So, apparently, I collect acronyms now. AuDHD, PTSD, and—surprise!—OCD. Who knew my brain was hoarding diagnoses the way I hoard cool rocks?
This past year has been a deep dive into figuring out what’s actually going on mentally, and while I never thought I’d be adding OCD to the list, here we are. It’s funny in the most exhausted way possible—like, really? Another one? But hey, at least now things make a little more sense.
OCD is a weird, insistent thing. It’s not just about liking things neat or having a few quirks. It’s the unshakable certainty that if I don’t do something a certain way, something bad will happen. It’s counting to four, over and over, because if I don’t, my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting. It’s cleaning with bleach and then convincing myself that somehow, magically, my drink—sitting all the way across the room—now has bleach in it, and I’m definitely going to die if I take a sip.
It’s the rituals, the repetition, the moments where I tell myself it’s irrational but do it anyway. And at one point, it was the gripping belief that if I didn’t follow the same routine every week, that next week would be the worst. Because why wouldn’t the universe punish me for messing up the pattern, right?
It’s exhausting. It’s frustrating. And honestly, sometimes it’s straight-up ridiculous. But knowing what it is—finally having a name for it—has been oddly comforting. Like, okay. I’m not just making this up. It’s real, and there’s a way through it.
I don’t have it all figured out yet, and I probably never will in some grand, perfect way. But the more I understand it, the more I can untangle it piece by piece. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll collect peace alongside all my letters.
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