OCD, Poetry, & Me
Happy New Year, readers!
First and foremost, I want to thank anyone who laid eyes on any of my blog posts in 2023. Regardless of how consistently I post or how many people end up reading my work, I feel truly honored if my words reach even one person. I'm beside myself to share that, last year, a couple of my posts reached hundreds. What an incredible blessing.
As much as I love writing and the journey to becoming a published writer, it can admittedly be isolating at times. I'm still in the infancy stage of my novel, and I only feel inspired to share my poetry every so often. Sometimes it feels like I'm writing into a void, but I find great comfort in knowing that someone has connected with my writing here or elsewhere. So, if you're reading this post, know that I genuinely appreciate you stopping by. I'm here today to share another writing process update. It's been a minute, and my process has spun out (in a good way) a little bit recently.
Lately, when I'm in need of a break from writing and revising the prose of my novel, I've been turning to poetry. It keeps me in the writing flow, and it forces me to get creative and stretch artistic muscles that aren't used quite as much in my novel. While I typically write and post short pieces to my poetry Instagram (@DisorderedPoetry 😉), I have also found myself unpacking my personal life through long form poetry. I've specifically been passionate about detailing my struggles with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, anxiety, and depression. Shoutout to anyone else who has a spicy brain like mine!
As hard as it is to dump my deepest traumas and insecurities out onto the page, there is something incredibly powerful about releasing them. The word "therapeutic" frequently comes to mind. Although my initial intent in pursuing poetry was solely to take a break from writing and process some personal struggles, as I continue to write these poems, my passion for raising awareness for mental illness has come to the forefront. As a result, I've taken up a bit of a side project. Whoops! I slipped and fell into writing another book!
I have absolutely no outline, deadline, or plan for this piece, as the novel is still very much my focus, but I've set a goal for myself to complete a book of narrative poetry one day. It could be completed next year (probably not), it could be completed ten years from now (probably more accurate), or it may never see the light of day (entirely possible). Regardless, I'm excited and inspired that my outlet of writing poetry has ignited this fire within me. The ultimate goal of this book is to show readers what it's like to live inside a mind like mine. More specifically, I'd like to show them (you, perhaps?) what it was like to live inside my mind before I received treatment.
Mental illness can be unbelievably isolating. While I hope to reach a wide audience for the sake of increasing empathy for those who are suffering, this book will be meant to help readers who can relate feel seen and understood. I want them to know that it's possible to carry deep wounds every day and still find meaning in life. It's possible to have a noisy brain and disturbing intrusive thoughts and still be successful. I want struggling readers to see that, while it is a lifelong process for most of us, there is hope for healing.
As OCD is the key culprit of my struggles from which all the other diagnoses stem, that's what I'll mainly be focusing on in my poetry. Below is an essay I wrote for a graduate school essay course (Shoutout OWP!) and revised recently. This piece details some of my experiences with OCD as well as what it can look like in real life. It merely scratches the surface of the disorder, but I'd love to set a baseline for anyone reading this and going "Ok, so you like to clean, organize, and flip switches and stuff?" Because while all of that can be a part of OCD, minimizing this crippling disorder to a few highly mocked and highly upsetting compulsions causes far more harm than good. Debunking myths and stereotypes is another goal I'd like to address with this book.
If you have any questions about my writing or mental illnesses, I am extremely open to talking about all of it! Feel free to reach out via call or text if you have my number. If you don't, my email is tess.e.rosen@gmail.com and I'd be more than happy to chat with anyone so long as their intentions are genuine. I hope you learn something from my essay, and I can't wait to show you even more when I finish my book in a million years. 🖤
Before you read: This essay is extremely vulnerable about mental illness and could potentially be triggering or upsetting. Take care of yourself. Also, it is in no way a paid ad for my therapy program, I'm just very passionate about it.
I have always looked back on my childhood and identified my younger self as an extremely fearful kid. I’ve labeled myself as a “chicken,” “lame,” and just about any other playground insult you could think of. I was ascribed similar labels from plenty of other people, and on plenty of playgrounds, over the years as well. It seemed as though I was the only person around my age who was afraid to try new activities. I would watch my siblings conquer every ride at the amusement park while I sat safely at ground level with one of my parents. At the beach, I would stand with my tippy toes barely in the water while the rest of my family played gleefully in the waves. I even used a nightlight well into my teens because I couldn’t bear to be consumed by total darkness at night.
