Five Horses.

I’ve felt compelled to write about my experience with OCD for a while now, but truth be told, it’s very scary to be vulnerable like this. Most people probably don’t even know it’s something that I battle, which was certainly intentional for a while.

If your OCD manifests itself in the form of intrusive thoughts like mine does, chances are, those thoughts are accompanied by an overwhelming amount of shame. Along with that shame comes an underlying distrust in yourself that causes you to question every thought, motive, and decision that you make.  

Ground Zero in my battle with OCD was Jacksonville Beach in November of 2017. More specifically, the week of Thanksgiving, when my entire extended family on my dad’s side was in town for the holiday. That’s when the shadowy parts of my little brain decided to turn on me. At least, that’s how it felt.

For some context, November of 2017 was a month where I was absolutely riddled with anxiety for reasons that I’ll save for another story. The level of anxiety I experienced was unlike anything I had ever faced before. It felt like I was stuck in the middle of a crippling, non-stop panic attack that was most definitely eating me alive. Speaking of eating, I couldn’t. Sleep was Shangri-La, and my mind wouldn’t allow me in the gates. I was angry with my brain. I was angry with myself for lacking the strength to overcome the anxiety. 

I’ll never forget the first intrusive thought I experienced. I had just finished an aggressive power walk on the beach in an effort to shake the anxiety from my bones, and as I turned onto the 19th Street beach access, I had this really dark thought about death. It came out of nowhere and was so foreign to my usual thought pattern that it physically shook me.

I booked it home, wondering what the hell had just happened. I knew I was coming off my Wellbutrin, but would that cause an incredibly dark and pervasive thought to appear out of nowhere? Was this caused by my anxiety?

I’ll never forget turning on the shower to scalding hot, and standing under the running torrents, tears leaking out of my eyes to join the water as it washed over my body. What was happening to my brain? Was I a danger to myself? Was I a danger to others? Who do I talk to about what I just experienced? Will it happen again? It was like my brain had just taken a bump of cocaine and was inflating to encompass all the thoughts flying around my mind a million miles a minute. Meanwhile, my heart felt like it had been blown up and was now shrapnel floating throughout my body.

My intrusive thoughts continued over the next month, and I was absolutely not adjusting to my new normal. I was terrified to hold a knife to cut vegetables for dinner, because I didn’t know if I’d lose control and turn it on myself. I couldn’t go on walks with my mom in the morning, as we’d done every morning for months, because I didn’t know what my intrusive thoughts would tell me to do. Hugging people, which I’ve never been fond of, was completely out of the question. Was I capable of hurting someone else? Was I capable of hurting myself? Was I even in control of my own actions?

I was teetering on the edge of a desperation that I had never known. I shared what was happening with my parents but withheld most of the detail as to the content of my thoughts because I was teeming with shame. I didn’t want to scare them. Saying these things aloud was too terrifying to even contemplate. I didn’t want the thoughts to win, and I thought that by acknowledging them aloud, they would defeat me.

I began to resist the things I usually found solace in: yoga, meditation, manifestation, because I was convinced that the thoughts that invaded my mind would inherently come true just because I thought them (albeit against my will and consciousness). I gave all of my power over to the darkness of my mind, and I was left depleted.

As November turned into December, I felt like a shell. I would sit awake at night, too terrified to close my eyes because if I succumbed to sleep, I would be helpless in the battle against my mind. I would stare out my bathroom window at my parents’ house across the block. Merely knowing they were there alleviated some of the pressure that was mounting constantly in my brain.

My family had a trip planned to visit my aunts in Reno over Christmas. It took every ounce of my willpower to get on an airplane, where I knew I would be alone with my thoughts with no distractions, no place to go.

When we arrived in Reno, we went on a hike behind my aunts’ house. As we were walking, I saw five wild horses atop a hill. They were beautiful; muscular, regal, free. Everything I was not. My brain immediately said to me: “Those five horses represent your family. Chris, Sally, Carly, Christopher, Collin. Notice that you’re not included. That’s because you shouldn’t be here. You should die.”

I shuddered. My eyes brimmed with tears. I was so incredibly lonely, and so desperate for peace. For a deep breath. For a moment of quiet. It was over Christmas that I made the decision to see a psychiatrist.  

The first session with my psychiatrist, I told him what was happening. He said to me, “You have OCD, and it’s manifesting itself as intrusive thoughts.” He walked me through the therapies available for treating OCD. Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) is a form of therapy where you are placed in situations that trigger your obsessions, but instead of reacting with your typical compulsions, you sit with the obsessions and do not respond.

For intrusive thoughts, this looks like writing down your worst obsessions (thoughts and fears) and then repeating them back. Instead of suppressing them, which is what I was accustomed to doing (poorly, might I add), I would repeat them and listen to them over and over and over until they became nothing more than a string of insignificant. arbitrary words.

In one session, my Doctor said “Here, please hold this pair of scissors with the blades pointing towards you for the remainder of our session.” PANIC. FEAR. EMERGENCY. I do not hold scissors, I do not touch knives, I strictly eat with spoons these days and rip my Amazon packages apart like a savage. I cannot do this. My hands trembling, I took the scissors. I felt weak. I couldn’t focus. It was hard, but I survived.

I continued to do the work with the help of my psychiatrist. Things absolutely got worse before they got better. I learned to make absurd raps and ditties about my intrusive thoughts that I’d repeat in weird voices until they became comical (‘twas a period of dark comedy, friends). Once again, I was able to climb up stairs without having the overwhelming urge to jump. I could hold someone without being concerned I’d squeeze them too tightly. Slowly, I remembered that I could trust myself.

I still experience intrusive thoughts. Sure, they’ve subsided some, but I know they are more prevalent when I’m in a state of anxiety or fear, so I do my best to lean into those feelings and work through them before they trigger full blown obsessions.

I guess maybe that’s the sentence that I’d boil my life with OCD down to: It was hard, but I survived. It is hard, but I am surviving. I take medicine (shout out to Prozac for quite literally saving my life). I practice ERP. I care for my mental health because I know the view from rock bottom, and I like being on top of the mountain better. I am learning that I deserve every ounce of work that it takes to feel free. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done.

Now, when I think back to that day in Reno where I came across the five wild horses, I like to believe that was the universe telling me that I’m held, and that I’m going to be okay. Five is my life number (if you’re into that), which I knew at the time but couldn’t seem to remember. The number five is important to me. I see it a lot, and every time I do, it reminds of my journey with mental health. That shift in perspective has made all the difference in the world. I am held. I am held. I am held.