TWO STEPS FORWARD, ONE VIRUS SETBACK

Two Steps Forward, One Virus Setback

Not too long before the pandemic started, I started seeing a new therapist. In the days leading up to the first visit, I started wondering how I was going to explain myself and my head to someone who’s never met me.

Like many people living with mental illness, I don’t “fit the mold” of the definition of OCD exactly. I was a lot closer when I was younger, but many years of therapy and just growing up have helped me get rid of a lot of the more classic signs. My therapist at home knows this, and since she’s been seeing me since I was 9 years old, she has a lot of context to work with when giving advice.

But ever since I moved to Chicago, she’s been encouraging me to find a new therapist, someone local. I don’t usually see her all that often, but a few months ago, I started to feel like I’d benefit from a refresher course on fighting back against negative thoughts and living my best life.

It took me a very long time to even find a therapist who didn’t talk condescendingly over the phone or demand to see me constantly at first, but I eventually found someone who works on my block, sees patients on evenings and weekends, and listened when I told her that I didn’t need constant appointments.

As soon as I made that first appointment, though, I felt the need to impress her. I wanted to show her that yes, I was diagnosed with severe OCD at a very young age, but I have a master’s degree, hold down a job, have friends, and am actively working on the problems that I still have. I wanted to show her that just because she’s seen a textbook doesn’t mean she’s seen me, and for the couple of appointments I had before I first heard the word “coronavirus,” I thought I was doing a pretty good job.

But then, the virus struck. I started to feel anxious about things I hadn’t worried about in years, like germs and the various ways I can touch them and get infected or infect others. I only felt safe coming home to my family, and once I got home, I realized that my senior dog’s occasional fecal incontinence and coughing up food also bring up things I haven’t felt in a long time.

Part of me wanted to discuss those thoughts with my new therapist, but another part of me hated the idea of paying to work on something I’d already worked on, something I already “won” years ago and was no longer part of my life the vast majority of the time. I didn’t want to become the stereotypical OCD sufferer I see all over the media in her eyes. I wanted her to respect me and treat me like someone who could do things, not like the weak person I thought I was as a child when I had these thoughts.

In preparing for my appointment, I started nervously rummaging through my desk to keep my hands busy, and I found a stack of note cards I thought I lost years ago: my homework from when I did cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT).

These notes are from the only other time I ever saw a new therapist - during my crisis five years ago, when all that mattered was the immediate, and I was there mostly to learn techniques to fight against very specific kinds of thoughts that I had never encountered before and (thankfully) haven’t had since.

When I found my notes, I was struck by the fact that the homework (a common element of CBT) was written in the therapist’s handwriting for the first month, then in mine afterwards. I realized that during that time, I was going to therapy to get guidance, not necessarily to teach the therapist everything about myself and every thought I’ve ever had in my entire life. I wasn’t there to tell her that I was normal or pretend things were fine when they weren’t. I was there to get help, and she was there to give it.

Since I considered my months of CBT to be a great success, and still use the techniques I learned to this day, I started thinking about how to approach my new therapist now. Sure, there’s a heck of a lot more to me than what’s going on in the world right now, but it’s also a strange time to work on conquering hurdles on the back burner when there’s something far more important in the forefront of my mind.

When the appointment came, I was still fighting the impulse to qualify my statements with “that’s not how I usually am!” when I talked about how it’s easier to fall back into old germaphobic thoughts. But it occurred to me that even if I take pride in the victories I’ve won under normal circumstances, these are not at all normal circumstances. My victories might look smaller (like that I wash my hands once, and how the CDC recommends, instead of plenty of times for an extremely long time), but they are still real.

Once the pandemic is over, and I can see this therapist again in real life, I hope to bring her other concerns to work on, like continuing my exposure therapy for picky eating, working on my fears about romantic relationships, and more. But it’s not the time for that. Now is the time to admit that, yes, I do have germaphobic and emetophobic thoughts in my head right now, and it’s not something to be ashamed of.

It’s time to realize that I’m not losing a battle by feeling like this right now - it’s like if an army of orcs was attacking a city once, and they repelled it with heavy losses, then it would be so much easier to defeat a small insurgence of orcs years later after the fighters have plenty of practice.

