Sharing our secrets

Our second batch of leaves awaiting town pickup.

So many more leaves left to fall.

Somehow, I let my blog anniversary pass without remark. Nov. 14 was my third “blogiversary.” The time has flown by for me. I really have a hard time grasping that I’ve been a part of this blog community for so long.

Before I wrote my first blog post on Nov. 14, 2011, I had never shared a lot about my mental health with others.

As I began posting on the blog, as much as I wanted to be as open as possible about OCD and depression, it was difficult for me to decide what to share and what not to share, and how to express myself.

I had spent a good portion of my life hiding my OCD. Occasionally, I shared with a friend that I had OCD, but I never offered details about what that meant for me in my daily life.

I was a little more open about my depression because that seemed to be a bit more acceptable to others, but, again, I shared few details with others.

I have become more comfortable writing about how OCD and depression fit into my life and how I deal with them. I am more comfortable sharing how I live my life while “bringing along” these mental illnesses.

Recently, I discovered that talking about OCD with another person—speaking about it instead of writing about it—is a whole different experience for me.

As I was talking with this person, I felt more self-conscious about revealing the details about OCD than when I write about them.

Just speaking out loud about OCD jarred me. I heard the words coming out of my mouth, giving explanations about obsessions and compulsions, and I thought, “This disorder is weird. What is this person going to think?”

The experience was a positive one, and I’m glad I talked about OCD. Each person I talk to, each person who reads my posts, may learn a bit more, may understand this “weird” disorder a little more.

And if the person is experiencing OCD symptoms, then maybe he or she can be encouraged to get treatment.

I was reminded that sharing such secrets—which we could argue shouldn’t be secrets because having OCD is nothing to be ashamed of—with others isn’t easy.

We have the right to privacy. There is nothing wrong with keeping close to our hearts things we don’t want to or need to share with others.

But for me, sharing my secrets can help show others they are not alone.

Have you ever found relief in revealing a secret?

Opportunities to help

I’ve been heartened by the attention given OCD on social media this week, OCD Awareness Week.

In my reading this week, I found Janet Singer’s blog post, “I’m a Little OCD,” on ocdtalk, particularly thought provoking.

Janet is preparing for the publication of her book, Overcoming OCD: A Journey of Recovery, which she wrote with Seth Gillihan. Janet’s son has OCD, and she learned about the disorder and treatments—good and bad—while helping her son.

Janet’s post this week addresses the situation that probably many of us with OCD have encountered. The subject of having OCD comes up, and someone says, “Oh, I’m a little OCD.” Or “I’m so OCD.”

If you have OCD, or a family member or friend with OCD, statements like that might frustrate you. They seem to trivialize a serious disorder. Just because you like to put all your Virginia Tech clothing in one drawer doesn’t mean you necessarily have OCD.

Janet came up with a great way to respond to such statements as she spreads the word about her work:

“So my response has been something like, “’OCD is such a misunderstood and misrepresented illness, which is one of the reasons why I believe this book is so important. I hope you’re getting the right help if you do have OCD.’”

I like the fact that the response is respectful and leaves open the opportunity for education and help if the person is really in need.

I used to get upset when I heard people seem to discount OCD as a little problem. And I do think there are misconceptions about the seriousness of the disorder and how it can disrupt lives.

But for all I know, the people saying, “I’m so OCD” might be worried that they have a problem. They might have untreated OCD. They might be worried about someone else. They might be looking for help. They might be able to pass along helpful information to family members.

So ….. I’m going to consider those “I’m so OCD” moments as opportunities to help. I hope I remember in the moment to give a response like Janet has been giving while she’s spreading the word about her book.

Because people can ask for help in a lot of different ways.

Let’s be aware

This week (Oct. 5-11) is Mental Illness Awareness Week, a week dedicated to raising awareness and educating people about mental illness.

There is so much more awareness about mental illness now than when I was younger. I remember being told as a child that certain people were in the hospital because they “had a nervous breakdown.” And it was usually said in a whisper.

I had no real idea of what a nervous breakdown was. But it sounded bad, like a loss of control, like something to pity. It definitely sounded like something that should be kept a secret.

In reality, it was a secret kept by people who thought having a mental illness was something to be ashamed of.

When I was first diagnosed with OCD and depression in my mid-20s, I was ashamed. I thought if others found out, they would think I was deficient, weak. So I told only a very few close friends and family. Even with them, I brushed it off as just a little problem that I was taking care of with medicine.

The secretive way I handled my mental illness kept me from getting the full help that I needed.

For example, I didn’t want to get into a lot of therapy, including cognitive behavior therapy, because I’d have to ask off from work. How could I ask off for a doctor’s appointment if I didn’t look physically ill? I wouldn’t lie about it, but I couldn’t be honest either.

