made a mistake when my friends say they’re busy or otherwise unavailable. I try to find ways to make my friends feel special to me, to give them gifts and write on important days and make sure to say hello on ordinary days too.

Some people have called it sweet. I call it the legacy of my compulsions and ANTs, a way to try to ensure they won’t abandon me too.

With that mindset, it’s no wonder that I’m cautious, especially in new situations. Especially when I first moved to Chicago, when I was starting a new life in a new city and knew absolutely no one. I couldn’t make the wrong first impression, and so I followed my rules (mainly, be as normal as possible) and did my best to feel comfortable.

Slowly, I began to make friends. It took me months, and only now am I finally feeling comfortable with my friend group outside of my work and my coworkers and boss. But it’s still hard for me when I see other new people coming in who seem to have infinite social skills and get everyone around them to like them in mere minutes.

Sometimes I wish for that easy charisma, the way these people can just swoop into a room and get everyone’s attention and respect without anything stopping them. Even when I’m with my closest friends now, people I’ve known for such a long time that I feel like I can read their minds, I still analyze my interactions with them, sometimes to the point where I feel like I’m missing out on the lighthearted fun.

And when I encounter someone who seems to have it so easy, even when I know I’m unaware of what may be going on in their own heads, I find it all too easy to get jealous. I envy the way some people can start a new job and immediately feel comfortable teasing their coworkers and boss, to the point where they become accepted instantly. I envy being the person no one forgets is in the room and the one whose conversations don’t all revolve around an awkward “what are you doing this weekend” and the one who is always appreciated, always seen.

As I devoured book after book in my childhood, often sneaking them out to the playground at recess to keep me company, I found myself gravitating towards stories where the main characters somehow find themselves in an important position. In these books, people had to include - or at least speak to - the protagonist, even if it was merely due to a social convention. As a young girl, that mostly meant books involving princesses, which I clung to secretly because I didn’t like the way it made me seem shallow.

When I sat alone at the lunch table and in the carpool line, I dreamed of waking up one day and having something about myself that would make people care about me and show me the same respect they did to their peers; to forgive my overanalyzing and treat me like I was someone special. At minimum, something that would make people have to be nice to me, even if I did a compulsion or said something wrong, and even if it didn’t lead to true friendships, at least I’d feel included on the surface. In the stories I made up in my head, many of my characters took up these important societal roles, loath as I was (and am) to admit it.

Here’s what I loved, and still love: these characters have the same inner turmoil I do, and often, even more. But they’re respected and heard and loved by their peers no matter what.

Even now, I love books where a character goes from being ostracized, ignored, or bullied to having some sort of special role that makes everyone pay attention to them. From Harry Potter to The Goblin Emperor (which I am currently loving), I love reading and rereading the part where the people who treated them poorly are forced to respect them and they finally feel included for the first time.

Things have gotten a lot better now, and days when I feel like I need to cling to these stories are few and far between. I can see what triggers me now, and what gives me the impulse to pounce on the book and flip to the worn pages usually at the front where everything gets better. I know, even now, that tomorrow will be a better day where things go back to normal and I won’t feel so bad that my OCD-ridden childhood means I lack the confidence and self-assuredness to make these instant friends on my own.

But today, on the bus back home, I’ll give myself time to dream of my favorite stories, to sink into them and imagine what could have been.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

A MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE… Fighting the Anxious Urge to Fix Everything: Helpful Advice from Preschool

A Mother’s Perspective…

Fighting the Anxious Urge to Fix Everything: Helpful Advice from Preschool

* This is our third contribution from Melissa, a Mom of two, dealing with her own anxiety as well as her children’s challenges. She is sharing her story to help others understand what it’s like to live and parent with mental illness.

My kids are in junior high now, but almost daily I think back to some advice I received when they were in preschool, and it’s as helpful now as it was then. 

These words of wisdom came on a day when something happened that left me quite worried about my then 2-year-old son after I dropped him off at school.  All these years later, I have no idea what the issue was, but I know my anxiety was so strong that I called the school to find out how he was doing.  The director’s assistant told me in a firm, yet kind, voice,

“He’s going about his day.  You should go about yours.”   

