Maybe I am "too much."
I've obsessed in my head all week about how to approach the topic of obsessive compulsive disorder. I know, shocking. There are several angles I could take here, and all of them have the potential to be compelling. Of course, having that conversation with myself only solidifies my certainty that there is a single angle I should follow.
And unsurprisingly, that makes me even more uncertain about how much to say. One does not air dirty laundry without at least considering the consequences to one's neighbors.
Growing up, I was the definition of the clinical term "clingy." For the first eleven years of my life, I spent a lot of time in groups, wondering why no one would get close to me. Then I found a friend, a "best friend," some might say. Due to some circumstances I am not ready to talk about (or maybe just shouldn't?), I pushed that friend away. Nothing dark or terrible; I simply became too much to handle for this friend. Have you ever been told you are "too much" for someone? I'll save you the trouble of imagining the humiliation that experience causes. Don't worry, though...we'll return to this theme a bit later.
Remember when I warned last week that this would get cringey? Well, brace yourself for that secondhand embarrassment. The term "clingy" could more officially be labeled "obsessive." Many teens fill journal entries with their over-the-top thoughts and feelings...I filled entire notebooks with thoughts on just one subject. I cared so deeply about the people I chose to be close to that I would write page after page about how much I loved them. Every detail of my time spent with these people showed up in emotional descriptions.
Fast forward to freshman year of college. And then skip it because 95% of the people I cared about that year walked away from a friendship with me because I was "too much" for them to handle. One of those people outright told me that, actually. I just didn't understand what she was saying, and it broke my heart over and over again. Once again, humiliating.
But before you feel too sorry for me here, remember that I am writing all of this with a grimace of embarrassment, not hurt. I don't think I can handle much more reminiscing. Let's get to the heart of the matter, shall we?
Obsessive compulsive disorder, better known to me as the pimple on the back of my neck that keeps getting bumped by my shirt collar. Every time I think I have treated it well enough to make it go away, my collar shifts and I am reminded of that pesky thing. Sometimes I wear a shirt with a collar that doesn't bother it, but inevitably I will return to the discomfort. Ironically, an actual pimple on the back of my neck would be all I could think about until I stopped feeling it.
What am I getting at here? A few years ago, I started researching OCD for that essay I wrote in my nonfiction class. Let me tell you something I found that fascinated me: every case is different and holds many surprises. Similar to Tourette's, OCD looks a little (or a lot) different from person to person.The stereotypical characteristics of OCD, such as counting steps or handwashing, are just the surface symptoms. You really have to dig into a person's thoughts and behaviors to uncover what makes their obsessions and compulsions unique.
At first, I thought I just had some other disorder that caused me to fixate on particular people who came into my life. Unhealthy amounts of love or care for someone had to have a label, right? While I could still find out another reason for my behavior, I have come to believe that the proper explanation continued to live under my nose. Or more accurately, inside my head.
Sure, I count my steps when I climb the stairs. Sometimes I forget to start counting at the bottom and then I have to catch up while still keeping up the current number of steps I am taking. I know, it doesn't really make sense when I actually say that. But I also fight against an addictive personality. My brain latches on to people I care about and half the time I am reminding myself that people make mistakes, that they aren't perfect.
And you know what? I went into writing this week's post thinking I would spill a whole lot more tea on my own behavior. But maybe that laundry is still too horrifying for me to pull out of the hamper. Or, more likely, a good part of me is convinced that what is inside my head would scare too many people away from me. There are stories I would say I could tell, but in reality, I don't think I can find the words to express just how deeply those experiences have imprinted on my brain. Some might call that trauma.
They're probably right.
And unsurprisingly, that makes me even more uncertain about how much to say. One does not air dirty laundry without at least considering the consequences to one's neighbors.
Growing up, I was the definition of the clinical term "clingy." For the first eleven years of my life, I spent a lot of time in groups, wondering why no one would get close to me. Then I found a friend, a "best friend," some might say. Due to some circumstances I am not ready to talk about (or maybe just shouldn't?), I pushed that friend away. Nothing dark or terrible; I simply became too much to handle for this friend. Have you ever been told you are "too much" for someone? I'll save you the trouble of imagining the humiliation that experience causes. Don't worry, though...we'll return to this theme a bit later.
Remember when I warned last week that this would get cringey? Well, brace yourself for that secondhand embarrassment. The term "clingy" could more officially be labeled "obsessive." Many teens fill journal entries with their over-the-top thoughts and feelings...I filled entire notebooks with thoughts on just one subject. I cared so deeply about the people I chose to be close to that I would write page after page about how much I loved them. Every detail of my time spent with these people showed up in emotional descriptions.
Fast forward to freshman year of college. And then skip it because 95% of the people I cared about that year walked away from a friendship with me because I was "too much" for them to handle. One of those people outright told me that, actually. I just didn't understand what she was saying, and it broke my heart over and over again. Once again, humiliating.
But before you feel too sorry for me here, remember that I am writing all of this with a grimace of embarrassment, not hurt. I don't think I can handle much more reminiscing. Let's get to the heart of the matter, shall we?
Obsessive compulsive disorder, better known to me as the pimple on the back of my neck that keeps getting bumped by my shirt collar. Every time I think I have treated it well enough to make it go away, my collar shifts and I am reminded of that pesky thing. Sometimes I wear a shirt with a collar that doesn't bother it, but inevitably I will return to the discomfort. Ironically, an actual pimple on the back of my neck would be all I could think about until I stopped feeling it.
What am I getting at here? A few years ago, I started researching OCD for that essay I wrote in my nonfiction class. Let me tell you something I found that fascinated me: every case is different and holds many surprises. Similar to Tourette's, OCD looks a little (or a lot) different from person to person.The stereotypical characteristics of OCD, such as counting steps or handwashing, are just the surface symptoms. You really have to dig into a person's thoughts and behaviors to uncover what makes their obsessions and compulsions unique.
At first, I thought I just had some other disorder that caused me to fixate on particular people who came into my life. Unhealthy amounts of love or care for someone had to have a label, right? While I could still find out another reason for my behavior, I have come to believe that the proper explanation continued to live under my nose. Or more accurately, inside my head.
Sure, I count my steps when I climb the stairs. Sometimes I forget to start counting at the bottom and then I have to catch up while still keeping up the current number of steps I am taking. I know, it doesn't really make sense when I actually say that. But I also fight against an addictive personality. My brain latches on to people I care about and half the time I am reminding myself that people make mistakes, that they aren't perfect.
And you know what? I went into writing this week's post thinking I would spill a whole lot more tea on my own behavior. But maybe that laundry is still too horrifying for me to pull out of the hamper. Or, more likely, a good part of me is convinced that what is inside my head would scare too many people away from me. There are stories I would say I could tell, but in reality, I don't think I can find the words to express just how deeply those experiences have imprinted on my brain. Some might call that trauma.
They're probably right.
I highly recommend this book. Not because it will make things better, necessarily (it might), but because your words remind me of a period in my life where this book made me feel not alone, not unusual, but made me feel like someone else had gone through what I was going through. It really helped me understand our natural human need/desire to cling so deeply to one another, and to cling too deeply to one another. It helped me understand that I was looking for perfect love in others, something that no other human can give. It would explain why I was always disappointed when others couldn't give the love that I felt I needed. It was a book written out of anguish, and it was so beautiful. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/122879/the-inner-voice-of-love-by-henri-jm-nouwen/
ReplyDeleteOh my goodness, I think Hannah McBride gave me that book years ago. I've been ignoring those words, haven't I?
Delete