Not to mention, there’s no need to be ashamed of having thoughts that many people are having during this pandemic - and seeking help is the best thing I can do to keep it a small insurgence rather than a mental explosion. Any therapist worth their salt would say the same about not being ashamed of thoughts, and although it’s a lesson I’m still learning, I’m happy to pass it along to you. I hope you all stay well and whether or not you’re seeing a therapist during the pandemic, believe in yourself even through heightened levels of anxiety. When this fades, we’ll be stronger for the fight we won!

 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.

HOPE IN A LITTLE BLUE ROCK

Hope In A Little Blue Rock

While walking with my mom earlier this week (six feet apart, of course), she said offhandedly that she read that the DragonCon parade wasn’t approved for this year.

It’s not something I was expecting to happen. I hoped and prayed for months, but now that the crisis seems to only be deepening, my hopes for a normal life this summer - let alone my favorite con of the year - are hardly realistic.

At the same time, however, it felt crushing to hear the news. The website still doesn’t show a cancellation, but I don’t imagine the con would go on without its most important event, and even if it did, it wouldn’t be the same. It’s yet another addition to the laundry list of things that have been changed, canceled, postponed, or ruined.

Being at home has helped me keep a positive mindset for the most part, but I can’t help but feel grief at the loss of both my last big plan for 2020 and my denial about it - as much as I enjoy spending time on my Animal Crossing island where coronavirus doesn’t exist, I do have to face the real world when it means canceling flights and plans to see old friends.

We kept walking in semi-silence as I absentmindedly tapped on the pokemon I’d taken along for the walk. I caught it earlier in the week, a pokemon I’d been looking forward to catching for a year, but it felt bittersweet since I was supposed to be catching it at a large, canceled event with friends. I’d caught the pokemon I dreamed of in silence instead of shrieking and hugging and so many other things we can’t do anymore.

Loneliness sank over me and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. It’s not like there was some magical solution that could tell me my thoughts and fears were wrong, and with no end in sight, it’s easy to listen to friends and coworkers who see this as a “new normal.”

But then, out of nowhere, Mom broke the silence by telling me that she’d walked the dog on a parallel path earlier, and she found a little rock that someone had painted blue and written a kind message on. I instantly perked up and asked her to show me where the rock was, and as soon as we did (extending the walk, which is something I usually shy away from just as much as our very lazy dog), I recognized the rock.

Not the specific rock, of course, but the idea of painting rocks and leaving them around the city for people to find. It’s a DragonCon tradition, enough that there’s a Facebook group for people decorating and hiding rocks around various places in Atlanta and beyond. When people find a rock, they take a picture, post it in the group, and start conversations with people who have found similar rocks. Sometimes the rock’s painter even surfaces to join in, and to ask where the rock is now - it’s tradition to remove the rock from its original place and either keep it or put it somewhere else for others to find.

I’m notoriously bad at finding these rocks at DragonCon proper, but this blue one stuck out in the pinestraw, and I ran over to it with more excitement than I knew I could muster. All I could think when I reached out and touched it - yes, touched it with my bare hands, without a sink in sight - was, “I found my people!”

It wasn’t until the initial excitement faded that I noticed the rock said “Be Kind.” I’ve seen similar platitudes on rocks before, both at DragonCon and souvenir stores. But for me, it held a deeper meaning: not only was I feeling the kindness of DragonCon, and starting to feel awash in happy memories of meeting some of the rock creators at last year’s DragonCon during the “Swag & Seek” meetup.

From there, the memories just kept flowing: I remembered finding a little army man perched on an escalator, my first piece of “swag” from the con, and reaching out for it quickly before the movement swept me away. I remembered the way the sleeve of my elf dress almost caught on the bottom step, and how the sleeves flap so beautifully in the wind, and the photoshoot where I wore it by a waterfall, then running to the next shoot and meeting a new friend who I immediately texted to tell about the rock.

Seeing the rock helped me remember the kindness of others, as well as the imperative to practice self-kindness. I’ve been doing well in terms of keeping up with my work and eating healthy, but I need to do more in terms of keeping alive the things that matter to me the most, canceled or not. Staying in touch with friends and remembering the things we love is what makes me the happiest during this time, and I now have a reminder of a picture of the rock on my phone to keep me from feeling lonely.

I might not be able to go to DragonCon this year, but I have a plethora of photos and a multitude of memories to keep me afloat. When fabric becomes more available, I can work on a cosplay in the hope of attending a con next year. And going through my con autographs and souvenirs can help me feel more connected even if the news made me feel hopeless for a future where gatherings of 80,000 people will be possible without having to add a mask to the ensemble.

