Overthinking, Overcoming and Owning My Story
This week, I am taking a different approach to my blog for Gary Kayye’s ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class. In this blog, I share my journey with anxiety and OCD, from childhood fears to eventual diagnosis and growth. Whether you’re navigating your mental health journey or supporting someone who is, this blog is a reminder that you’re not alone and that kindness and understanding can make all the difference.
When I was younger, I lived with debilitating anxiety, though I never thought much of it. I was too young to recognize that what I was experiencing wasn’t normal. At night, I would lie in bed, and my mind would race with dark thoughts, usually about my family and me meeting the worst possible fate I could imagine—death. It wasn’t just once in a while; this was nightly, a ritual where I would pray over and over until I finally drifted off to sleep, hoping that nothing bad would happen.
As I grew older, these thoughts started to evolve into something more consuming. It wasn’t just about my family anymore. My thoughts turned inward, becoming fixated on myself and my body. I developed obsessive fears about getting sick and dying. For months, I couldn’t eat without counting each chew, making sure I chewed my food the “right” number of times. Somehow, in my young mind, that was the only way I could avoid choking, an embarrassing fate that terrified me. I believed everyone had strange thoughts like this, so I didn’t question it too much. But while I stayed active and social, there was always this background noise in my head—these intrusive thoughts that followed me everywhere.
In 8th grade, I had an allergic reaction that came out of nowhere, causing my body to swell and break out in hives. To this day, I still don’t know what triggered it. But what came after was even more disorienting. For weeks, I lived in constant fear that every piece of food I ate might cause another reaction. I scrutinized every meal, feeling like I was walking on eggshells around my own body. And yet, like all the other bouts of anxiety I had faced, this one eventually faded.
But the relief never lasted. These episodes followed me throughout my life, some more severe than others. When I was a freshman in high school, a deep-seated fear of nausea took over my mind. It became a constant companion, filling me with relentless anxiety. My fear of getting sick was so intense that I ended up throwing up almost daily, morning and night. The anxiety fed into itself, and it spiraled out of control. I went to the doctor and found out I had lost around 30 pounds. My weight had dropped to an unhealthy level, below the target for my age and height. I was an active member of my school’s cheerleading team, but the constant light-headedness made practice unbearable, and, of course, it only fueled my anxiety even more.
Yet, like the other instances, this fear eventually faded. It came and went, leaving me to believe that I just had waves of generalized anxiety. For years, I ignored the other little things—my compulsion to arrange certain objects in a very specific way, my strange fear of getting too close to electrical sockets, and the nagging urge to check that the doors were locked multiple times before I could go to sleep.
Up until my senior year of high school, I lived with all of these behaviors and anxieties, thinking they were just a normal part of life. But that year, something shifted. During spring break, I started feeling more anxious than I had in a long time, with no real explanation for why. It was overwhelming, and suddenly, my biggest fear became my anxiety itself. My OCD latched onto that fear, amplifying it. Even the simple act of getting out of bed felt like a monumental task. I was terrified of having a panic attack in public, convinced that anxiety would swallow me whole if I left the house. Every normal activity turned into a battleground for my biggest fears. What if I had a panic attack while driving and crashed my car? What if these feelings never went away?
As time went on, the intensity of my anxiety cooled, but I still didn’t fully understand what was happening. I went through talk therapy and filled my days with distractions as high school graduation approached. My anxiety still loomed, but I managed to push through and function, even if I wasn’t entirely okay. I had spent most of my life ignoring my mental health issues, hoping they would go away if I pretended they didn’t exist. But mental health doesn’t work like that. You can only push it down for so long before it comes back stronger than ever.
It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that things started to become clearer. One of my best friends from childhood began opening up to me about her recent struggles with OCD. As she described her experience, I realized that what she was saying felt oddly familiar. The way her thoughts spiraled, the rituals she felt compelled to follow—it was like she was describing me. I had heard of OCD before, but I never thought it applied to me. Yet as my friend talked more about her struggles, and as I saw more about OCD on social media, I started connecting the dots. Everything I had experienced, from my obsessive thoughts to my compulsive behaviors, suddenly made sense. But because I had ignored my symptoms for so long, they came back with a vengeance.
That summer after my sophomore year felt eerily similar to my senior year of high school. I could feel myself sinking under the weight of my anxiety. At that point, it felt like there was nothing that didn’t trigger my OCD. I often told my mom that I wished I could unzip my skin and crawl out of it—anything to escape the constant feeling of unease. It was exhausting. I saw therapists and doctors, and they finally confirmed what I had come to suspect: I had OCD.
When I hear people casually say, “Oh, I’m so OCD about that,” I struggle with it. It’s hard to explain to people that while, yes, my OCD might make me neat or particular about certain things, it also brings me an immense amount of discomfort. Although I know I’m in control of my mind and body, it often feels like someone else is driving the car, and I’m just along for the ride.
With the help of my family, doctors, and therapists, I’ve reached a place of acceptance. OCD is a part of me, but it doesn’t define me. I’m incredibly thankful for my best friend, who shares these struggles and knows exactly what I’m going through. I’ve also found outlets that help me quiet my mind—meditation, yoga, medication, and leaning on my friends. Through all of this, I’ve learned to face OCD head-on and remind myself that this is my life and that I’m the one in control.
I’m not writing this blog to gain sympathy. I’m writing it to give others hope. Almost two years ago, my friend shared her experience with me, and it helped me find clarity. Now, I’m here to share my story with all of you. No matter what you’re going through, no matter what your diagnosis is or isn’t, you are not alone. You are represented somewhere in the world.
As Suicide Prevention Month comes to a close, I’m reminded of the importance of kindness. Throughout my journey, I met people who brightened my day with small gestures, showing me that I am more than my mental health struggles. So, I challenge you today: tell someone you love them, reach out to someone who might need it, and offer kindness to a stranger. You never know what someone might be going through, and sometimes, the smallest act can make all the difference.