Several concerns kept me from getting the treatment that I needed when I was younger, but my fear of being stigmatized was part of it.

Nowadays, people talk about mental illnesses much more openly. Advocacy and education are still necessary—there are a lot of misconceptions out there, a lot of blaming—but the atmosphere for discussion has improved.

With discussion, stigma can lessen. We can ask each other questions and listen to each other’s stories. We can learn that we’re not the only one feeling certain feelings and thinking certain thoughts.

We can learn that we’re not alone.

Being aware is a big deal for me. So I’m happy to lend my voice to awareness of mental illness this week and beyond.

For more information about mental illness, check out the website of the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

Oct. 9 is also National Depression Screening Day. If you even think you’re depressed, please get screened and get help. And pass the word to your friends.

Let’s all be aware.

Anticipating the worst gets you nowhere

"A bit of autumn"

Every time I woke up Saturday night into Sunday morning, I thought about the upcoming Confrontation.

They won’t believe me.

I’m going to get upset.

I’m going to start crying.

If they can’t help me, I’m going to have to go probably a week without enough meds.

It’s going to be too hard.

I turned over and told myself that I couldn’t know then, in the middle of the night, lying in my bed, what would happen. It might not be so bad. I’d deal with it then.

I fell asleep.

Then I woke up again, and the fears would take over again.

I was experiencing classic anticipatory anxiety, where I was getting anxious about an upcoming event or interaction. I was feeling the anxiety as if I were in the middle of the situation, and the situation was going badly.

What was the Confrontation I dreaded?

A talk with the pharmacist at the local drugstore.

I hate confrontations. I have a lot of fear about people being angry at me or thinking ill of me. I have kept quiet and suffered the consequences of not speaking up, not asking for better service, not asking for what was rightfully mine.

I know at least some of this tendency is because of my intense anxiety.

The situation I faces was this: When I got my antidepressant refilled, I thought the bottle felt light. But the bottle was small and the pills were large, so it was hard for me to tell.

I pushed aside my worry. Surely, the pharmacy staff would have gotten it right.

On Saturday night, I really looked into the bottle, and I could see the bottom, with only six pills left. I checked the refill date, and it was just two weeks ago. There was no way that I started out with 60 pills.

I told Larry about it.

“They’ll think I’m lying to get some free pills,” I said.

I was also worried that they would think I was taking extra pills. That I was one of those “mental” people who couldn’t keep track of her meds.

Yep, I was self-stigmatizing too.

There was nothing concrete that Larry could do, of course. It was too late to go the pharmacy. I’d have to wait until the next day.

So I had the difficult night.

Morning came, and I got showered and dressed and drove to the pharmacy. It was just about seven minutes away, but I wanted it to be longer.

I walked into the store and asked to speak with the pharmacist on duty. She met me at the counter. I her my story.

“I don’t remember for sure if I started that prescription the day I got it. It may have been the following Monday or Tuesday. But I only have six pills left,” I said.

I was nervous. I talked faster than I usually do.

She looked at the bottle and said, “It looks like we probably gave you 30 instead of the 60. We’ll fix that.”

“I don’t have any way to prove that you didn’t give me the pills,” I said.

“That’s OK,” she said. “We believe you.”

And she put the extra pills into the bottle and apologized for shorting me.

And that was all.

No accusations. No rebuffs. No anger. No tears.

I felt the light-headed feeling I get after an anxious experience is over.

I had spent all that time worrying and creating stories with negative outcomes. I expected a bad experience, even though I knew I couldn’t know for certain what would happen.

In truth, the reality was not nearly as bad as I had anticipated. And it usually works out that way, if I’m honest.

Sure, we all have difficult interactions with others sometimes. And bad things happen to all of us. Maybe we had times when we expected good things and they never happened.

But there’s no need to worry about something that might not happen.

This seems to be a lesson that I have to learn over and over.

How about you—Do you ever experience anticipatory anxiety?

We're talking about depression

The news and social media have been full of talk about depression and suicide for the last couple of days. I’m glad that there are some awesome discussions going on, and people are talking about subjects that many feel are better left alone. But I am sorry that we are talking about these things because of the death of someone.

I was so sad when I heard about the death of Robin Williams from suicide. Multiple news reports indicated that he had been experiencing severe depression.

I first watched Robin Williams in the television show “Mork and Mindy” in the 1970s. I was a young teenager at the time. I remember being amazed at his energy, his ability to improvise—he was so different from any other actor I had seen at that time.

I always enjoyed his performances through the years. He was truly gifted.

And yet, he was suffering, too.