Some of this apprehension was normal, and it was usually chalked up as “typical kid stuff” by the adults in my life. After all, roller coasters are meant to be thrill rides. It’s the element of fear that is attractive to adrenaline junkies like my brother and sister. Plus, open water can certainly be scary for anyone. It’s unsettling when you can’t see what lurks below, and strong waves have been known to toss people around quite viciously. Certainly every child fears the dark at some point, so what was the harm in sleeping with a little light on? From the outside, my fears came across as a completely normal facet of childhood development. So I was slightly more nervous than my brother and sister. Who cares? I was happy and seemingly healthy, so there was no major cause for concern. Little did anyone know at the time, but the reality is that this level of fear was constant, irrational, and it controlled my life.
I wasn’t just a little nervous at the thought of getting on a rollercoaster. If I knew we were taking a school or family trip to an amusement park, my stomach would be in knots for days in advance. The mere mention of the trip would send my thoughts into a tailspin envisioning all of the ways that a rollercoaster could malfunction. If it derailed, I would be sent flying through the air with no control until I hit the ground below and either died or ended up horribly, irreversibly injured. I wasn’t just timid around open water. If I walked in past my waist, my mind would spin out and imagine, in vivid detail, what it would be like to be sucked in by the undertow. To thrash wildly trying to break through the surface, but ultimately fail before losing consciousness and drowning on my family vacation.
Not only did I prefer to sleep with a light on, but for years I slept with every single light on so there was no possibility of an intruder entering my room to murder me without me seeing them first. The uncertainty that came with utter darkness was far too painful for me to cope with, so the light stayed on. Not only did morbid thoughts such as these occur almost constantly, but they were accompanied by graphic images that played on a loop in my mind. Nothing I did or said could banish them either — at least not for long before they returned with twice the vengeance.
As I progressed into teenagehood, my fears became more graphic and complex. Combined with the agony of adolescence, my mind no longer felt like a safe place to be. Due to this dangerous combination, I began displaying symptoms of severe depression around the age of 13. I couldn’t find a single moment of reprieve in my days as my mind ceaselessly attacked itself. Afraid to burden anyone else with my issues, I became a professional at hiding my pain. Over time, however, I became less able to internalize my disturbances and they would inevitably manifest externally. Thankfully, my mom eventually noticed that I was displaying symptoms of depression and decided it was time for me to see a therapist.
The therapist determined that I was merely having a depressive episode and it would pass with the help of talk therapy. For a few months, it did legitimately calm my mind a bit. It was nice to have an unbiased listener to unload my struggles and insecurities onto. Unfortunately, it was not the treatment or diagnosis that I truly needed. After those few months, I told my mom that I was fine, that therapy had done its job, and she discontinued my appointments. Neither of us could have known that unloading my demons had only gone so far before they found their way back into my consciousness with greater fervor than before. I continued to mask my pain and made my way through high school without anyone knowing the full scope of the terror that ravaged my mind on a daily basis.
Towards the end of my senior year, the incessant fear became too much to bear and, once again, I couldn’t keep it contained. My mom began to notice some highly unusual behavior. She noticed that when we watched TV or listened to music in the car together, I needed the volume to be on an even number. If it wasn’t, I couldn’t simply laugh it off. I would experience shortness of breath, chest pains, and I would shut down emotionally until something distracted me or I found some way to distract myself. Often, this included picking at my skin and other harmful expressions of stress. My mom also noticed that I had become overly concerned about organization and planning. If something didn’t go just how I wanted it to, or if I had to make adjustments at the last minute, it could tarnish the entire experience for me. This applied to anything from a meticulously planned surprise birthday party to a task as menial as doing the dishes.
The chest pains would return and I would be unable to enjoy whatever I had planned because it didn’t match the idealistic image in my head. It was clear that I wasn’t able to go about my life without the persistent need for control over the minute details of my every day. Since I didn’t feel safe in my own mind, I felt like I needed to make everything from my environment to my social interactions “just right” in a desperate attempt to have an iota of comfort in my day. As my inner anguish turned outward, my mom recognized that I needed professional help once again.
This time, I went to a new psychologist who would change my life by putting a name to my inner demon: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. OCD. Although this diagnosis would eventually lead to the fulfilling life I now lead, I was utterly confused at the time. All I knew of OCD was based upon what I had seen in the media. Didn’t people with OCD check to make sure their stoves were off 25 times before going to bed? Weren’t people with OCD massive germaphobes that spent hours meticulously cleaning every corner of their homes? I soon learned that, yes, OCD manifests itself in those ways for some people, but there are actually several manifestations of OCD.
