What My Brain Told Me

A day in the life of someone suffering with OCD.

I’ve always been different.
As a little girl I was afraid of cuss words and big dogs, but I think the most different thing about me was my pure petrification of hell. At seven years old my 200 prayers a day, counting every syllable imaginable, and staying away from the number six was never enough to keep me out of satan’s reach. Or save me from the monster that would later be revealed as my brain.
I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I knew I had sinned. That was a word I learned in church. Sinning is whenever you do something wrong and you have to apologize perfectly or else you go to hell.
Or at least that’s what my brain told me.
I didn’t remember what I did this time. I was such a bad person that there was so much to apologize for. When others say the Lord’s name in vain, it’s my fault. When I count numbers and land on six, it’s my fault. When I’m not appreciative enough it’s my fault. When people hurt me, it’s my fault.
So I’d apologize perfectly and hope God didn’t hate me. Or at least that’s what my brain told me.
On top of all of that guilt was the panic. My throat just seemed to close. My lungs seemed to let go of air, and I’d be under water. Yet again at the mere age of seven years old I’d be in class wondering why I was gasping for breath and why there seemed to be none in the room.
Maybe God was punishing me. I was such a terrible person. I deserved to be punished.
Or at least that’s what my brain told me.
Then the picking started. I don’t know why I pick at nothing, but it’s just what my brain tells me. I picked at my skin, picked off the scabs repeatedly and kept going. I picked on my arms, legs, face and scalp. Usually I was anxious from praying. But the demolition of my skin led to a staph infection across my entire face. My body was a temple and I was destroying it. I felt I was a shame to God and everyone in my family. God was furious at me for ruining his temple. Or at least that’s what my brain told me.
And then the depression. The depression is an emptiness that is like nothing else on this earth. It grabs me by the throat and tells me I’m not good enough for God. It tells me God wants me to leave this planet and that I’ve embarrassed Him. But the depression is the only one there when everyone else has left. It’s there for me, even though it’s cruel. It’s lying to me, but I believe its words. The depression has a grip around my neck, but sometimes that’s all I have. Or at least that’s what my brain’s told me.
Sometimes all I have is the depression and anxiety and OCD. But sometimes they’re what rip me to shreds. Out of all the people in this world I was burdened with this illness. But maybe it’s not an illness. Maybe it’s a blessing.
Or at least that’s what my brain tells me.