I don’t have anything profound that I can say here today. But here are some of the thoughts I’ve had:

*If anyone would have been able to “snap out of it,” to “just think about something else,” it would have been someone like Robin Williams.

Depression is serious. It is not something that a person can just “get over” with sheer will or positive thinking.

*If anyone would know how to find help for depression, it would be someone like Robin Williams. He had the means and the ability to find help.

Depression is formidable. It can make people believe that no help would be enough, that they are beyond help and beyond hope. And even in the midst of treatment, people can feel great despair.

*Because it is so serious and formidable, we need to learn more about depression. We need to help people get effective treatment. We need to be open about depression, talk about it not in whispers but in open conversations.

Here are some resources for more information:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

National Alliance on Mental Illness

National Institute of Mental Health

Peace to Robin Williams and to his family. Peace to all the suffering, whoever you are.

Stigma about yourself

Bring Change 2 Mind is an organization that works “to end the stigma and discrimination surrounding mental illness.” I believe in their mission and message, and I follow them on Facebook and Twitter (@bc2m).

I keep seeing their message about a Stigma Free Summer, which they explain on their website: “BC2M wishes its community a #StigmaFreeSummer. Let's start conversations, reserve judgment, extend empathy and end stigma.”

The definition of stigma, according to Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, is “a mark of shame or discredit.”

There are people who feel like having a mental illness is like having a mark of shame or discredit. A stigma.

Stigma about mental illness sometimes is directed by people who are misinformed or careless toward people living with mental illness.

Sometimes it’s people living with mental illness who direct stigma at themselves.

Over a year ago, I wrote a post about “Depression and lingering stigma.” In that post, I wrote about my struggle to reach the point of asking for help:

“Because no matter how many times I’ve gone through these bouts of depression, I still doubt myself. I still tell myself that I should be able to deal with this depression on my own, without a doctor’s help. After all, I’m already on an antidepressant. After all, I should be able to rise above it, snap out of it.

Yes, I sometimes buy into the stigma about depression.”

I’m not feeling the same now as I did when I wrote that post. My depression is under control.

But I am experiencing a lot of anxiety and intrusive thoughts, connected to my damaged relationship with my mother.

I don’t doubt the decision I made. But I’m having trouble adjusting to it. I think I’m grieving, in a way.

And I haven’t wanted to write about it on this blog or tell others about it. I have feared that I should be able to deal with it better since I reached a decision after all the years of therapy and soul searching.

Maybe I was dwelling on it too much. Maybe I wanted to feel bad. Maybe I should just snap out of it. That’s what I’ve been thinking.

Self-stigma.

I’d like to be a part of a stigma free summer. So you may see more posts here about how I’m healing, what I’m experiencing, what I’d doing about the guilt that still plagues me emotionally, though rationally I feel OK.

Maybe I will start some conversations. Maybe I will remind someone else that he or she is not alone in having confusing feelings.

Let’s get rid of the stigma.

The O stands for obsession

This blog post is dedicated to Jackie and Janet. Thanks for all you do.

It happened again last week.

I was at work, sitting at my desk in my office. A person came into the main office to speak with the ad person about an ad. She wrote down what she wanted the ad to say, paid for it, and then left.

Less than a minute later she came back into the office and asked to check what she had just written. It must have been fine because she didn’t change anything.

“Sorry about that,” she said on her way out. “I am so OCD.”

Did you hear me scream in frustration? OK, not really. But I was definitely frustrated.

I get frustrated when I hear those words: “I am so OCD.” Frustrated with people who equate being conscientious, double-checking, with OCD. Frustrated when people—who mean no harm, I believe—say they are “so OCD” because they keep all their Virginia Tech clothes in one drawer. Or because they like to keep their desk organized.

Maybe these people have OCD. I’m not a doctor. But I am someone who has OCD. And I’m going to quote the title of a post by my friend Jackie Lea Sommers, who also has OCD: “If it doesn’t hurt, it’s not OCD.”

Recently, the writings of two good blogging friends have touched me. Jackie wrote another great post called “The Dreadful O of OCD” this past Sunday. And Janet, whose son has OCD and who writes the blog ocdtalk, wrote an insightful post last month called “Where are the Obsessions?”

Jackie and Janet write about how everyone sees the compulsions of OCD, but they don’t see the pain caused by the obsessions that drive the compulsions. That can lead to misunderstandings about what OCD really is.

If you look closely, you can see my red hands in this photo from 1990.

For example, I used to wash my hands compulsively. My hands and wrists were bright red and raw looking. My family and friends witnessed me washing my hands, soaping them over and over, rinsing and rinsing.

