Obsessions and Compulsions
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
As the subtitle of my blog states, my goal is to have my writing be inspirational for others. To achieve this, I believe that it’s important to demonstrate how there are universal emotions that connect us. While many of our life experiences may be different, our emotional experiences, including some of the manifestations that result from these feelings, may be similar.
As unique as my childhood was, I believe that there are similarities between how I coped with living in constant fear and how others deal with adversity. In the excerpt below, you will learn that I developed some OCD tendencies by the time I’m 12 years old.
I recently read “Obsessed: A Memoir of My Life with OCD” by Allison Britz. After Britz has a nightmare in which she’s convinced she has brain cancer, her life is irrevocably changed. She begins to believe that there are things that she must avoid for the (imagined) cancer not to get worse. She starts by believing that she can’t step on any cracks, and eventually her list of things to avoid expands to include multiple types of foods and objects.
When you’re living in fear as a result of a real or even imagined disease, it’s amazing the extent to which your brain can impose rules so you’re left feeling as though you have some control, even if these rules totally interfere with your life.
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This excerpt is from Chapter 11: “Dr. Pierce’s Piercing Advice.” My parents and I have traveled to Canada to see Dr. Pierce, a neurologist who has indicated that he might be willing to prescribe clomipramine for me. This is a drug that has been proven to help those people with OCD tendencies. We’re in Canada because it’s legal there, but it hasn’t been approved by the FDA yet.
Fifteen minutes prior to my appointment, we arrive at Dr. Pierce’s clinic. It’s located on the third level in a dull gray building. We walk down a narrow corridor that has low ceilings.
Right on time, Dr. Pierce walks into the exam room. He offers me a polite nod and my parents a firm handshake.
The room we sit in is similar to the one I’ve spent so much time in at The Hospital. It’s stark and drained of any color. I sit on the crinkly paper, my parents sit on hard-backed chairs, and Dr. Pierce perches on his stool with wheels.
Dr. Pierce gets right down to business. “Megan, I’ve looked through your chart,” he says, his speech crisp and clear. He nods at a thick file folder and a legal-sized, accordion-type folder, both of which have my name printed on the side. I bet that these contain copies of Dr. Snow’s notes and copies of my brain images. “You’ve been through a lot,” he adds. Our eyes connect for a moment, and I offer a slight nod. “Well, why don’t we begin with an exam so I can observe things for myself, and then we can go from there?”
Dr. Pierce scoots over to my side. “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he says. I’ve gone through these motions so many times, so I know exactly what to do, even if my body doesn’t always cooperate.
As I perform these tasks, I study Dr. Pierce. I note the similarities and differences between him and Dr. Snow. Dr. Pierce appears to be in his 50s, about ten years older than Dr. Snow. And he has thick, dark hair, different from Dr. Snow’s thin, light brown hair.
Despite the difference in their appearance, they both wear the same white coats and conduct the neurological exam in a similar manner, with efficiency and precision.
After just 15 minutes, Dr. Pierce says, “That’ll do.”
As I work to get my socks and shoes back on, Dr. Pierce straightens back up in his stool and scoots back four feet to his corner of the room. I feel him scrutinizing me as I tie my shoes. After all the hours of therapy I’ve had, I now can tie my shoes in a little over a minute. This certainly is a huge improvement over what it used to take — closer to three — but there’s something about Dr. Pierce’s piercing eyes that leaves me feeling like it’s still not good enough. How dare you judge me, I want to yell.
Just when I feel like I can’t stand his gaze another second, Dr. Pierce asks my parents to share with him some of my “maladaptive” behaviors.
My mom jumps in right away. “Meg feels the need to do a lot of things a certain way. And she’s obsessed with her clock. She watches it all the time. At first her clock served as a huge motivator. I’d see her watch the minutes tick by as she tried to do the same task over and over, faster and faster each time. Her desire to get better is so strong. She’s got a stubborn streak.” My mom pauses and rests her hands on her white pants that somehow still look pressed despite the long drive. “But now…now I worry that her obsessive clock watching is getting in the way. It’s like she can’t do anything without keeping track of how long it takes her to do things.” My mom lets out a long sigh. “And when I tell her I’m going to take the clock away, she gets all panicky.”
