1983 to present, Southern California

By Brooke Keast

I could hear the sound of water draining from the sink. The odor of public restroom was all around me. I prayed no one would walk in and find me this way, crouched down on a dirty bathroom floor, staring at my red, raw hands.

I need to get up, I kept telling myself; I could just use the sink in the waitress station instead. Yet there I sat, immobile, a million miles from reason. I shuddered as another tear made its way from my cheek to my chin, then onto the order pad sticking out from the pocket of my light blue uniform. “What is wrong with me?!” I begged for an answer.

I began wondering whether I was different from other kids when I was only 5 years old; by third grade, I had no doubt. My parents and teachers would question why I acted so peculiar; kids would make fun of me and call me weird. What to tell them? How can a child of only 10 years find the words to articulate that which she, herself, does not understand? People questioned and people teased, but no one understood enough to help.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had been part of my existence for 19 harrowing years before I learned of its presence within me, while the training wheels were still on my pink and purple bicycle, before the ache of braces, and long before the sweetness of my first kiss. This tormenting disease had been working overtime, seeping into my mind, reaching into the very core of my person, molding me and forever changing me, relentlessly controlling me. I was a helpless victim of my own faltering sanity; a prisoner within myself.

One, two, three…. One, two, three…. One, two three…. Recite these numbers and breathe in two times, breathe out. Step forward with my left foot twice, step forward with my right. Begin again. Back and forth, from the waitress station to the tables, from the kitchen to the bedroom, from the parking lot to the store; over and over and over again.

This was my life as I knew it, and had been for years. Every breath, every step, every number repetition painstakingly accounted for. One falter in the pattern and my heart would leap from my chest. Something terrible would happen if I messed up, and I could only make it right by cleansing myself.

I was helpless to stop dirt from getting on my hands, pooling there, waiting for me to make one wrong move. I could not control dirt from reaching my hands, the countertops, the floors, or anywhere else. I had no control over dirt or germs or pain or sadness or fear or loneliness or me. But I could wash; that I could control. And so I washed my hands raw 150 times each day.

I could see the suds of the soap getting bigger with each harsh scrub. I rinsed, visualizing dirt and germs washing away, along with my fears and anxieties. This wasn’t enough, of course, so I pumped the soap dispenser once more. Panic etched my face as I realized I had used the last of the soap. Overcome with dread, I could almost feel the germs worming their way over my flesh, mocking me. I pushed the dispenser harder and faster, just one handful would do. Please, just one damn drop! Nothing. I saw a tiny bead of blood forming on a knuckle where my skin had rubbed raw. Tears came as I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, helpless to control it.

I had endured so much over my short life; had seen myself lower than most people ever get. I had been on this path of physically harrowing mental mutilation at full speed ahead for far too long. It wasn’t an intervention that finally led me toward recovery; it wasn’t friends or family finally taking notice. All those years of misery and torment came down to an empty soap dispenser and a bathroom floor. And me.

This is the breakthrough I had so desperately needed, the realization that there would never be enough soap, never enough breaths or patterns or repetitions to make it go away. Borne by a moment of madness was clarity.

I sat in the waiting room, nervously gripping my boyfriend’s hand. He knew my struggles more intimately than anyone; the relief he felt at finally seeing me seek answers was evident.

My visit proved short and stressful. The psychiatrist was 40 minutes late, spent 20 minutes of a paid hour session with me, made a diagnosis and was already putting pen to paper, writing me a prescription for Prozac within 15 minutes.

When I told him I wanted to try and fight this disease on my own, he laughed at me and told me not taking medication is akin to shooting myself in the head; one would kill me faster, but both would be equally destructive in the end. I thanked him for the few minutes he bothered with me and quickly left his office.

I sat sobbing in the passenger seat of my car in the parking lot of the psychiatry building. I was no stranger to loneliness, had felt the sting of it many times. The loneliness I felt at that moment in that parking lot was the same as if I had been shivering outside in the cold while looking in at a family on Christmas morning sitting by their warm fire, wrapping paper strewn around them. Alone and pitiful, aching for someone to open the door, to care.