In the end, much as I hate change, DragonCon is going to look different for me this year. It might be virtual, or not at all. But I did make one positive change: instead of picking up the rock as per con tradition, I left it where it is, out in the open for anyone to see. I can only hope the next person who finds it will glean as much hope from it as I did, and perhaps they’ll leave it there too, inspiring more people than the rock’s painter will ever know.

 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.

MENTAL HEALTH BOOKS FROM MY CHILDHOOD SHELF

Mental Health Books From My Childhood Shelf

This week, I’ve taken a lot of time going through my old things, as I’m still staying in my childhood room. The bookshelf has been one of my favorite projects to tackle - I’ve found yearbooks from high and middle school, scrapbooks I made as a child and teenager, school notebooks and textbooks, and a bunch of old favorite novels I haven’t read in a long time.

Looking at my favorites helped me realize that many of them have ties to mental health. Whether they deal directly with issues or show characters moving through mental health journeys, they shaped the way I thought about myself and others going through similar situations.

Here are a selection of five books I read when I was younger that resonate with me today as much as they did then, and I hope my picks inspire you as well:

The Two Princesses of Bamarre by Gail Carson Levine was one of my first fantasy books - I’m pretty sure I read it even before Lord of the Rings - and even as I was captivated by the tale of dragons and fairies and adventure, the main character’s mind captivated me more. From the beginning, Addie was shown to be very anxious and have many fears, from small things like spiders to large things like losing her family. But when push comes to shove, she has to go on a journey herself, and finds her courage along the way. Meeting a main character who could be a heroine even though she lived with daily, nearly-constant fears was wonderful for me, and I loved cheering for her as she found ways to break down each obstacle before her. This book was one of the first times I ever saw some of my flaws in a character who I was rooting for, and loving her helped me love myself.

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver was one of my favorite books I've ever read for school, for the myriad of perspectives it presents. Some of the characters are more complex than others, but as I encountered characters falling prey to addiction and trauma, and defining themselves by feelings of grief and inadequacy, I became engrossed in the story. I saw the book’s main antagonist as obsession, in this case obsessing over religion and conversion to Christianity, but I also found it fascinating whenever the book tried to separate the obsessions from the man having them and putting his family through so much. I’ve come back to this book many times, exploring different characters and enjoying the in-depth plunge into their minds. It’s not always a pleasant journey, but it gave me plenty to think about, and the realism of the voices helped me enjoy the book tremendously.

Turtles All The Way Down by John Green was the first book I read that dealt directly with OCD that didn’t make my skin crawl. After reading so many books that seemed to deal with OCD only at the surface level, or reduced it to stereotypes of cleaning, washing hands, and alphabetizing things, this book introduced me to a character whose OCD was a major part of her life, but it was presented so realistically I felt like I could predict where her head would go next. I loved that Aza felt so real, and especially that John Green didn’t use one of my most hated tropes of mental health fiction - making the character’s obstacles go away suddenly if the plot needs it. My most vivid memory from this book is a scene where Aza needs to do something quickly but an obsession is making her do it slowly, and loved that her OCD didn’t get tossed away the moment she needed to do something. It’s part of her from the beginning to the climax, and she can still be the main character - a poignant lesson indeed.

I first encountered Woolvs in the Sitee, a picture book by Margaret Wild and Anne Spudvillas, in grad school, when I still thought I wanted to be a teacher. In a class about picture book theory, this book stood out to me because of how fiercely it was debated in the class. Some people believed the book, which is narrated by a child named Ben, takes place in a post-apocalyptic world populated by scary creatures called “woolvs.” Others saw a deeper message, which hit me right in the face when I saw other characters telling him to go back to school or pick up a hobby - something no one would say in the middle of an apocalypse. When I read this book, I saw a boy living in his own mind, and that perception was only strengthened when he saw and heard things his adult neighbor didn’t. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter whether the “woolvs” are real or hallucinations - what matters is that Ben sees them as real, which makes them just as much a part of his world as the real world is for you and I. The only way to engage with the character is to accept what is in his mind, whether or not you believe it, and I gleaned a powerful message about not sweeping under the rug what people confess about what’s in their heads. It may be scary or strange, but true connection requires empathy.

