It’s well after 8 p.m., and my son should be tucked in bed. Tonight is one of those rare occasions when his father is home, and I should be relishing a toddler-free evening now that my daughter is sound asleep. But, as is often the case on these “bedtime free” nights, my son has been wailing and resisting sleep for the last 40 minutes while my husband tries to calm him with reassurances and gentle redirection. This scenario is all too familiar.
Finally, the house falls silent, and I silently applaud my husband for managing to settle him down. But then I hear the creak of the baby gate and my son’s voice calling out, “Mommy?” I hold my breath, anticipating the sound of my husband’s footsteps returning with our son in tow. Instead, I hear the panic in his voice as he calls again, “MOMMY?” I rush toward the sound, my heart racing.
At the top of the stairs, I see him, his small frame teetering as he takes cautious steps down. With his hand pressed against the cool wall for support, he moves forward, and suddenly my heart is in my throat. He never navigates the stairs without one of us guiding him. Panic surges through me, and I yell for my husband, instructing my son to stay put. “Just hold on!”
In that moment, my husband swoops in and lifts our son, and the door to their bedroom closes. He is safe. But my mind is racing. Images of my son tumbling down the stairs and experiencing something tragic replay in my head, an unsettling loop that haunts me for the rest of the night. I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the thoughts, but they return relentlessly. I resort to a ritual I’ve practiced since childhood: hitting my head gently in an effort to reset my mind. It’s a futile gesture, but I do it anyway, hoping for relief, yet feeling a wave of nausea as the thoughts return.
This behavior disrupts the peaceful evening my husband envisioned. As we attempt to enjoy our favorite show, I find myself grappling with my distress, which causes my husband to withdraw, unsure of how to help me.
Living with OCD
Living with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) has been a lifelong challenge. Before motherhood, my obsessions revolved around my own mortality. However, the love I have for my children intensifies my struggles; my OCD exploits that love. Now, I find myself unable to cook without fearing I might inadvertently poison my children, leading me to avoid the kitchen altogether. Each day, as my son heads to daycare with my husband, I engage in silent and spoken rituals, convinced that if I don’t perform them, something catastrophic will happen.
When my daughter cries and settles herself, I often rush to wake her, fearing that if I leave her be, I’ll lose her. While addressing a clogged duct during breastfeeding, I press down so hard, convinced it could be something dire, that I hurt myself physically as I envision a future without my children. Despite consultations with specialists and reassurance, I remain restless, obsessively checking to ensure everything feels normal. Moments of joy are overshadowed by fear, as my inner voice taunts me: You’ll be gone soon. Your kids will resent you.
Even in my more stable moments, OCD finds a way to infiltrate my thoughts. It is a part of me that I struggle to accept. The thought of passing this mental illness on to my children looms over me. If they inherit this burden, how can I love them fully while grappling with my own disdain for OCD? Is it possible to embrace their struggles while hating the disorder that causes them pain? Does my aversion to their OCD mean I cannot love them unconditionally? The questions swirl in my mind without resolution.
For tonight, I am simply grateful that my son didn’t fall down the stairs, and I’ll focus on that small victory.
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Conclusion
In summary, parenting while managing OCD presents a unique set of challenges. The love for my children is profound, but it is often overshadowed by fear and anxiety regarding their safety and my own mental well-being. Balancing these feelings requires constant reflection and support.
Keyphrase: Motherhood and OCD
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