I had needed that man, whose degree hung in a frame on the wall, to show me compassion and tell me I would be OK, to fix what had broken in me long ago. The blow he dealt me was a stinging slap in the face. I now felt it was solely up to me; only I could do what needed to be done. And so, like a train in motion, I set forth to do it.

I had to talk about my mom. At least, that’s what the book I bought on OCD said: to deal with those things that have caused the most stress. I had to let go of my reservations and talk until exhaustion overtook me, until I couldn’t think of one more thing to say. I talked about the pain of my parents divorcing when I just 7 years old. I talked about how my mom morphed from a woman who went to PTA meetings and baked cookies into a woman I didn’t even recognize. I had to talk about her struggles with Anorexia and Bi-Polar Disorder, and the devastating impact each had on me.

And I had to talk about my dad. Throughout my childhood, above all else, I was a daddy’s girl. My dad and I were inseparable. Joined at the hip, we would jokingly say. When I was twelve years old, he added to his life a wife and step-daughter, and I suddenly found myself having to share him more than I could bear to. I had to talk about how painful this new family was for me, how I felt like an old sofa in bad need of a yard sale: out with the old, in with the new. I had to talk about the emptiness that encompassed me while in his home, amongst his new family, where I felt more like an interloper than a member.

And after I had talked and cried and screamed and beat the pillows for what seemed like eternity, I slept one of the best sleeps of my life.

It has been a decade since that night. I may have suffered through my illness for 19 years, but my journey of self discovery has since molded me into a much stronger woman than I ever dreamed possible. This disease, which has caused me so much anguish and turmoil, has also made me determined and focused. That which has beaten me down has, in turn, given me the strength to fight and the will to overcome.

In this realization, I developed a sense of respect for OCD, a sense of good rising from the ashes of bad. I fought and I fought hard, with every ounce of power I had within me. I had to wake each morning with determination and confidence, hope and optimism. I had to find self worth, self respect, and self love. And I had to deal with my demons and fight them, finding the positive in each painful past experience.

I married my boyfriend seven years ago. We now have two great kids: a 6-year-old son and a 2-year-old daughter. Two years into our marriage, I was washing my hands just 50 times a day; after four years of marriage, I achieved complete control over this compulsion. I had conquered.

I have to work every day at controlling my breathing. When I notice myself patterning it, I pull back and take control; it no longer controls me. Of course, I have developed other obsessions and compulsions over the years, but all are dealt with; none of them run my life.

I have come to accept reason. If my hands are dirty, I’ll be OK; if I don’t breathe in pattern, I’ll be OK. The world will not tumble down around me no matter how dirty my hands get, or how disorganized my underwear drawer is, or whether my shirts are hung by length. I am the manager of my mind now. After years of mental imprisonment, I am finally my own boss.

I have not only accepted myself, but have developed a sense of humor about it, as well; a great coping strategy. Life is about change and challenge and acceptance. It’s about coming to terms with your place in the world, no matter how strange your place may seem. I have come to appreciate my unique, imperfect self. I have learned to laugh at my faults and embrace my originality.

If there is one lesson I hope to teach my children, it is this. I want them to know with certainty that they can do anything, be anything, that they are their own pilot.

I see myself in my son; I know the path he may be headed down all too well. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can be conquered, but it can also be passed on, working its damage for generations to come. He will not go it alone, as I had to do. He’ll have tough decisions to make, and must develop strength beyond what will seem possible, but I have faith; I believe he will triumph.

I am armed and ready to combat this sickness once again for my son. I have seen its awful truth, witnessed it at its ugliest, and bested it. If it’s a battle we’re in for, we will do battle, with our heads held high and our courage intact. This disease is strong, but we are stronger; we will fight and we will win. Again.

Brooke Keast resides in Southern California, where she has lived since birth. She has a deep passion for writing and hopes to one day be a published novelist.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, March 19th, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Monday, March 19th, 2007 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.