Finally, The Red Tree by Shaun Tan is another picture book I found in grad school. As soon as I found the first page, I was entranced by the idea of a children’s book dealing with depression. The powerful images of the girl, alone, surrounded by feelings and things that are not real but are still extremely painful and isolating captivated me. But my favorite part of this book is the idea of the red tree, which symbolizes hope, and the fact that there is a single leaf from this tree hidden on every page, like a little kernel of happiness waiting to appear even in the darkest times. This book has inspired me to keep going even when things feel impossibly difficult, and also reminded me to look for the red leaf in my own life, and find hope where I can, no matter how small or insignificant it seems.

During this time, I’ve found it helpful to find hope wherever I can. Old books and games inspire me to keep my head up even when the world seems so strange, and I hope you all can find something to inspire you in these times of uncertainty and change.

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 FIRST TRIP

The First Trip

A few days ago, I wrapped my dog’s yellow bandanna around my head, tied it as tightly as I could, and got in the car to go shopping for the first time since coming home.

I wish I could say that the bravery to work my way through this came from me, but it was only after significant prompting from my parents that I agreed to try. Just the idea made my palms sweat and my breath quicken, because I was about to confront, for the first time, my fear of the actual coronavirus.

Staying inside except for walking the dog (and staying well more than six feet away from everyone) was all I’d done for weeks. The idea of going into a building - a confined space where one person could cough and infect everyone - frightened me greatly, especially without a proper mask. From the second I got out of the car and noticed it was parked right next to another one, I felt aware of my breath and body like I haven’t in years - and not in a good way.

When I was little, I used to think that I could “filter” germs out by trying to breathe only through the gap between my front teeth, which was later fixed with braces. I used to think spitting out the side of my mouth would help, particularly if I was drinking from a water fountain I considered dirty. Germs were more than an everyday part of my life, and it took me years to get to the point where I wasn’t washing my hands constantly, holding my breath whenever I knew sick people were nearby, or staying away from people who had been sick even if they’d been better for weeks.

I hadn’t felt like that in years, but when the pandemic started, I felt it starting again. If I heard anyone cough, I didn’t yell like some of my coworkers did, but I did make a conscious effort to stay far away. On the last day my company was open, I asked my boss to work from home; others asked because they were taking care of children or other responsibilities, but I was asking because I knew I would be concentrating on the fact that my cubicle is in the hallway and many people walk by each day instead of, well, working. It was such an immense relief when she said yes that I promised myself I would stay inside to keep feeling the relief from that unwanted anxiety… but I can’t stay inside forever.

My state is mostly open now. It’s early, most people agree, but my parents have been going out for weeks and getting groceries and doing things the family needed, with me not contributing. It was time for me to help, but I needed some help in order to get it done.

When we got to the store, Dad gave me two missions: pick out some pretty flowers for the house, and find the apple cereal bars I like and bring back a few boxes. He was off in a flash as I watched the people milling around, only about half in masks, not lined up six feet away like they were by the outside of the store, but shopping close to each other like everything was completely normal.

The flowers were easiest to start with, both in terms of fewer people and the fact that it was right by the entrance. I didn’t have to go far to pick out a bouquet of red and yellow flowers that I’d never seen before, but they looked pretty, and picking them up gave me something to do with my hands even though I was now aware I’d touched something in the store.

I started trying to find Dad, pacing towards the bread aisle, going farther and farther back. Even if I still believed in any of my old strategies, I soon realized it would have been impossible to do them in such a tight space. Just like in a grocery store in ordinary times, people were passing each other in the same aisle, standing in the middle of aisles like roadblocks, and seemingly unaware of the germs that might have been in the air.

I ended up finding the cereal bars, but only after going on almost every aisle of the store. I could feel my breath hot against the bandanna, and I tried as much as I could to slow it and to look for ways to keep myself busy. Once I’d touched the flowers, I figured I could touch other things too, so I tried to help with the actual mission of getting groceries.

The line at the end was hard since it was so long and slow-moving, but finally, Dad and I made it outside. We took off our bandannas (he did his right away, but I waited until I was in the car), and as soon as I got home and washed my hands, I started to feel safe again.

Most people I know have been doing much more than one reluctant Trader Joe’s trip with a minimal number of purchased items. But for me, it was a huge step. I’m now trying to get a mask so I can feel a little more comfortable going out, and maybe soon I’ll even be able to do the trips solo, or stay in the store for longer than the absolute minimum amount of time.

