All in My Head: The struggles of OCD
I didn’t know what OCD was until it became my reality. It wasn’t the stereotypical image of compulsive hand-washing or lining things up perfectly—it was quieter, more insidious. It started with small things, thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone, questions that I couldn’t stop asking myself.
At first, I thought everyone had these kinds of thoughts. But soon, I realized mine weren’t normal. It wasn’t just checking if the door was locked once—it was checking it a dozen times, each time doubting myself more. It wasn’t just thinking, What if I hurt someone? It was obsessing over it, imagining scenarios I knew were irrational, but my mind wouldn’t let go. And it was exhausting.
It felt like I was trapped in my own brain, constantly racing from one thought to the next, never able to find peace. The more I tried to ignore the thoughts, the louder they became. Every action had to be repeated until it felt “right,” and if I didn’t, I’d feel like something terrible would happen. It didn’t matter if I knew deep down it was irrational—my mind wouldn’t listen.
People around me couldn’t understand. I’d smile and act like everything was fine, but inside, I was battling a war that no one could see. I started isolating myself, afraid of what others would think if they knew. I hated the feeling of being out of control, of my mind dictating my actions and thoughts.
It took me a long time to admit that something was wrong. I thought I could just snap out of it. But OCD doesn’t work that way. It’s not something you can wish away—it’s a constant cycle that demands attention. Eventually, I reached out for help, and while the journey has been long, it’s been life-changing. I learned that OCD isn’t about the behaviors—it’s about the thoughts. It’s learning to fight back against the compulsion, to take control of your mind instead of letting it control you.
I still struggle. There are days when the thoughts feel unbearable, and I slip into old habits. But I’ve learned to be kinder to myself. OCD doesn’t define me—it’s a part of me, but it’s not all of me. I’ve come to understand that recovery is a process, and I don’t have to be perfect.
