Olivia H.
Photography by Olivia Karczewski
If you’re reading this, it’s a sign to keep going.
I’ve struggled with magical thinking my whole life, even before I could put a name to the phenomenon. Believing that my thoughts secretly impact the world around me isn’t the easiest thing to voice, after all. I know it sounds silly, but those who are diagnosed with or have experience with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) will know exactly what I am talking about, even if not by name. It can present pretty innocently in popular culture in superstitions like “knock on wood” or the supposed bad luck of seeing a black cat.
However, the way it occurs in my mind can be far more sinister. For example, I might have the fear that just thinking about something: natural disaster, death, violence, could make it happen to me or someone I love. Even the fact that it sounds objectively ridiculous can’t
make the feeling dissipate. My brain has already latched onto the signs, its obsessive need for patterns and order has turned me inside out. My chest is clogged with fear, my mind is spinning, and my breathing is jagged. This so-called “sign” becomes incontrovertible evidence in my mind that I am fundamentally bad. What kind of person single-handedly causes pain to the people they love? The reality is, none of these catastrophes are likely to come true, and if they do, it would not be because of my thoughts. So why does my head constantly have these spirals? Why do I have to read words three times over? Why do I have to touch things with first my left hand, and then my right? Why do I have to say a word out loud until it “sounds right?”
For a long time, I felt like I was the only person in the world who worked this way. I felt completely alone, like I had a secret that I could never share. I became fixated on figuring out what was happening to me.
Due to the diligent work of my support system, including exceptional therapists, doctors, friends, and family, I finally discovered a name. I learned that what people so often mischaracterize as just wanting to be organized or being a neat freak, is a pervasive mental illness. That OCD attacks your values and beliefs so fervently that it can make it impossible to function. That other people know what it’s like, and have lived with these same spirals, obsessions, and compulsions. That I am not alone, it was half the battle. The rest, to be fully transparent, is ongoing. I have stopped searching for a what, but find myself lost sometimes in the pursuit of a why. It can feel so unfair, to bear this burden of simply being.
The truth is, I will have OCD for the rest of my life. I can do the work of therapy, of communicating with a doctor about medication, but there is something about it that will always be wired into me. I have to be able to shift my perspective. So now, as I have done for many years, I look for signs. The difference is, these signs are not false omens of loss or disaster. They are signs that tell me to persevere and remind me of the ways our world is kind. I look for little things that you might not notice if you aren’t paying attention. The way that if you smile at a stranger, sometimes they smile back. The people who hold the door when they see you coming. Professors who ask if you’re doing okay and care about the answer. Friends who text you just because. Nights when sleep is dreamless and easy. Sunsets that take your breath away. I choose to look for those kinds of signs. I refuse to let OCD take away my right to live a life that is beautiful and heartbreaking and to love it anyway. So, if you’re reading this, it’s a sign to keep going. It matters that you are here.
Olivia H., West Chester University
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