Anxiety and OCD aren't "minor" mental illnesses.

We tend to visualize mental illness on a spectrum. To challenge that, here's my experience with generalized anxiety disorder and OCD.

I was shaking.

Like really shaking. My hands trembled, my breath came and went in irregular bursts, and my stomach sloshed with what felt like angry ocean waves.

I was sweating, yet I was freezing.

I knew I was about to pass out or throw up or die, but I wasn’t sure which.

Through the symptoms I stumbled into my parents’ pitch-black room.

They sat up with me for half an hour, trying to calm me down. The thoughts were swirling, every stressor in my life converging in one dramatic crash. I saw in my mind’s eye a video of the South Tower falling on September 11, 2001, one floor after the other, the weight of each successive collapse bringing down the next until, finally, death and destruction weren’t confined to just a few stories. They surfed on the waves of debris, glass, and metal. Office supplies and men rained down on a city of terrified onlookers.

This must be a nightmare, I concluded.

But it wasn’t.

It was “only a panic attack.”

And I was only twelve.

Horseback riding around age 3 or 4: my very first memory.

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I was fourteen when I was diagnosed with anxiety. “Generalized Anxiety Disorder,” to be specific.

Quite a few things suddenly made sense.

For instance, when I was eight, I decided I was a horrible person.

I’d had evidence to support my conclusion.

Often, I fell asleep during my hour-long, repetitive bedtime prayer. When I awoke the next morning, I wouldn’t allow myself to watch cartoons until I repeated the entire prayer from the very beginning.

But my parents didn’t make me do that. My church didn’t make me do that.

I did.

Then I realized that I wasn’t just a sinner, but a sinner destined for hell! At eight, I didn’t really understand God’s grace. I thought I had to confess every sin or I would not be cleansed.

I would be, as the Bible says, unclean.

I panicked.

What if I died before I had a chance to confess and repent of my sins from that particular day?

Every night, my poor parents had to listen to me tearfully explain every “bad” thought I had and “bad” thing I did that day (spoiler alert: when you’re eight, the “bad” things you think and do really aren’t all that bad). I was sure if I died, my in-depth confessions were the only way I’d make it into heaven. I was terrified I’d forget a sin one evening, get hit by a car the following day, and go straight to hell.

Then came the stomach issues.

My mother assumed I had IBS, which I probably did - but it was more than that. Stomach aches and anxiety went hand-in-hand, so as I moved up in grades and school ramped up, my pain grew worse.

And of course, I had to get all As, so that brought with it a whole new level of stress.

So when I threw up from the flu in the third grade and choked on my vomit, I developed a phobia of throwing up. My anxiety and stomach issues combined with this new fear led to what I would later discover was a typical OCD-style “obsession”: I suddenly thought I was sick all the time. In other words, I spent about a year of my childhood as a hypochondriac. My parents had to regularly pick me up “sick” from school and feed me saltines and chicken noodle soup when, physiologically, I was completely fine.

Thankfully for me, my mother deals with anxiety and stomach issues herself, so she was always patient with me. The only difference was our ages: her issues didn’t really flare up until she was about eighteen, while my struggles blossomed at only five or six.

In middle school, my anxiety got to the point where I was shaking in class, having daily stomachaches, and unable to sleep. My freshman year of high school, my mother lovingly took me to a psychiatrist.

I sat across from an ancient woman with coke-bottle lenses and a floral patterned grandma dress. Both physically and mentally, she reminded me of Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter (if you don’t know who that is, look her up and it’ll take you all of two seconds to know exactly what kind of person my therapist was.) She gave me worksheets for “homework” on which I was to list my stressors each week. She had me lay down on her couch (yes, like they do in the movies) whilst she walked through “breathing exercises” that were supposed to help me sleep.

The exercises did help me sleep. But I still couldn’t complete basic tasks, like eating, exercising, or reading, without feeling like I was drowning in a sea of anxiety.

So, exasperated, Shrink Trelawney prescribed me 25 milligrams of Zoloft.

After years of fearing pills and the Medical Establishment (at just fourteen years of age… I know), I refused to take my medication. Even though she told me the dosage was lower than she’d ever prescribed before - so low, in fact, that it probably wouldn’t do anything to help with my anxiety - I wouldn’t have it.

Finally, at my parents’ urging, I started taking the Zoloft. Not much changed for my anxiety, but the good news was I didn’t have any adverse reactions.

So we increased the dosage to 50 milligrams.

For the first time in my life, I started to feel better. No more panic attacks, no more shaking in class - I was still far more anxious than my peers, sure, but I was at least able to function!

I couldn’t believe it: I was free!

But some things still didn’t change.

I still had an hour-long bedtime routine that had to be done in precisely the right order. My phone apps still had to be closed properly, my phone turned on and off in a specific way, my closet door kept at an exact angle before I could turn the lights out.

Somehow, it never occurred to me - or to anyone around me - that I wasn’t just anxious.

But I wasn’t diagnosed with OCD until I was twenty-one years old.