What they couldn’t see was what was driving me to wash my hands: the obsession that I would hurt someone else. I was so afraid that I would have germs on my hands and pass those germs on to someone else that might get sick and might die. I had to wash my hands. I had to be sure they were clean because if I didn’t, I would be a murderer.

Can you imagine thinking like that? Doesn’t it sound illogical? Like I was putting too much responsibility onto myself? That I was worrying needlessly?

Yes. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop obsessing that I was going to hurt someone. The only way I could get any relief from the feelings of guilt of what might happen—relief from the obsession—was to wash. And wash.

OCD is not cute or funny. It’s not a little habit that can be easily changed. It’s not synonymous with being organized. It’s a mental illness that manifests itself in different ways. It hurts.

I don’t want pity because I have OCD. I am so much better now. I live such a free life compared to the way I used to live. I have OCD, but OCD doesn’t lead the way anymore. I thank God for that.

And I don’t want to sound preachy or judgmental.

I just want to join Jackie and Janet and others who are speaking out and helping friends and strangers learn a little bit more about a disorder that may affect someone they love. I just want people who have OCD to be encouraged that they can get better, too.

OCD and getting help when help is needed

Yes, the nurse had noticed my hands. And she had told the doctor about them.

That scared me. I didn’t want the doctor to mention my hands. I didn’t want to tell him about my hand washing.

Janet at ocdtalk wrote a wonderful post this week about “OCD and Early Treatment Experiences.” In her post, Janet writes about the troubles many people with OCD have when seeking help for the first time.

Her post resonated with me and brought back some memories of my own early attempts to get help for my OCD.

I suffered from obsessions and compulsions for years before I ever got treatment. My first symptoms appeared when I was a girl. When I was a teenager, I read a magazine article about OCD and recognized myself in it. But I remained silent. I told no one about my strange thoughts and compulsive habits.

Of course, my parents noticed some of my compulsive habits, especially the copious amounts of water I ran whenever I washed my hands. But they didn’t seem to connect the actions with anything other than me being wasteful and a problem.

Apparently the only thing my mother told my pediatrician was that I was crying a lot and tired, as I wrote about in a post about being a child with OCD and depression.

That’s behind me now. Perhaps my mother had no vocabulary to use to explain her daughter’s strange actions. Perhaps she was just afraid of what was going on with me.

Once I became an adult, I was no better an advocate for myself. And that brings me to a memory that came to me when I read the ocdtalk post.

When I was in my early twenties, in graduate school, I visited Student Health. I didn’t have health insurance, and I could be seen at Student Health with my student ID for a low fee.

If I am remembering correctly, I was there because of my ears. They seemed to get blocked with wax a lot. Or so it seemed. I wanted the doctor to check them.

It wasn’t the first time I went to the doctor for my ears. I see now that picking at my ears was a compulsion of mine. I was obsessed over the possibility of them getting blocked and muffling my hearing. So I picked at them and then had them checked at the doctor’s office to make sure they weren’t blocked. It was OCD at work.

On this particular visit, the nurse had taken me into the exam room. I don’t remember, but she probably asked me the reason for my visit and went through the usual pre-exam routine.

I don’t remember how I happened to see her walk down the hall after she left the exam room. But I remember looking down the hallway and seeing her walking with the doctor. She was pointing to her hands and talking.

I immediately grasped (perhaps incorrectly, but I don’t think so) that she was telling the doctor about my hands.

My hands.

From about three inches above my wrists to my fingertips, my hands were red. They were chapped and dry and raw looking. Here and there were little spots of dried blood.

I knew what was wrong with my hands. I washed them compulsively, soaping them up repeatedly with each hand washing, running hot water over them.

I didn’t use hand lotion because that might contaminate them, I thought.

Yes, the nurse had noticed my hands. And she had told the doctor about them.

That scared me. I didn’t want the doctor to mention my hands. I didn’t want to tell him about my hand washing.

When the doctor came in, he didn’t say anything about my hands at first. He was kind and looked in my ears.

My memories were fuzzy about this for a while. I had to go back in time in my mind and picture what happened. I remembered that he did say something about my hands. He asked me about them.

I lied to him. I told him I forgot to use lotion and the cold and windy weather wreaked havoc on them.

I missed the opportunity to tell him about the extreme anxiety that drove me to wash my hands over and over.

And what would have happened if he had asked again after hearing my lie? What if he had suspected that hands that raw looking weren’t just chapped from the cold and wind?

I’ll never know, and that’s OK. I eventually did get help.

But what concerns me is the possibility that there are others with OCD who are too afraid to talk with their doctors, but who may have signs like my red hands that the doctors don’t address. It concerns me that parents may not know what to do about their children’s symptoms. It concerns me that people may tell their doctors about their OCD symptoms, but the doctors don’t know what to do with that information.

