By Zahra Kataieh
Textbook baby is what they used to describe me as an infant. Although weighing in at a supposedly unexpected four kilograms, I was everything else my mother had read about. A routine child, everything had to be on time every day, so going against the rhythm could have dire consequences. Sort of in relation to feeding a gremlin after midnight, you bring out the beast behind the adorable curtain. Although as stereotypical as a baby can be, the more I grew, the more the beast began to emerge. Although not a physical creature, its talons hardly ever ceased to grasp the things I would hold so dear. This beast, this creature, this rapidly declining source of the unseen — is none other than my mental state. Even as I write this, it consumes me. I was taught it would follow me from the cradle to the grave. Although being diagnosed with anxiety as a young child, I was yet to know what it would become later down the track. Every decision came with a heavy weight, an underlying ‘what if?’ I felt as though my thoughts had power, even if I do not think of myself as an all-powerful being capable of controlling everyone’s every move. I don’t remember having many negative intentions with my mind growing up — although I do not remember much. As I grow older, the foggier my memories become. Ultimately, I am left with mere feelings and the freedom to wander my imagination. I worry it is making an increase of space for this ‘thing’ which I would later come to learn is OCD, otherwise known as obsessive compulsive disorder.
I have a vague memory of myself visiting the doctor’s office at around the age of six or seven, could be younger or older, maybe I will never know for sure. I can’t remember the main reason for my visit, but I do remember my mother or my father explaining to the doctor that I had begun a habit of perfectionism. One of my most prominent habits is that the wardrobe door must remain fully closed when unused, especially when it is time for bed. The doctor had suggested possible OCD, thus began one of my misconceptions. This had led me to believe that OCD was equivalent to perfectionism, although what I felt the doctor had yet to explain to me was the feeling behind the need to close my wardrobe door. It was never about neat rows and colour coordination. No, this was another scenario of the ‘what if?’ It was a long time ago now, but I have a faint memory of anxiety, a worry of what may be lurking behind that wardrobe door. I catch myself wondering the reason behind my OCD starting so much later in my life. But it had never appeared later. It was always there, waiting, wondering, leering. It began to shoot itself out in spurts, bit by bit for moments at a time during my adolescence. I would go through periods of uncertainty and strange habits linked to this feeling that I had yet to be diagnosed with. I was yet to know how long it would take before I was sure of what I was going through. I was scared and it was unfathomable to me that people were capable of going through life with minimal concern for the unknown. It had plagued me and continues to do so to this day.
My household itself wasn’t extremely religious; I wasn’t exposed to this until I had been enrolled in an Islamic school near my grandmother’s house. I had found bliss in my newfound purpose. I had a strong connection to my faith and was eager to learn, so I fell in love. This was before I had begun to show extreme symptoms of OCD. Around the age of eleven, I had begun to experience a range of doubts. I struggled immensely to keep a hold of my faith, constantly wary about the series of ‘what ifs?’ I had begun to experience all over again. This only lasted over a period of a few months, but it felt like an eternity, a core memory that still haunts me to this day. I had developed strange habits that came with my new fears. The usual hand washing of course, but this soon developed into constant on and off switching of lights, entering in and out of spaces over and over until I felt ‘it’ would be satisfied. I was engulfed, consumed, and devoured. It was beginning to take hold of my relationship with my family: the people I held so dear to me. No matter how many psychologist appointments I attended, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them the truth of what was really happening to me. I could barely describe the war that was my own mind. It followed me in waves throughout my life since then, becoming stronger every so often, each period lasting longer than the last. I couldn’t bring myself to do even the most basics of tasks out of worry it may continue to press on. I felt as though I had reverted to that scrawny child I once was, except in a taller and fuller frame.
I had begun to see a counsellor at the under ripened age of eight-years-old. I had begun to experience difficulties within my friendships at school and began to be plagued with anxieties upon returning each day without a friend to call my own. This was of course set up by my own mother but was yet to know what a counsellor really was. I had suspected it was someone who worked for the council. I was excited and begun a sort of childlike “friendship” with my counsellor, although I cannot remember her name. By the time my few weeks with her were up, I had already resolved my friendship issues and began life anew. Thus began my false perception on therapy and counselling. I feel it portrayed a false narrative on the way expressing your problems to professionals should work. As my mother had suggested when my obsessive-compulsive anxiety began to spike in my early pubescent days, I was eager to seek help from a psychologist. Except I feel this time I was not satisfied with the results. My mental state was far beyond that of an eleven-year-olds comprehension, however I was still receiving worksheets and childlike activities to help “cope” with my extreme new form of anxiety. I knew deep down that this was of no help to me, yet I had still learned to accept it. My parents had already struggled to help me get this far, so who was I to let them down? If anything, the person who helped me the most when getting through such a dark time in my life would have to be my teacher at the time. I had moved to her class after receiving severe bullying from peers in my previous one. She saw me for who I was and took great care of me, ultimately bringing out the love for the things I had enjoyed so dearly before this dark time. She loved reading and one of her favourite shows that she carried with her from her youth was than Doctor Who — which I grew fond of. Her advice still sticks with me to this day.
Although I have been struggling with extreme bouts of obsessive-compulsive anxiety for almost a year and a half, I continued to power through. I went through life this way for a few months before I eventually began to take antidepressants. I struggled with this possible reality for many years, often avoiding it due to the advice of others who have experienced it. It had gotten to a point where I felt I could no longer perform the basics of tasks before I had finally decided on getting a prescription. The doctor had prescribed me sertraline otherwise known commercially as Zoloft. I remember being told it would take anywhere from four to eight weeks to see the full effect, but I had begun to feel it by the third day. I was bubblier and more social than I have been in a long time; it shocked me deeply. I thought if I was feeling this way after a few days, imagine what a few weeks would feel like. What I hadn’t realised at the time was how nonlinear a journey on antidepressants is, especially within the first few weeks. I had experienced a side effect of vivid dreams that began to disturb me, so I decided to make the switch to fluoxetine. Although more linear, I worry that I may be outgrowing this dosage. To this day, I still feel as though my symptoms grow stronger and stronger until I can no longer function.
What I have learned to understand about mental health as someone who has had a rocky journey throughout their entire life is that healing isn’t linear. I still struggle to grasp the concept of not having to go through this alone, and that there is plenty of support and help for me available across many platforms. It is not always what social media makes it out to be. It isn’t always cute breaks at home, mindfulness, and journaling, although all very valid forms of recovery. I feel as though I shouldn’t have to perform constantly to the people around me; I should be able to express how I am feeling because there is nothing stopping me except myself. Yes, there is constant pressure to save face and keep composed under desperate measures, but what I have come to learn is that methods such as these can only increase the pain. Although there is still a stigma surrounding mental illness within our society, it has lessened over the years and continues to do so. With this, I strongly feel we should use to our advantage, to help shed light on understated issues such as my own. For years OCD has been pigeonholed into being a disorder surrounding perfectionism, although life with it is far from perfect, and often very messy. I do not know what advice to give somebody going through the same struggles as my own, especially as I am still going through it. What I do know is that I am not alone in this struggle and often seeking advice from people who have learned to overcome these symptoms can provide a new and hopeful perspective. I still look forward to a future where I will be able to truly live for who I am.