For the first time, I experienced the realization that this little human being for whom I felt responsible 100% of the time actually had his own life.  He had his own journey that was separate from my journey.  Now, granted he was just 2-years-old at the time, and it’s not like I sent him out into the big, cold world all on his own.  He was in a loving environment after all, but doesn’t that guidance apply no matter how old your child?  As a parent with anxiety, it’s sage advice that I hold onto every single day.

Whether you are diagnosed with anxiety or not, as parents, we worry about our children.  While that worry can be overwhelming, the issue that concerns me more is the pressure we all put on ourselves to make our children happy.  I see it all around me: from my closest friends to strangers posting on the internet.

We all know parents who social engineer their child’s life to make sure they are included all the time.  Shouldn’t we teach our children that everyone isn’t included all the time?  Shouldn’t they learn to handle the disappointment and the hurt feelings?  It’s tough to sit with, but certainly the coping skills they will develop through these childhood experiences will help them when they don’t get the promotion they expect years from now.

What about the parent who’s asking for help online because their child absolutely, positively wants a birthday party with a rhinoceros jumping out of the cake, and the child will just be heartbroken if this stressed-out parent can’t make the magic happen.  (Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but you get the point.)  Don’t our children need to know they don’t get everything they want, but that they will be ok?  They will survive.  Life will go on.

And how about the high-paid Hollywood stars who go to high-risk measures to ensure their child’s future?  Don’t you think there’s some anxiety there pushing those parents to make sure their children have every advantage without having to do the hard work or face the consequences otherwise?

At the heart of all these extreme efforts, I see so much anxiety in parents who are worried that they are losing in the game of parenthood.  I can literally feel the stress when I scroll past these posts and stories online.  It jumps off the screen at me.  It stresses me out just to read it.

As a parent, I’ve been torn between rushing to rescue my children and staying out of the way.  Too often, I’ve taken control of the situation rather than letting them take responsibility for overcoming obstacles and advocating for themselves. Now I’m trying to undo the damage of years of making things easy for them. 

On the flip side, I have lived the consequences as the child of parents who wanted to smooth my path and solve all of my problems.  Trust me, it doesn’t lead to the most desirable outcome.  As an adult, I have my own challenges that are directly related to my parents not letting me go about my day, and I am left trying to learn the lessons I wish I’d been taught all those years ago.  There’s truth to the idea that it’s easier to learn things when you are younger.

So as our children go back to school this fall, let’s all try to stay out of their way.  Give them guidance when they need it.  Offer loving support when difficulties arise.  But please, for your child’s sake, don’t let your anxiety force you to live their life for them: let them go about their day, and you should go about yours. 

Melissa is a married mother of two, dealing with her own anxiety as well as her children’s challenges. She is sharing her story to help others understand what it’s like to live and parent with mental illness.

A DAY IN THE LIFE: EXPOSURE THERAPY

A Day in the Life: Exposure Therapy

TW: Medical imagery

(Exposure therapy is a way of taking apart a large fear into little steps to be worked on individually. After working for years on my fear of doctors and hospitals resulting from my medical crisis seven years ago, this is what a doctor’s visit looked like for me this week.)

It doesn’t even start with walking in the door.

The anxiety comes a few days before, or maybe even when I make the appointment. It’s not all doctors, just the ones related to my incident seven years ago, but even that is enough to scare me.

I know how to pack my bag: insurance card and ID in my wallet, phone at full battery with all of my games updated, and a small stuffed animal in my purse, just in case. I know to leave early, because if I get there late, I’ll get lost and feel flustered. I need to give myself the best chance.

No one can see anything wrong as I walk in, check my phone for the tenth time to remind myself what floor to go to, and make my way in. I know everything they need at check-in, and I breeze through until it’s time for me to go in the back.