Because of my concerns, I will continue to do as Janet advocates in her post: educate others about OCD and encourage those with OCD and their families.

Do you have OCD or think you do? Are you a family member or friend of someone with OCD? One information source is the website of the International OCD Foundation. Their Find Help page offers multiple resources.

Why do you think it’s so hard to discuss certain things with our doctors?

More mental health in pop culture: “Call Me Crazy: A Five Film”

What is it like to have an illness that might take away all your dreams? What is it like to have others look at you as weak and a burden because of your illness? What is it like to be a family member of someone with an illness that makes him or her different, that might even make them embarrassing to be around?

“Call Me Crazy: A Five Film,” a Lifetime Movie, explored these and other aspects of mental illness.

It aired Saturday night, and as I watched it and thought about it afterwards, I felt hope: hope that lots of people are working against stigma surrounding mental illness and renewed hope that people can live full and happy lives despite having a mental illness.

Thanks to Sunny at 71 degrees and Sunny, I knew about the film beforehand and planned my viewing accordingly.

The stories

The film is made up of five intertwining stories focusing on four people suffering from a mental illness and their family and friends.

“Lucy” is about Lucy, a law student who has schizophrenia. At the beginning of her story, she has stopped her medication and ends up in a mental hospital for treatment.

Lucy doesn’t have much hope for a normal life. She doesn’t think she can finish law school and help others, like she had planned.

Her doctor tells her to prove others wrong and go for her dreams.

In “Allison,” we meet a 19-year-old woman visiting home from college with her boyfriend. She’s upset when she learns that her older sister, Lucy, will be returning home from the mental hospital.

Allison believes that Lucy has stolen a normal family life from her because of her schizophrenia. She is also very angry because in the past, while hallucinating, Lucy tried to choke her.

Allison and Lucy have some honest conversations. While no grand resolution is reached, they both come to understand each other better.

“Grace” focuses on the young daughter of a woman who has bipolar. Grace feels responsible for taking care of her mom, whether she is lost in depression or acting recklessly during her manic periods.

Grace’s mother stops her medication and goes on a wild adventure with Grace and her friends, eventually scaring them with her daredevil driving.

After Grace proclaims that she is done with her mother and that she only wants to move far away from her, her mother seeks help.

Later Grace, writing an essay as part of a college application, calls her mother her hero because of the strength she shows in fighting her disease.

“Eddie” focuses on depression. Eddie is a stand-up comic who can make people laugh. After the show, though, he wants to be alone and sleep away the time until he has to go on stage again.

His wife notices that his humor has gotten darker and seems to center around suicide. When she discovers that Eddie has stopped seeing his therapist and has planned his own suicide, she is devastated.

Eddie comes home and finds that his wife has discovered his secretes. She goes with him to his therapist’s office, seeking help for his depression.

 “Maggie” is about a woman returning home from war, suffering from PTSD after being repeatedly raped by her commanding officer, who was later killed in war.

She loses custody of her son after she attacks her father during a flashback, thinking that he is the commanding officer.

Lucy, now out of law school and working as an attorney, takes on Maggie’s case. Maggie is without hope. Lucy tells Maggie her own story of mental illness and triumph, and reminds Maggie that there is always hope.

She goes to court with her, arguing for help for Maggie so that she can once again become productive in society.

My take

I found all of these stories refreshingly honest. While everyone’s problems are not solved in the course of the stories, everyone does gain a little hope. They seek help, they get help, and they begin the journey of getting better.

Some of them were hard to watch. It’s not easy to watch someone in the depths of despair, wanting only to die. It’s not easy to watch someone held captive by voices that tell her it’s time to die. It’s not easy to see a young girl trying to control her out-of-control mother.

I could particularly relate to Eddie’s story, especially his sense of hopelessness and the inertia that he feels.

I also related to Lucy’s sense that her recovery depends on multiple things, not just taking her medication as prescribed.

I applaud the actors, writers and directors and all of those involved in putting together “Call Me Crazy.” I think the portrayals of mental illness, and its effects on family and friends, will only help the cause of removing the stigma surrounding mental illness.

If you watched “Call Me Crazy,” what did you think of its portrayal of mental illness? And in general, how important is a sense of hope when facing obstacles in life?

Being a child with OCD and depression

Me in sixth grade.

If you’re of a certain age, you probably grew up before bicycle helmets were the norm. You probably sped around your neighborhood or along country driveways on your bike, not wearing a helmet, spinning the wheels, taking sharp turns that kicked up the dust. I was one of those kids.

My brothers and I grew up in the country, on a farm, with woods to play in and barbed wire fences to climb under. My mother knew we were somewhere on the farm, but she didn’t always know exactly where we were.

