When goodness failed me

Mental illness is woven tightly into our lives, never really going away

Every month should be Mental Health Awareness month, but I’ll take May for what it is. Within the past two years, I’ve started taking antidepressants, seen two different therapists and am more open about my mental health in conversation and online.

This was a difficult transition for someone like me who was constantly praised for being so “put together.” Society taught me that getting help was weakness, when really it is a strength. Thank you for being here and I wish you all good mental health <3

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During my first session with a new therapist, I was asked to introduce myself.

I told my story in reverse chronological order: how my partner of two and a half years recently broke up with me, how I moved home to Pittsburgh after struggling through the pandemic, how I escaped a toxic religious group and endured a crisis of faith, how I was sexually traumatized as a teenager and was raised devout in the Christian church.

I explained that the underlying theme I’ve carried since I was young was that I wanted so badly to be good. I’d used this line both conversationally and in my writing many times before, so I quipped it out with a half laugh and continued on to another subject.

“Could we go back to a phrase you mentioned earlier,” my therapist said, referring to my obsession with goodness. “That sounds like an anxiety response. Would you say you experienced anxiety even as a child?”

I hesitated, but ultimately decided that yes, I was accustomed to anxiety at a young age, even though I wouldn’t have labeled it as such at the time. I wasn’t an outwardly nervous or skittish kid, but my main motive for being so well-behaved and collected was to avoid punishment and trouble. I was afraid of my parents and also of God.

“If you think it would be beneficial, I’d like to screen you for OCD.”

My brain frequency turned to static as I started disassociating. I suddenly felt embarrassed and self-conscious, wishing I hadn’t listed cleaning as a coping mechanism for stress. 

Of all the mental health stereotypes, OCD is the most conversational; ignorantly referenced in casual settings to laugh off the need to straighten a picture frame at a friend’s house or justify the meticulous organization of a work desk. 

As a highly reflective person, I was ashamed to have not seen it in myself and worried that other people knew something about me to which I was oblivious. In the ensuing weeks, I psychoanalyzed my identity and my habits through the lens of OCD, doubting whether or not I was actually a creative person or if I was just severely mentally ill (both of which can be true, of course).

I looked around my apartment no longer proud of how I’d thoughtfully arranged the secondhand furniture and vintage art because it now seemed like maybe I “needed” things to be positioned in a certain way. Feeling at war with myself, I even fought the urge to scrub soap scum from my bathtub despite it desperately needing a cleaning.

My manager complimented my eye for color and I would have been filled with pride if this comment had been given just a few days prior to my session, but instead I shriveled up inside because I thought he had unknowingly identified yet another one of my obsessive symptoms. 

My therapist sent me a questionnaire to assess whether or not I exhibited OCD behaviors and thoughts. I was to read a list of scenarios and rate them on a scale of zero to five, zero meaning that I never struggle with that particular thing and five being that I always do. I fearfully ignored the email in my inbox for two weeks, only to find my score on the assessment to be inconclusive. 

My answers didn’t reveal any obsessive behaviors like counting my teeth in the bathroom mirror or requiring all of my baby carrots to be cut the same size, but I did score enough in the obsessive thoughts category to indicate more severe anxiety.

As such, my therapist suggested that if anything, I aligned closest with “Pure O” (purely obsessional) OCD, meaning that I ruminate on thoughts more obsessively than what would be considered normal. 

I’ve always noticed my tendency for metacognition, but had chalked it up to my being so emotionally mature and self aware. Replaying an embarrassing conversation repeatedly until I’m too tortured to sleep hadn’t occurred to me as problematic, nor did my habit of ruminating over an all-consuming problem until I’d theorized multiple solutions.

As a black-and-white thinker, I was disappointed by this gray area of a half-diagnosis. I’m unsure what to do or how to act in these murky areas of self actualization, and maybe that’s a Pure O symptom in and of itself. 

After the initial shock, I’ve slowly grounded myself back to a state of calm. I figured that if I have carried OCD around unnoticed for 26 years, I've coped with it for long enough to still be a functional human being. In agreement, my therapist and I decided to use it as a lens for my future therapy, particularly when I find myself at conflict with the impossible rules I’ve stored in my head. 

There is a misconception that mental illness is something to eventually overcome. In fact, my sister recently asked me if we would be on our antidepressants forever and I didn’t really have an answer more certain than “maybe.”

Mental illness is something that is woven into our lives and the coping looks different for everyone; it never really “goes away.” The severity can lessen or worsen with time and circumstance, however acknowledging its presence is the first step in understanding ourselves and how we move through the world.

Feature photo by Will Swann on Unsplash