Dr. Pierce scribbles a few notes before adding, “What else do you see?”
“There are so many other things. Like when she’s eating dinner. Say the meal is chicken, rice, and some sort of vegetable. She eats all of the chicken first, then the rice and then the vegetable. Always this same order. And she never lets the different foods mix.” My mom tucks her hair behind her ears before continuing. “And another thing, on the mornings when I check up on her as she’s getting ready for the day, I see her lining up her clothes on the bed in the exact same order. It’s always the shirt first, followed by the pants, then the socks and last the shoes. Always. I’ve tried to suggest that she mix up the order of things. I’ve even gone into her bedroom and mixed up the order of her shirt and pants to see how she’d react. But when she saw me do this, she looked like she was about to cry, like that one little change could negatively impact her entire day.”
My cheeks redden and I look down at the floor. These details aren’t meant to be shared with anyone. Especially this doctor we just met. I stare at the dust bunnies that are on the floor that move ever so slightly when the air shifts in the room. If only I could float away, not be part of this embarrassing conversation.
“I just worry,” my mom continues. “I worry that if she can’t learn some flexibility, she’ll have a hard time improving more. That’s where I think this drug could really make a difference in Meg’s life. In all of our lives.”
When my mom is finally done talking, Dr. Pierce asks my dad if he notices these behaviors too.
My dad repositions himself in his chair. “I do. Although Nanc’ really is the one who notices these things so much more since I travel most weeks. I know how frustrating it can be though when Meg’s compulsions delay Nanc’ from getting out the door for a meeting on time.”
After more discussion, Dr. Pierce says, “Yes, I can see how Megan could benefit from clomipramine.”
And just when I think, that’s it, we’re free to head home with the drug in our hands, he adds, “John, Nancy, before you go, I’d like to talk to the two of you a moment. Alone.”
When I get to the waiting room, I sit down on the couch and study the geometric design of the rug on the floor. Each flower has six petals and there are nine flowers across and six flowers up and down. I calculate that there are a total of 324 petals. A few more minutes pass, and I start to grow impatient. Why is this taking so long?
I freeze in place when I hear what must be my mom’s heels clicking against the tiled floor. Why is she walking so fast? It’s when she turns the corner and I can see her face, her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, that I know they’ve received more bad news. But it’s when my dad walks into the room a few paces behind her with tears streaming down his face that my stomach really flips. I thought we’d already received the worst news possible back home in Minneapolis. What else? What else could be going on?
“It’s time to go, honey,” my mom says in an urgent tone.
As my parents escort me out of the clinic, my dad wipes away his tears and mutters, “What a load of garbage!”
I bite down on my lower lip and look up at my parents, hoping for an explanation that will make me feel less worried but also one that doesn’t sugar-coat the truth.
“Oh Meg,” my mom says with a heavy sigh. “Dr. Pierce has a different opinion than we do. It’s not something you need to worry about.” She squeezes my hand before adding, “All I know is that we came here for one reason – to get the medication – and now we have it. I have no interest in heeding any of his ‘free’ advice.”
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An old Cherokee told his grandson, “My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.” The boy thought about it, and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?” The old man quietly replied, “The one you feed.” (Author Unknown)
Many of us have an awareness of these two “wolves.” We recognize that we have an inner voice or inner monologue that runs in our head and that a lot of it can be self-defeating.
Until I started therapy I wasn’t tuned into this inner voice. When I learned to pay attention to my thoughts, I became aware of how my “evil” voice was ruling my life. I was not enough. I was still too slow at too many tasks. I was constantly at risk of getting sick again.
By feeding my brain positive thoughts, I was slowly able to move away from fear and toward acceptance and healing.
I don’t know about Britz’s journey outside of what she shared in her book, but I imagine that part of her healing process involved learning to be empathetic toward herself.
I am interested in teaching kids about these competing voices in our head and how to feed the “good” voice so they can learn to love who they are as unique individuals. I believe a lot of this work begins with us having the awareness of these “wolves” and learning to appreciate who we are first.