This whole time, I’ve been very scared of everything happening in the world, disconcerted by the changes to how everything works, and alarmed at the news, but I didn’t realize when I was isolated at home that I was so afraid of the actual virus. It was an incredibly strange blast from the past, and even though it was easier to put aside my fears when I felt a stitch in my chest a few days later, I was still feeling germaphobic obsessive thoughts like I hadn’t in years.

I don’t know how I’m going to deal with everything opening, considering this. I’ll probably do something similar to this trip, but in greater numbers, and then see if I can gradually expose myself to things I’m more afraid of without exposing myself to the virus itself. It’s a tricky balance, but I’m going to do my best to be brave in the days ahead.

(Even with most things in the Chicago area still closed, I hope you all stay home and stay safe!)

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.

BACK TO NORMAL?

Back To Normal?

This week, I’ve been getting a lot of messages from people who know I’m out of town, asking me what I’m going to be doing tomorrow. My state is going to be opening things again, and although it’s what I’ve wanted for a while, I can’t help but feel increasingly anxious.

It’s true that I’ve felt very out of sorts about everywhere being closed, but I also feel that it’s the safer option. I’m still too afraid, both of catching coronavirus myself and spreading it to family members at higher risk, to go out and do anything at all. I can’t even imagine going to the grocery store, let alone a movie theater, bowling alley, or restaurant.

I’ve decided, in the immediate future, I won’t be going anywhere. I’m staying home where it’s safest, but the fact that even some of the states are reopening made me think about the fact that I’ll eventually be returning to Chicago after the longest time I’ve lived at home since going to college.

These last few weeks have helped me stay so much calmer than I thought I could be under conditions like these, especially since I spent a large part of my childhood analyzing every cough and sneeze for imaginary germs without anything real to worry about. It’s disconcerting to have to worry about real germs, and so I’ve stayed home except for brief walks outside. It’s easiest to keep the thoughts of catching or transmitting coronavirus at bay this way, but it doesn’t negate the fact that, at some point, I will be going back to Chicago, and things are still likely to be far from normal when I return.

I wasn’t nervous at all to come home, but I am definitely nervous to head back to Chicago, whenever that may be. When I left Chicago, I was heading home, where I knew what my routine would look like and I was guaranteed to be around my parents and dog instead of being alone. When it comes time to go back to Chicago, I’ll be alone, likely not able to do many of the social activities I’ve done in the last several months, and everything will be unsure. I’ll probably still even be afraid of the virus every time I sneeze or feel congested without an obvious explanation, and unlike being at home, I will have to go to stores and work in person instead of staying safe the way I feel most comfortable.

It’s a conundrum I don’t know how to answer: I feel so much safer here at home, but at the same time, I have my friends and work and various activities (and a potential dating prospect) in Chicago, plus my independence. There’s a big part of me that would love to be able to go back and see everyone when it’s safe, but another part of me is terrified that work will call me back too soon, I won’t have time to prepare, and I won’t be able to see people, making it even more isolating. I’m afraid of the anxiety spike likely to come at that point, and the concern is even seeping into my life now, when I’m still safe at home.

In the absence of concrete plans, I’m preparing for the trip back to Chicago in other ways. I’m getting a few video games to play when I get back, borrowing books from my dad, and doing my best to stay in touch with everyone in Chicago so I won’t feel as lonely in the beginning. It’s the best I can do without knowing when I might be going back, if it’s in a week or a month or even longer, but I feel like I have to do things like this to help counteract the negative thoughts telling me I’m going to go from a peaceful place with people I love to a small apartment by myself where my anxiety will spike uncontrollably.

And although many people are talking about the future, I’m trying to focus on the present, even so much as to ignore what will happen tomorrow. I have to read certain headlines for work, but I’m avoiding reading or watching any news about coronavirus beyond that. I’m trying to keep my routine as normal as possible, and trying not to think of the return trip to Chicago and everything that will have changed by the time I get there.

I know I’m not alone in feeling anxiety spikes like this. Many friends have expressed feelings of loneliness, loss, and depression while all of this is going on, as well as a deep fear of the uncertain times to come. In these times, forming a community is more important than ever, and I hope that all of you are able to reach out to friends and family and rely on support from therapists and organizations like No Shame On U to get through it. Whether we go back to normal (or some approximation of normal) sooner or later, I hope we can have a smooth transition and minimal anxiety to enjoy the things we’ve missed during the quarantine.

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.