It’s hard for me to walk past the rooms, so clinical and cold, but I make it into the exam room, following the nurse closely. I plop into a chair - thankfully, this doctor doesn’t make me sit on the paper on the table - and I don’t notice my legs are bouncing until the nurse asks me to stop, because it may affect the blood pressure results.

Blood pressure is good, but not quite as good as Mom’s - I can never beat her. I thank God that they didn’t pinch a vein this time and make me lose feeling in my arm, which I haven’t figured out how to breathe through yet. Stepping on the scale is hard for entirely different reasons. I don’t look at the number when it beeps; I stare ahead at the wall and get down fast.

I answer the nurse’s questions easily. All of this is scripted, I know my medications and I also know what to do when something in the corner starts to beep unexpectedly. My hand slinks into my purse and finds the small stuffed umbreon - a pokemon - that my friend helped me sew before I moved. It’s made out of socks, and the texture is rough from my inexperienced stitches. Less conspicuous than a phone game, although Pokemon Go is on the screen of my phone too. Never any harm in overpreparing.

The doctor comes in soon. I like this doctor; if I don’t, I’m even more tense. The more she asks me, the more the need to tell my story builds up. I’ll end up writing out something later, surely, but for now I just report my concerns honestly.

I still look calm and composed as I go to the blood lab. That’s the scariest place, the one I had to prepare for the most. I watched medical shows, listened to recordings of beeping machines and hospital sounds, but I’m still flustered enough when I go in that I don’t notice I’m supposed to be sitting in a chair in a waiting area.

I sink into the chair, tap on a few pokemon, and wait. People go back one by one, and then it’s my turn. My routine for this, the scariest part, is down pat: phone in my lap, with a brand-new picture of my dog courtesy of Mom. She’s sent me one where he’s got two Frisbees at the same time, which is impressive. I can’t help but notice the cold square of antiseptic on my skin and the way the nurse wipes it away, then gets closer with the needle.

Mom always tells me to breathe, but I usually forget. I concentrate really hard this time, and look over to where there are only two tubes waiting. It’ll be fast, at least. It doesn’t even hurt all that much. My breath comes faster, not anywhere close to a panic attack, but noticeable. I stick my hand in my purse again for the stuffed umbreon when she goes to pull the needle out, which usually hurts me the most.

I keep bleeding. The nurse tries to get it to stop, but when she turns away for a moment, I watch as it continues to flow, a little dot turning to a big bead that starts to flow down. I alert her to this, and hold the bandage on tight as she applies it. I’ve got one of the fingers of her glove in my grasp too, accidentally.

I notice my breath is quickening as I look at the blood and force my head away, looking down at the picture of my dog, noting how his paws are splayed on the floor and that one of his Frisbees is upside down.

The nurse worries. Someone apparently fainted in here a few minutes ago, and she wants to make sure I won’t be next. I’m still shaky and I’m still rolling the stuffed umbreon’s ear in my left hand. But I’m fine. I can feel my hand, it was only two tubes, and the thick white bandage she puts on finally covers the blood.

I’m a little shaky when she says I can get up, but I’m not going to faint. Never have, even when I hadn’t worked on my fears and I used to scream every time. I came close to fainting once, but even then, I kept my techniques in my head to keep myself from falling prey to panic.

I feel like I can breathe again when I get outdoors. It’s finally done.

(Although this routine trip to the doctor’s office probably doesn’t sound easy, it’s so much easier than when I first started exposure therapy. By learning the different elements of the doctor’s visit and preparing myself for each one, I can control my anxiety to the point that only small physical cues will let people know that I’m not feeling my best. I went from debilitating anxiety and being unable to do a visit like this by myself to having a normal visit where I can get my medications refilled and blood drawn without panic, and quickly moved on to the rest of my day. Exposure therapy is great for my fears and phobias, and since the progress is so visible, I find it a great way to celebrate my accomplishments while looking forward to even more to come!)

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

NOT DANGEROUS

Not Dangerous

TW: Violence

I am diagnosed with a mental health condition, and I am not dangerous.