It’s a wonder we lived to grow up.

Have you ever said that, thinking of the scrapes you got into as a child?

Of course, a lot of children did get hurt. I’m all for bicycle helmets and any measure that keeps kids safe and unharmed. I’m glad that we know more now about safety and are willing to do things like put helmets on our kids before they get on a bike.

I’m glad, too, that we know more about mental health today than when I was a child. We have a long way to go to overcome stigma and to ensure that everyone who needs help has a way to get help. But more information is more readily available now than even just a few years ago.

For the past few days, I’ve been asking myself, how did I live to grow up? Not physically, but mentally.

I sorted through lots of papers last week, putting away things in file folders. I found a folder in my file cabinet that contained old health records of mine.

Years ago, I had to provide my employer a copy of my childhood vaccination records. Along with the shot record, the pediatrician’s office sent me a copy of all of my records.

I looked through them last week for the first time in years. A lot of the doctors’ writing is unintelligible, but a record of my visits from babyhood on was there.

On June 17, 1975, I was 12 years old. I was seen for a routine visit. In the nurse’s notes, it states, “Feels tired always—not sleeping well.” The doctor noted, “tired and waking up crying.” He ordered blood work and, I think (the handwriting is not clear), urinalysis and TB test.

Nothing else is noted.

The next entry is for June 12, 1981. I was 18 years old. I was seen for my college physical.

I remember being 12. I remember how the dark dread of depression had descended on me in the springtime of that year. I didn’t understand why I felt so bad, so hopeless, so unhappy.

I thought perhaps it was because I was a bad person and needed to be “saved.” At the revival at my church that May, I tried to get saved, but the prayer I prayed didn’t seem good enough. I found myself praying over and over, trying to get the words right, trying to get my thoughts in line with the words, just right. If I got it wrong, I had to do it over.

Prayers could also keep my family safe, I believed. But God couldn’t hear my prayers if I had sin between me and him. So I had to pray for forgiveness, and then pray a certain way for protection. Over and over.

Any thought that was bad had to be confessed, and I didn’t know who to confess to except my mother. Thinking of something bad was just as wrong as doing it, I believed. If I even thought I had a bad thought, I had to confess it to my mother.

I was also washing my hands a lot. I couldn’t seem to get them clean enough. As soon as I washed them, they became contaminated again, and I had to wash them again. If I spread contamination and someone got sick from it, it would be my fault.

Yes, I had OCD and depression. I was consumed by them.

My parents knew something was wrong. But professional intervention for my mental problems stopped with that visit with the pediatrician in 1975.

I got help for my mental health when I was in my 20s. When the psychiatrist diagnosed me with OCD and depression in 1990, she called me “high functioning.”

How did I end up high functioning? How did I live to grow up?

I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers yet.

Life was different in 1975. My parents made certain choices based on who they were at the time, based in part on how they were raised.

I hope I’m past the blame stage.

What I choose to focus on now is helping to break down the stigma surrounding mental illness. I want to help educate others about OCD, depression and other mental illnesses. I want to help encourage others to get help.

There’s no need for anyone to live like it’s 1975.

Not hiding what OCD looks like

I remember turning my car’s fuel cap a few times. I remember my husband looking at me and shaking his head and saying, “Don’t do that.”

Later, he gave me a different perspective on what I’d done.

We had driven our vehicles—his truck and my car—to the gas station together about a month ago so he could pump my gas for me after he pumped his own.

I’m capable of pumping my own gas, but if he’s with me, he’ll do it for me. It’s a sweet thing for him to do.

He had to move his truck out of the way of another customer before the tank in my car was full, so I finished up the job.

Larry walked up as I was putting the fuel cap back into place.

I heard it click. But one click didn’t seem to be enough. So I turned it some more. Then some more.

I liked hearing those clicks because they seemed to tell me that the cap was properly closed.

Once we got to a restaurant to eat lunch, Larry said, “You need to control your OCD with the cap, because if you break the seal, it will have to be replaced.”

Larry said once I heard that one click, the cap was sealed.

“How do you know it was OCD making me do that?” I asked.

I wanted to know what he had noticed.

He then gave me a description of what I’d been doing. I turned the cap, yes. Then I stopped and looked at it. Then I turned it again. Then I stopped and looked at it. Then I turned it again.

Yep, obvious signs (in me) of checking OCD.

And I had no idea that I had done anything that anyone else would notice. I thought I was keeping my checking to myself.

At first, I was horrified.

Of course, Larry probably noticed because he knows me so well, knows my OCD so well. And he wasn’t concerned about me showing my OCD as much as he was concerned about me breaking the fuel cap seal.