Through further psychological assessment, I learned that I suffer from “Harm OCD,” which causes violent intrusive thoughts about harm coming to oneself or others around them. I also have “Pure Obsessional OCD,” which often stems from Harm OCD and can make the person question their value and overall existence. My last key player in my OCD lineup is “Moral Scrupulosity OCD,” which is the fear of being perceived as a “bad” or “immoral” person. I also learned that OCD is categorized as an anxiety disorder, which was causing the physical responses such as the shortness of breath and chest pains. Such chronic anxiety often leads to severe depression, just as it had for me several years prior.
My therapist and personal research taught me that my outward expressions of distress, such as the skin picking and emotional shut down, were my mind’s way of attempting to regain control of my life while a dysfunction within my neural pathways monopolized my headspace with violent and distressing images. These actions are the “C” part of OCD. The compulsions that follow the obsessions. I went to this therapist for the entirety of the summer before college, and he helped me learn a great deal about my disorder. Unfortunately, I still wouldn’t receive the proper treatment for another 8 years. I had learned enough in therapy to understand how my OCD presented itself, and I was prescribed an antidepressant that helped take the edge off, but I had not had adequate time or treatment to learn how to cope with my illness long term.
My fears looked differently as I entered college, and they were even more vivid than before. As I learned more about the dangers and realities of the world we live in, my intrusive thoughts became more horrific. Walking home from college classes became a daily survival challenge as every turn I took could result in an altercation with a mugger or serial killer. Dating became psychological torture as I questioned how or why anyone would possibly want to be with me. I put up with my fair share of mistreatment in relationships as I attributed every conflict to a personal flaw instead of a mutual area for growth. If I wanted to drive home for a weekend, I knew I would have to spend two and a half hours picturing all of the gruesome ways that I could be mangled in a car wreck until I reached the safety and familiarity of home. As I drove, I would constantly check my rearview mirrors to make sure no one was following me.
These fears, and many others of equal or greater horror, continued to spiral out of control as these violent images turned into existential dread about what would happen once I was gone for good. I would ruminate on the infinite possibilities until I felt disconnected and disassociated from my body, which led to further obsessions about whether or not anything I did actually mattered. Although I can trace the appearance of what I later learned was “Existential OCD” all the way back to early childhood, it had never overtaken my life quite like it did during my early to late-twenties. It wasn’t until the summer of 2020, when I found myself regularly questioning the value of my life, that I finally found the help I needed.
I did copious amounts of research before finally discovering NOCD – the virtual therapy program that would eventually lead to the most mental and emotional clarity I had ever experienced. NOCD offers virtual counseling from licensed mental health specialists that are trained in Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) Therapy. I had very little idea of what any of this meant at the time, but the research on ERP spoke for itself, I knew traditional talk therapy wouldn’t help long term, and I was desperate for help. So, I decided to try it out. No matter how much it cost or how much time I had to devote, I completely dedicated myself to this program because I could no longer bear the mental torture that I was experiencing every day.
Over the course of my first few sessions, I learned that OCD thrives off of fear. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain that makes it incapable of accurately assessing a threat. When you have OCD, the tiniest possibility of danger or upset that might cross the average person’s mind fleetingly could derail your entire day with horrifying thoughts and mental images. It isn’t just the occasional thought either – it’s an uncontrollable loop of graphic terror.
Imagine the scariest horror movie you’ve ever seen playing on repeat in front of you. Now imagine you’re watching the movie within one of those terrifying nightmares where, no matter how hard you try to close your eyes, you can’t avoid seeing the monster in front of you. You try to call for help, but you can’t make a sound. You try to get away, but your legs won’t budge. Now combine all of that, add in the highlight reel of your most embarrassing moments playing over and over alongside the horror movie, throw in an unrelenting ear worm, and you’ve got my untreated OCD brain. Everyone with OCD has a different manifestation of their own unique obsessions and compulsions, but that’s just a taste of mine.
In the OCD cycle, the sufferer will obsess over a particular fear until they develop a physical or mental way to cope with that fear, which is called a compulsion. For me, my most consistent compulsions are the skin picking mentioned previously, excessive rumination, and asking for reassurance from others. For example, if I was afraid my husband might be upset with me, I would ask him numerous times “what’s wrong” despite his insistence that he’s fine. Before treatment, this would even spiral into me asking (with complete sincerity) if he still wants to be with me.
I’d question my worth as a partner and begin mentally preparing for what I’d do if he ever left me. Despite my husband’s affectionate nature and frequent displays of genuine adoration, OCD latches onto the smallest shred of doubt, which often stems from past trauma, and insists that he must not love me simply because he’s being more quiet than usual. When my OCD was at its worst, I could go from a flicker of a doubt about something completely arbitrary to a full blown panic attack in minutes regardless of how irrational I knew the thought was. All because of a chemical imbalance.
