Nobody is coming to save you
Here is the difference:
Person without OCD: I am obsessed with cleaning my house, therefore, I stayed up until 11pm cleaning.
Person with OCD: I am obsessed with cleaning my house, therefore, I was unable to go to work because I couldn't stop thinking about a spot of mildew in my shower, but because mildew may not be visible right away, I had to scrub my entire shower with bleach, and then I had to shower three times afterward for fear of personal contamination, then I scratched at a spot on my arm until I scraped off all of the skin because I suspect it touched the mildew.
I would never willingly announce to anyone that I have OCD because it is a recipe for a host of undesirable outcomes. Much the same as when someone accuses you of having PMS, announcing that you have a mental illness inspires others to write off any and all behavior as a result of underlying illness. This has happened to me, as a result of revealing this to my closest friends, when previously they would not have made that connection.
Today, I admitted to my doctor's office that I have "an anxiety disorder" and "OCD." For some reason, saying "anxiety disorder" is so much easier than saying "OCD" that I was somewhat surprised when the statement came out of my mouth. Having "anxiety" has become more socially acceptable (thank you, social media). I was proud of myself for saying OCD, though, because it indicates how far I have come since... my therapist dumped me. Well, not dumped me, exactly. She sort of gave me an "it's not you, it's me...," then suggested I go on meds... for the fourth time. The thing is, I have been on meds. It wasn't pretty, and I don't plan to repeat the experience even for the sake of experiment. I think she thought I was unwilling to try any suggestions to manage my behavior. The problem was, she really didn't give me many strategies to try. Sometimes, at the end of the session, she would ask me: "What do you want your homework to be?" and I would look at her dumbfounded. If I had any fucking idea what my homework should be, I would have tried it myself. The most confounding part of this is that it took me over twenty years to seek the courage to even get help (again)... and I had told her that. You would think she would understand that I had some barriers to break down... but apparently not.
Here's an example of a conversation had in her office after months of "therapy" (not verbatim, some things added for dramatic effect):
Me: I spend upwards of 2 1/2 hours a night on my compulsion.
Her: We have to get that time down.
Me:
Her: Well, you look fine, so maybe it's not as bad as you think. Maybe it's like my feet. I worry that I have a bunion.
Me: (Looking at her perfectly manicured, straight toes) You don't have a bunion.
Her: Well, I'm worried about it. Wouldn't it be horrible if I could never wear sandals again?
Me: (Wondering if she is confusing bunion joints with bunions) But your feet look fine.
Her: Exactly!
Me: (drops jaw) But, my problem is real. I really do this to myself (for hours a night), and I'm good at covering it up (I've been covering it up for 30 years). I've taken pictures.
Her: Will you show me the pictures?
Me: I don't want to.
Her: I don't see anything.
Me (internally): I can't f-ing believe you are complaining about your f-ing feet... I'm a dancer... I should show you my toes for comparison... cracked, bruised toenails and all... Fucking diminishing my issues for what?
And while I am sure she would have a different perspective on what happened (which would be based on her biases of me), it leads me to my larger point: No one is coming to save you. So I walked out of her office and had some of the worst OCD "C" issues of my recent adult life, and finally, I said, "fuck this, I'm going to save myself," and bought a self-help book. Because nobody is coming to save you, kid. Nobody is coming to save you.
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