But I had examined the fuel cap in public, where others could see me. Did anyone else see me?

The incident got me thinking. I’ve always thought that I hid my OCD from others so well. I certainly try to be careful to not let anyone witness my compulsions, or rituals: my staring at lamps, my fiddling with things like water faucets and light switches, my habit of picking up pieces of lint from carpets.

In fact, I try not to do the compulsions in the first place. That’s my goal.

But if I do perform a compulsion, and if others notice, what am I so afraid of? That they’ll think I’m weird? That they’ll think less of me?

Do I really care? I’m not sure.

If they care about me, they’ll ignore my compulsions or ask me about them. If they ask me about them, it’s an opportunity to educate others about OCD.

And if they don’t care about me, why do I care what they think of me?

I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself. But in reality, that’s not likely.

Perhaps I’ve spent too much time worrying about people seeing my OCD. Instead of thinking of ways to hide my OCD, maybe I would do well to focus more on getting better.

If you have OCD, how hard do you work at trying to hide your compulsions from others? Whether you have OCD or not, how would you like to react if a friend performed an OCD compulsion in front of you?

Depression and lingering stigma

I’m in another period of deepening depression. There’s nothing pretty or poetic to say about it. It is just there.

It wasn’t totally unexpected when the lows came back around. I made a change in medication last month. My psychiatrist took me off of one of the prescriptions I was on because he thought it was causing the intense restlessness that was plaguing me, and he told me that another change might be necessary.

But I wanted to wait a little while and see how I did on just the one medication I’m still taking. I wanted to see if just the one would suffice.

I am grateful that the restlessness abated. My whole level of anxiety, including the anxiety of OCD, has been better lately.

However, the rough energy of the restlessness has been replaced by now-familiar depression.

I’ve had a difficult time getting through my daily duties, and, worst of all, I’ve had the unrelenting hopelessness that marks depression for me.

I wake up and have no enthusiasm or desire to face the day. I cry in the shower as I get ready for work, cry on the way to work, and spend my workdays wanting to scream.

This return of depression, like always, has me thinking about its causes.

Is it related to current situations in my life? Is it chemical? Is it related to the change in medication? Is it related to the season? Is it a combination of all of the above?

I’ve analyzed it, thought and thought about it, obsessed over it in ways that I suspect are related to OCD.

But no matter what is causing it, the big question for me really has been, when should I call the doctor? When is it bad enough to call the doctor?

Because no matter how many times I’ve gone through these bouts of depression, I still doubt myself. I still tell myself that I should be able to deal with this depression on my own, without a doctor’s help. After all, I’m already on an antidepressant. After all, I should be able to rise above it, snap out of it.

Yes, I sometimes buy into the stigma about depression.

I surprised myself when I realized what I was doing. How could I still cling to the myths about depression? How could I still give credence to the beliefs that those of us with mental illnesses should just be quiet about it, get over it, have a positive attitude, be happy already?

How could I fail to see right away that I needed help?

The stigma surrounding mental illness can be subtle, and it can affect how even those of us with mental illnesses treat ourselves.

If you had the same symptoms, I would have advised you to get professional help. I would have assured you that help is available. That treatment can help. That there’s no shame in asking for help.

I told myself a different story.

That story broke into pieces when I finally found the answer to that question of when is it bad enough. I reached my limit. I knew—yes, indeed, I need to see my doctor.

I originally had an appointment to see him again at the end of December, but I rescheduled the appointment for later in January because of work.

On Tuesday I called my doctor’s office to see if he had any openings this week. I was told that he was out of the office until next Tuesday.

So I must wait.

And I’ll be OK to wait. I’ll do what I can to manage this depression. But I won’t deny any longer that I need a professional’s help.

Have you ever found yourself believing the myths about mental illnesses? Have you ever denied to yourself that you needed help from others?

A week of awareness: I will no longer be ashamed

This week is OCD Awareness Week and Mental Illness Awareness Week.

I have mental illnesses. I also have physical illnesses.

It’s much easier for me to tell people I have high blood pressure and asthma than it is to tell them that I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, depression and generalized anxiety disorder.

Why is it easier for me to talk about physical illnesses? In large part it is because of the stigma about mental illness.

I’ve written about the stigma of mental illness, including obsessive-compulsive disorder, before. But I thought it worth exploring again, especially during this week of awareness.

In that previous post, I gave the definition for stigma found in The American Heritage Dictionary: “A mark or token of infamy, disgrace, or reproach.”

Stigma about mental illness gives the impression that people with mental illnesses have something to be ashamed of. And it has negative effects on those who do suffer from such illnesses.

