Finding soilidarity for washing machine mind

I had a cathartic weep this morning after an actor shared her experiences of OCD

One off the many things that irritate me is the over exposure and misinformation surrounding many mental illnesses. Top of the list is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). My daughter and her fellow digital natives are prone to say they’re ‘a bit OCD’, then clearly get on with the next fad.

I don’t have the luxury of moving on. Of all the diagnosed mental illnesses I have in my back catalogue, OCD is the toughest to kick. Depression is dangerous and miserable for me, but it is at least a break from the thinking of anxiety, or the violent memories of PTSD. OCD is like herpes or a creep ex who pops up randomly, unpleasant and hard to shake.

As an example of the turmoil in my brain, when someone is having a conversation with me, I ama assessing the possible dangers that may befall us at any point. They may be having a lovely chat about their love affairs oir renovations, or work, and I am mentally touching wood so the thought that the wall might fall on us doesn’t happen. I can’t just say goodbye to my kids swhen they leave the house. There is a series of steps I need to take to ‘protect’ them from potential danger. I don’t check light switches or compulsively wash my hands as the mainstream chatter would have you believe, it’s the intrusive thoughts and compulsion to complete an action which is my thing.

I firmly believe it is rooted in being raised sometimes by Catholics, who forced me to be an altar girl, used my acting chops to be the reader every Sunday, and tell the creepy dude in the box all my sins. My smother had me convinced that if I didn’t do the Hail Marys and all the requisite platitudes to our batshsit family, I would be struck down.

I have been in enough traumatic experiences to know now that my good wishes, kind thoughts and wood touching will not change the day’s course. It took decades until a psychologist convinced me that my tapping, asking the ‘universe’ (I’m a shocking atheist) to protect my son when he went for 5 hour bike rides, or thinking if I watched a news show about horrible crimes I would suddenly be wrapped in a tarp in the desert would not equate to either tragedy or protection. My plan to let go of magical thinking took a dive when physios told me to visualise walking again, and after 5 months, I ‘magically’ walked. Scientists and reasonable people would know that, after 5 months of intense medical intervention, my chances of walking those miraculous 10 steps were pretty high.

The article by actor Tuppence Middleton in todays Sydney Morning Herald (https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/my-mind-is-full-of-scorpions-what-it-s-like-living-with-this-mental-illness-20250529-p5m39b.html?collection=p5m74x&gb=1) where she describes the condition as being like scorpions had me in tears. Her assertion that it is trivialised echoes what I tell my dogs. Throwing around phrases like ‘It’s so OCD’ or ‘It’s my OCD talking’ diminish the illness and fail to see the nuances. We are not all compulsive cleaners, workers or number counters. The reality is much more isolating. Every thought I have is matched by an inate fear and an exhaustive effort to stsill look engaged when someone talking is a character in the soap opera in my brain.

I applaud anyone who is brave enoutgh to speak out about their inner world. It’s a cold and mean place in there sometimes and exposure can ease some sense of isolation.

Now, off to pack my daughter’s camping bag and distract myself lest I create some massive disaster if I don’t tell her I love her 10 times.