With OCD, your brain doesn’t have time to process a perceived threat adequately before the disorder takes the reins and thrusts you into a fight-or-flight response to “protect” you from potential harm – regardless of how irrational it may be. It’s particularly torturous in this way because OCD is known as an “ego-dystonic” disorder, which essentially means that the thoughts and images that OCD creates are in direct opposition to the values and beliefs of the person suffering from them. ERP therapy requires its patients to confront these fears head on. As terrifying as the process is, it’s incredibly effective. OCD works cyclically, and ERP attempts to interrupt the vicious cycle.
ERP sessions begin by identifying the patient’s key doubts and fears. Then, the person is to verbalize everything that their OCD was telling or showing them as a result of intentionally bringing the fear to the forefront of their mind. Instead of participating in a compulsion to distract themselves as one normally would (checking the stove repeatedly, asking for reassurance, etc.), the patient breaks the cycle by resisting the urge and sitting with the uncertainty to make it through the fear until your body and mind are regulated. This is, of course, done alongside a highly trained professional who can talk through any tears or panic as they arise in real time. The process is incredibly draining, but entirely worth it when that doubt or fear inevitably arises again and you’re able to get through it without performing a compulsion. It pays off even more when you notice the thoughts occurring less frequently and, sometimes, not at all. ERP retrains your brain so that you can acknowledge obsessions and resist compulsions without it uprooting your daily life.
Before I fully understood the scope and impact of my mental illness, I attributed my inhibitions to character flaws. I saw myself as weak, lazy, worthless, and, when it comes to my childhood, a “chicken.” What I realize now is that, while I assumed that I was overly fearful for not going on roller coasters, I was really quite brave for making it to the theme park at all while my mind was on a nonstop emotional roller coaster of its own. I’ve learned that my fear of open water really makes a lot of sense when I was constantly drowning in my own ocean of doubt. My fear of the dark is perhaps most explicable of all – I couldn’t bear to be physically immersed in uncertainty when my own mind didn’t have a single shred of certainty to hold onto.
Thanks to ERP therapy, my amazing counselors, psychiatrist, family, and friends, the past few years have been incredibly transformative. I’ve finally been granted the opportunity to learn about who I really am as opposed to who OCD tells me I am. Today, I can clearly see that by surviving my daily horrors and staying determined to find my path towards healing, I have actually been incredibly courageous all along. I am brave for simply getting out of bed each day and facing the world. Most of all, I’ve recognized that I’m genuinely proud of myself for pursuing treatment until I found one that worked. Although my OCD will likely never be cured, treatment has taught me that it defines neither who I am as a person nor the quality of my character.
I still struggle, as I am still learning, and I would be lying if I said OCD didn’t get the best of me some days, but having the support of ERP (paired with the consistent usage of therapy and accurate medications) has empowered me in ways I never could have expected. Unfortunately, not everyone is afforded the same opportunities. My NOCD counselor once told me that it takes people with OCD an average of 10 years to even get a diagnosis, much less take on the challenging process of finding the right help. The National Institute of Health estimates that it’s actually closer to 17. Even if someone is willing to get help, many people don’t have the access or financial stability required to undertake treatment of this caliber. I didn’t even technically have the funds to participate in the program. Every session was charged to my credit card, totaling well over $3,000 by the time I moved on to an in-person therapist who is trained in ERP.
Before I officially signed on with NOCD, my husband and I discussed our options and decided that my mental wellness and will to live were easily worth the credit card debt. Still, I can’t help but feel the weight of the bank statement hanging over us at times. Fortunately, we have the resources to pay it off over time. The financial sacrifice isn’t ideal, but we are making it work, and I realize that we are incredibly privileged to be in this position. We’re privileged to be able to acquire a credit card to begin with. The lack of access to affordable, personalized mental health care in America is abhorrent, and I won’t allow myself to think of where I’d be had my husband and I not been able to make NOCD work for us financially.
If I struggled with OCD for nearly 27 years before getting to my breaking point, I can’t imagine how countless people suffer with it throughout their entire lives; many of whom would surely accept help if it were more accessible to them. I believe that healthcare is a fundamental human right. My hope for the future is that our society will begin to value mental health as much as physical health, and that both will become far more accessible, so that everyone can get the help that they need and deserve. After all, no one should have to go through life believing they are weak when, in fact, their mere existence is a tremendous feat of bravery.
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