The book From Within Our Reach: Ending the Mental Health Crisis, by Rosalynn Carter with Susan K. Golant and Kathryn E. Cade, states the following:

“One of the most insidious effects is that stigma gives rise to stereotypes: People experiencing mental illnesses are considered to be lacking in judgment or weak willed; they are seen as incompetent, unreliable, and unable to make decisions for themselves. It is thought that they can’t work, hold public office, or even live on their own; they are dangerous, unpredictable, and violent; they have brought these problems on themselves; and they will never get better.

The truth is very different. Most people with serious mental illnesses recover and do well in the world—go to school, flourish in their jobs, own homes—yet they are considered to be rare exceptions. The stereotypic beliefs held by the general public and by many people who experience the illnesses do not reflect what modern science and other people living with mental illnesses themselves have to tell us” (p. 22-23 in electronic edition).

  So when people find out that someone has a mental illness, they may automatically think the worst of that person. If they think that person is unreliable and lacking in judgment, someone who isn’t competent, then it’s likely they will treat him or her differently than they would someone without a mental illness.

As the authors of From Within Our Reach state, “Stigma is the most damaging factor in the life of anyone who has a mental illness. It humiliates and embarrasses; it is painful; it generates stereotypes, fear, and rejection; it leads to terrible discrimination. Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that stigma keeps people from seeking help for fear of being labeled ‘mentally ill’” (p. 21 in electronic edition).

  And when people don’t get help for their mental illness, they suffer needlessly.

  So what we do to get rid of the stigma about mental illness?

Authors Carter, Golant and Cade state that people may fear someone who seems different and not have compassion for them (p. 24 in electronic edition). Therefore, interaction with people with mental illness may help: “Researchers have shown that having contact with people who have mental illnesses helps to reduce stigma because it fosters empathy” (p. 28 in electronic edition).

  The authors state that “research shows we are not making any meaningful progress in accepting those with mental illnesses. We can only hope for this to change when more and more individuals are willing to talk openly about their experiences” (p. 29 in electronic edition).

  So where does that leave those of us with mental illnesses? Does that mean that we need to go out and tell everyone we know that we have mental illnesses?

  I don’t think so. I think we can be selective in choosing the people we tell and how we tell them.

  Those of us who choose to blog about our mental illnesses are telling a potentially large audience about our disorders.

  In the offline world, we can be even more selective, telling people we think will be supportive.

  We can begin to inform more and more people about the realities of mental illnesses.

  And we can choose to tell no one. There is no shame in that.

  One thing I think all of us with mental illnesses should do is to begin to work on our own attitudes and to try to erase any shame we may feel about having mental illnesses.

  I’ve set the intention to no longer feel ashamed of having mental illnesses. I may continue to have moments of embarrassment and shame, but those will lessen over time as I work on that intention.

  Have you ever experienced or witnessed stigma about mental illness?

Bring Change 2 Mind

Last week, as I watched TV one evening, I saw a commercial that addressed the stigma of mental illness. It blew me away with its effectiveness:

I got up right then and went to my computer to look up “Bring Change 2 Mind.” I found a website for the nonprofit co-founded by actress Glenn Close.

Its mission is the following:

“To emerge as the world's most effective organization working to eradicate the stigma and discrimination surrounding mental illness through widely distributed Public Education Materials based on the latest scientific insights and measured for effectiveness.

To act as a portal to a broad coalition of organizations that provide service, screening, information, support and treatment of mental illness.”

Its partner organizations include Mental Health American, the National Alliance on Mental Illness and the National Institute of Mental Health.

On the website, you can find facts about mental illnesses and and resources for finding out more.

There’s also a space for sharing your story about mental illness and reading the stories of others.

The website includes helpful videos, including an interview with Close about why she became a mental health advocate. Her sister has bipolar disorder, and a nephew has been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

While on the website, I chose to take the pledge to work to erase the stigma of mental illness. The pledge reads in part:

“For people living with mental illness:

*I am living with a mental illness that is treatable and manageable.

*I am a valuable and valued person and I deserve to be treated with respect.

*I am responsible for the decisions and choices I make in my life.

*Educating myself about the symptoms of my illness, and any side effects I may have from treatment, will help me find and use the resources I need to work toward stability.

*Communicating about my experiences with others will help them support me in difficult times and keep me “on track.”

*If I am feeling suicidal, it is critical that I reach out for help, for in the face of real pain and suffering, it is others who can help me with a commitment to live.

*I can reduce stigma in myself and in others by being open about living with mental illness, naming it out loud, and raising people’s awareness.”

  I'm glad to see an organization dedicated to something as important as this. The stigma of mental illness causes a lot of pain. I realize that I must do my part to fight it.

I encourage you to check out the website. And please come back here and comment about what you found.