That was after two years of sharing a room with another girl in college, during which she had to deal with me getting up to pee at least three times every evening before I could go to sleep.

Luckily, my roommate was studying to be a therapist and had nearly unlimited patience with me (she’s truly a beautiful soul, by the way - you can read her true love story on my page here.)

I learned from my adult therapist that anxiety and OCD can be independent of one another, but they often go hand in hand because obsessions give you anxiety that can only be relieved (at least temporarily) by completing compulsions.

That’s why I needed constant reassurance from my two-year college boyfriend that he still liked me. That’s why I needed my mother to remind me that I was saved by grace through faith, regardless of the “bad” thoughts I forgot to confess. That’s why I had to make sure my phone was perfectly parallel to the edge of my nightstand when I turned it off at night before I could sleep.

My therapist also explained that OCD does something really terrifying to the brain: it picks out the things you care about the most in life and convinces you that you will screw those things up.

For me, that looked like spiritual OCD. I cared so much about spending eternity in heaven with the Lord that I grew terrified I wouldn’t. I obsessed over it, my thoughts ruminating on the terror that I would end up in hell. Suddenly, I was praying constantly to be forgiven and feeling no emotional relief.

For me, that looked like relationship OCD. I cared so much about my romantic relationships that I grew terrified I’d screw them up - maybe I’d say the wrong thing or, worst of all, maybe I’d cheat. Even though I’ve never cheated before nor had any inclination to do so, I was suddenly avoiding all young men that weren’t whoever I was dating.

For a friend of mine with OCD, that looked like harm OCD. He cared so much about his family and his faith that his brain fixated on the worst thing that could happen - what if he hurt those he loved? Suddenly, he was avoiding all knives in the kitchen, even though he knew he would never actually pick up a knife and hurt anyone.

That’s OCD - it’s like your brain is a record player, and your most terrifying thoughts are broken records. They play over and over and over again and you have no idea how to escape the cycle.

Your memories stick, too.

It’s almost impossible to “get over” things. You remember embarrassing moments in vivid detail; you rethink all of your conversations and memories. Overanalyzing and thinking about things like “What could I have done differently? What could I have said differently? What did I do wrong?” are so intense that your anxiety skyrockets and sleep becomes elusive.

One of my earliest memories is of my older brothers wrestling in the family room of my childhood home. I was probably about five at the time, and they were around eleven and fifteen respectively.

I can still see it: My eldest brother sat on my other brother’s back, holding him down and shoving his face in the carpet.

“Eat it!” He yelled, victorious. “Eat the dust!”

I screamed at him to get off. Crying, I shoved him until, laughing, he lets my younger brother up.

Both boys are smiling. They were just playing around.

Yet I have never forgotten that memory.

Why?

Because I saw cruelty and I panicked. To this day, I want to undo that moment - fix it somehow - even though I know it wasn’t nearly as bad as I perceived it to be.

I’m just a broken record player, still trying to spin the same stuff around.

OCD attacks whatever is dearest to you. That causes a spike in anxiety, which results in more obsessions and compulsions to alleviate the discomfort of the anxiety.

This is my life.

But it isn’t just mine.

It’s the life lived by millions of people.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, over 19% of Americans experienced an anxiety disorder in the past year,¹ and over 2% are diagnosed with OCD.²

Sometimes I feel like my disorders are societally “minor disorders” or “baby disorders” - ones that aren’t as serious as things like persistent depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, antisocial personality disorder, etc. People always say things like “I’m being OCD” or “oh, it’s just my anxiety.” I’m not the type to be easily offended, so that doesn’t bother me, yet I wonder how many people really understand the type of mental battle that extreme anxiety and OCD are.

Frankly, they’re not “cute” or “small” mental illnesses. They have impacted what I’ve been able to accomplish. Thankfully, I’ve had access to therapy, medication, and resources that have taught me how to handle my anxiety and reach my goals.

But not everyone is so lucky.

Here’s my point: if you don’t struggle with anxiety and/or OCD, that’s awesome! I just want to shine a light on how hard it really is to encourage you to be patient and sympathetic with those around you who do. Since people with anxiety and/or OCD often function pretty well in society, it’s important to know that there’s a much larger battle going on behind the scenes.

If you do deal with anxiety and/or OCD, you are not alone! There are many others who experience what you’re experiencing, so there are tons of resources for improving your mental health. Perhaps it’s time to see a therapist, talk to a doctor/psychiatrist, or at least tell someone else about what you’re going through.

You don’t have to keep fighting the battle on your own.

Let this be your encouragement to do something about it.

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⚠️ Disclaimer: I am not a licensed therapist or medical professional and no part of this article constitutes medical advice. If you are struggling with your mental health, be sure to see a licensed medical professional to discuss the treatment plan that’s best for you.

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Thank you for reading to the end of today’s post! This topic is especially close to my heart, so if you could share this post, like, comment, etc., that would truly mean the world to me.

I felt very vulnerable sharing this with you all, but I wanted those of you struggling with anxiety and/or OCD out there to know that you are absolutely not alone.

1. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/any-anxiety-disorder

2. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd