At the age of seven, I found myself pacing up and down the stairs, endlessly repeating the process until everything felt “just right.” My best friend joined in, thinking it was a fun little dance routine. But that fleeting sense of satisfaction lasted about 12 seconds before I was drawn back to the compulsive ritual of flipping the light switch on and off repeatedly. Tears were my constant companion. My parents, unsure of how to help, finally took me to a psychologist. This was the 1980s, and the mental health experts were not exactly well-equipped; after all, Frasier Crane was busy dissecting other people’s issues.
As a child, anxiety lurked around every corner. Each time my mother left for groceries to feed her ever-expanding brood, my mind conjured graphic images of her in a horrific car accident, often with her head severed. I believed that if I failed to tell her “I love you” three times before she left, it would somehow cause the tragedy. Two times felt negligent, while four was simply unthinkable. It was agony.
The counselor diagnosed me as simply a “sensitive child,” leaving my parents bewildered. My teenage years brought their own set of challenges. One day, during my sophomore year, I experienced a panic attack so severe that I began to smell things that weren’t there. My poor mother frantically relayed to the ER nurse, “She’s smelling cinnamon rolls now, and before it was Chop Suey!! WHAT IS GOING ON?”
Months passed with me breathing into grocery bags and wishing for relief from the relentless anxiety. After being evaluated again, this time by a psychiatrist, I received a diagnosis of OCD and clinical depression—the relief was palpable. Finally, someone could explain why I felt compelled to count and re-read words obsessively, why disturbing images invaded my mind against my will.
Fast-forward to today. As my toddler struggles to spear a rotini noodle with her fork, yodeling in frustration, and I survey the cottage cheese smashed across the floor while juggling lunch for my three biological and two foster children, I feel that familiar surge of anxiety—an insistent whisper threatening to engulf me. Depression and anxiety are like the mean girls in gym class, laughing as I navigate through the challenges of motherhood, with no knight in shining armor to rescue me.
I remember visiting my grandmother in a psychiatric ward during my childhood. After shock treatments, she was no longer the cheerful woman who always had cookies to share. Seeing her so vulnerable and sad left an indelible mark on me. I yearn to tell her, “I understand what you went through. Your struggles live on in me.” Our shared genetics carry both our burdens and our resilience.
In the thick of motherhood, I often feel overwhelmed by self-doubt. I worry about my children’s perceptions of me—“Remember how sad Mom was? Why didn’t she do more Pinterest crafts?” Such thoughts spiral into deeper self-criticism, isolating me when I need support most. Friends ask why I haven’t reached out, and I’m left wondering if I can even articulate my feelings.
During my second pregnancy, I chose to stop my anxiety medication after our first child was born with serious health issues. The ensuing months were a nightmare, filled with obsessive thoughts about my unborn son’s possible demise. Pregnancy became a prison of anxiety. Finally, at 37 weeks, while mopping the floor, I crumbled, sobbing into my daughter’s arms, unable to cope. My son was born the next day, and with his arrival came a surprising clarity of mind.
I’ve learned to accept that some days are harder than others in managing OCD. There are mornings when reading anything feels like an insurmountable task. Dealing with OCD is like having an itch that demands to be scratched—ignoring it only makes it worse. On particularly tough days, I find solace in my husband’s embrace, imagining his warmth absorbing some of my anxiety.
Every mother faces unique challenges, and I’ve come to recognize that my journey is just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s easy to compare myself to the mom who crafts organic lunches while I juggle chaos in my own home. But victory is found in small accomplishments, and I have no idea what battles others are fighting behind closed doors.
Embracing my struggles with anxiety and depression has brought me a sense of freedom. It’s okay to have days where I merely go through the motions of parenting. I wonder if you, fellow mother, understand this experience. I tremble as I write these words, fearing judgment, yet I also know there’s beauty in sharing our truths.
Through this journey, I’ve come to appreciate the importance of open dialogue about mental health, especially in motherhood. If you’re interested in exploring more about parenting and related topics, check out our post on at-home insemination kits. For those seeking to boost fertility, consider visiting reputable sources like Make a Mom. For comprehensive information on pregnancy, the Mayo Clinic offers an excellent resource.
Summary
Motherhood can be an overwhelming journey, especially for those dealing with OCD and anxiety. This piece reflects on the author’s childhood struggles and how they manifest in her parenting today. While she grapples with feelings of inadequacy, she also finds strength in acknowledging her challenges and the importance of honest dialogue with fellow mothers.
Keyphrase: Motherhood with OCD
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