In the wake of even more mass shootings in America, I am confronted again and again with the misguided belief that people living with mental illness are a risk to the general public due to inherent violent tendencies. After shootings, people look for signs and symptoms, poring over the shooter’s behavior, and if there’s no motivation that makes sense, mental illness is always there to serve as an excuse.

Whenever I hear this, I cringe. It’s true that there are people with diagnosed mental health conditions who have committed violent crimes, but it often gets conflated to the entire population as a risk factor. 

In my experience, this has made it harder for my friends and I to speak out about our problems, especially any sort of negative thoughts we have that may involve violence in some way. And yet, I learned in therapy that “a thought is a thought, not a threat” - which means that even if an intrusive thought pops its way into my head, it’s not going to actually happen unless I choose to make it happen.

I have never experienced an intrusive thought about harming others, but a mindfulness-based OCD workbook I have details these sorts of thoughts: the fear that, by doing or not doing a particular compulsion, you will “snap” and hurt someone. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to confess thoughts like that to a therapist when I’ve had so much trouble confessing other, less “dangerous” thoughts. Maybe this is why these thoughts take root and have time to fester, without the guidance of a therapist to help banish them.

I’m someone who has trusted scary thoughts to a therapist, who helped immeasurably by listening with kindness rather than being afraid. I’ve experienced the fearful kind, the ones who assume that any thought that pops in my head is something I feel the need to do. As if I have no self-control, or even want a thought like that to be there in the first place. As if it’s a threat.

For me, thoughts like that are few and far between, and I have good ways to help myself feel better if a thought scares me. But my favorite coping mechanism often comes under fire: video games.

Two “risk factors,” and I am still not dangerous.

When a childhood friend showed me how to play Grand Theft Auto when I was five, I was too afraid to take the controller. I stared wide-eyed as her character stole a car and mugged someone at gunpoint. I was more curious about the taboo of the character swearing than shooting people. I was diagnosed already, but no hidden desire to commit acts of violence was awakened in me that day.

For many years, my parents didn’t let me have video games at home, more for fear that I’d get obsessed with them in a way that would distract me from school than anything else. When I did finally start playing games, they were games like Pokemon where the only violence was cartoonish. When I started playing more mature games as an adult, I never felt any sort of association with the violence, and often played through battle scenes as quickly as possible to get back to the story.

And yet, I was still afraid to play games with guns. Something in me still believed what I heard, that there could be something dangerous inside me that would get triggered if I pressed a button and killed something on-screen. I stayed away from games with guns for years, and when I played violent games, I was always more interested in the characters’ stories - what else was going on with their character that could be fun to think or write about?

Last year, my dad and I started playing a game that involves guns, Overwatch. I liked it because all the characters have names and stories and diverse backgrounds supported by comic books and short movies that detail an expansive and fascinating world. Plus, it’s a great way to spend time with my dad, as we can play together even if we’re in different states. In the game, I can choose to play a character with a gun and shoot it. But that doesn’t make me want to go anywhere near a real-life gun or ever harm anyone.

For me, it’s all about the difference between stories and reality. I love writing stories, both on paper and in my head, and even if I’d love to live out the plot of some of my favorites, my stories are not true. And the story of people living with mental illness as hidden killers is not only false, but also dangerous. It can create a vicious cycle of stigma that prevents people from admitting that they need help for any sort of mental illness, which can lead to all sorts of things. Maybe, for some small percentage of people, that could mean violence - and then another story fuels the fire.

I can’t pretend to understand everything behind the recent spree of shootings in America. It scares me just as much as it scares my friends and family. But I don’t think it’s fair to anyone to assume that just because they share a characteristic or two with someone who has committed a violent crime, they’re going to be next.

So yes, I live with mental illness, and yes, I play video games, some of which involve violence. But I’m also a dog lover, daughter, Italian food aficionado, cosplayer, friend, writer, proud alumna of my college, employee, Jew, and so much more - and I can only hope that, even with these ideas about mental illness and video games so prevalent, people can see me as simply Ellie, and not feel afraid.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.