Throughout my life, I’ve experienced a range of peculiar behaviors that have often led to heightened anxiety. As a child, I was compelled to rewrite school assignments until my handwriting met an unrealistically high standard. I would obsess over trivial matters, and mealtime was particularly agonizing; the simplest sounds of eating could send me into a frenzy.
At the age of 19, I received a formal diagnosis: obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Since then, I’ve explored various therapeutic options with mixed success, but a consistent regimen of anti-anxiety medication has proven beneficial. After three decades, I’ve become adept at recognizing my triggers.
A common misconception about OCD is that it merely involves being overly tidy or particular. Many people casually say, “I’m so OCD” when they mean they have preferences. However, this trivialization misses the mark. OCD manifests in ways that can cause significant distress over issues that most people would find trivial. For me, it can range from mildly disruptive to utterly debilitating.
The arrival of my children brought about a significant shift in my relationship with OCD. As they grew, I found myself fixating on typical childhood behaviors: messy hair, eating with their mouths full, and cluttered school papers. I strive to ensure that my struggles don’t affect them, but there are times when it becomes incredibly challenging. I often catch myself repeating, “Please chew with your mouth closed,” at the dinner table, even though I recognize my nagging could be detrimental. It’s as if I’m on autopilot, compelled to eliminate the bothersome behavior at any cost.
During a family trip to a theme park last fall, I faced numerous potential triggers: large crowds, tight schedules, and imagined dangers. I believe I managed the situation relatively well, yet the overwhelming nature of a Halloween event led me to decline a carousel ride with my kids. I regret that decision; the anxiety of the ride consumed me, and my mind spiraled into the belief that “the Disney carousel might be deadly.”
Children naturally create messes and situations that can trigger my anxiety, which makes it a constant battle to embody the “laid-back mom” archetype. This is no simple task, and I often find myself falling short. When well-meaning friends suggest I just “relax,” it feels dismissive, as if they believe it’s that simple. If only I could tell them that my body is in constant conflict with the desire to relax; the idea of a popsicle dripping onto the floor or a loud slurp can feel catastrophic.
It’s crucial for my children to understand that, despite my quirks, I think they are perfect just as they are. My occasional hyper-focusing on their behaviors stems from my own issues, not theirs. I hope they recognize that each day, I strive to manage my OCD without letting it intrude on their childhood. I want them to remember that even if I seemed a bit anxious at times, I encouraged them to embrace life, make a mess, and explore their world. My love for them is immense, even when I’m preoccupied with the sounds they make at dinner.
OCD does not define me as a mother; it simply presents an ongoing challenge that I navigate daily.
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In summary, while OCD may pose unique challenges in parenting, it does not diminish my capacity to love and support my children. I hope that they come to understand the complexities of my experience and appreciate the effort I put into being their mom.
Keyphrase: Parenting with OCD
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