A Vicious Cycle (What It's Like to Have OCD)

One of my biggest anxieties surrounds the idea that I'm an attention whore.

I know exactly where it comes from: Years and years of an abusive sibling commanding attention from our shared single parent. Depression causing me to withdraw, and having an ambiverted personality thats craving for human interaction would cause the withdrawing to have harmful effects. Somewhere deep inside of me is a part of myself that believes that a person's attention is finite, and any amount that gets paid to me is taken away from something else that probably deserves more.

The problem is, that "something else" isn't identified, nor is it really identifiable. I just spent so much of my life with that lurking Thing that needed the attention, and if it wasn't received, bad things would happen.

I guess part of cognitive behavioral therapy here is realizing that those bad things would have happened whether or not it got what it asked for. It wasn't my fault for receiving attention that could have been directed at the Thing, like a sacrificial virgin offered to a volcano god with the hope that an inevitable eruption wouldn't occur.

Nevertheless, I still grew up with that anxiety looming over my shoulder. I was quiet and shy because I didn't want any undeserved attention. And then the anxiety evolved and worsened when I started worrying over the fact that my mere existence, especially being as quiet and shy as I was, was burdensome. I was excess weight, taking up space, because I wasn't providing enrichment for the atmosphere.

I'm not quiet because I don't have anything to say. I'm quiet because I'm worried that what I have to say isn't good enough. Any time I pause, or hesitate, or have long periods of silence during a conversation, I'm either beating myself up over saying the wrong thing, or I'm obsessing over what to say next, making absolutely sure that what's going to come out of my mouth deserves the attention it's going to get.

Of course, it's never going to be good enough in my personal opinion, but pushing forward despite that fact is a behavior that I'm still learning. Unlike my bipolar, which I'm used to because I've had it for so long, obsessive compulsive disorder is a new diagnosis, only having come up in the past couple of months.

My obsessions come in so many different forms, but they all have the same thing in common; my mind gets caught up on an idea and repeats it, over and over again, until I'm sick of it, until it's the only thing present in my conscious mind, because for whatever reason, my disorder has claimed it to be the most important thing right now.

Intrusive thoughts run rampant. The worst one I've had has scared me to tears, and it just came up out of nowhere one day: I wonder what it would be like to get run over by a train. Specifically, how it would feel to lie down on the track, to have my head positioned on the rail just so, to have the wheel helped by the force and the speed and the weight of the train to rip the skin off my face before shattering my cheekbone, my nose, my eye socket, and crushing the pieces of my skull into my brain before losing consciousness and dying.

Why did I think of this? Who knows. But it haunted me for weeks because I didn't know how to rid myself of the thought.

Similar thoughts have caused me to pull off the highway while driving before: You are in complete control of your actions and your movements. At any time, you could step on the gas and steer into oncoming traffic, almost certainly killing both yourself and the driver of the car you hit. There's nothing stopping you but yourself. Are you strong enough to stop yourself?

Are you sure?

Most of the time, I am. And I can turn up the volume on the stereo, paying attention to the lyrics as I belt them, and continue to drive safely.

But sometimes, I'm not. And I pull over, and I sit in my car, and I squeeze my eyes shut until I see fireworks, and I cry, and I try to think of other things. The train thought. Anything else. Just let me get home.

They really are random. I painted my room two weeks ago and I imagined chugging the paint straight out of the bucket so fast it would fill up my stomach and my esophagus and it would harden and I would suffocate and die. Although logically I know that's highly improbable - the poisoning would almost certainly get to me before the paint had time to harden.

Take a bite out of the abdomen of your cat. Feel the blood rush from the open wound. Taste the raw meat. See his guts spill out as he looks at you with utter betrayal before dying at your hand. You could do that at any moment. Sure, you love him. But do you love him enough to stop yourself?

Are you sure?

Things like that.

I think part of my subconscious believes that I'm not worthy of good attention because the fact that I consider these things makes me some kind of monster. The fact that I ward them off and negate them with counter-thoughts means nothing, since they have to come from somewhere. The subconscious is a gateway into a person's soul, right?

I'm not blind to the irony in the fact that I've counseled others on feelings of inadequacy and guilt from craving validation. Logically, I know it's human to want to share experiences. I'm interested in others; I want others to be interested in me too. And it often feels like the latter isn't the case. Like I'm just there to provide validation for others and not to receive it in return.

It's tiring. And the more tired I get, the more I withdraw, and the more opportunities I diminish for myself to find someone who will validate me.

It's not selfish, it's human. But that thought process is something that's much, much easier said than done.

What it's Like to Have Bipolar

I don't consider myself a very easily offended person. I'm sure most people don't, but compared to a lot of people in today's sociopolitical climate, I really objectively am not. Despite this, of course, I always do try my absolute best not to hurt anybody for the sake of comedy. It's possible, guys. John Mulaney does it.

I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder when I was 16 years old. I had been on antidepressants for almost two years, which have been known to exacerbate symptoms of bipolar in those who have it. And that's exactly what happened to me.

I hear a lot of people use the term "bipolar" very unsparingly. Anybody with mood swings, or who is known for being flaky, or who changes their mind a lot, is called "bipolar", and, in the same breath, written off as crazy. This doesn't offend me; I'm not hurt by their use of this language. It's also not my fault I have bipolar. It's genetic. It's especially prominent among the women in my family, so the odds weren't really in my favor there. It has affected me, though, in that I'm often afraid of telling people about my mental illness, because I don't want to be avoided and pushed away because of a predisposition that I was born with that I can't control. I want to be treated like a normal person.

As such, I wanted to write this as a reference to try to erase some of that stigma, and possibly spur someone who feels this way to seek help. I've been there. Lots of people have. And, in my experience, it's comforting, when you feel as crazy as you tend to sometimes, to know that there's a name for the thing you're experiencing, and that there's treatment and help available.

So. First let's define some things.

Bipolar disorder in general is characterized by periods of mania contrasted by periods of depression. There are two types of bipolar, simply identified as bipolar I and bipolar II. The difference between them lies in the severity; namely whether they have mania or hypomania.

The symptoms of mania are where the bipolar stereotypes come from. When you're manic, your mood switches rapidly from easy triggers, and sometimes for seemingly no reason at all, because every emotion you're feeling is extremely strong, and they're all fighting for a hand on the wheel at the same time. Mania is loud. It's fast. It's big, and it's intense. And it's incredibly scary, because you have no idea which emotion is going to be triggered next, or what it's going to make you want to do. You don't know if you're going to do something dangerous because of a sudden rush of ecstatic adrenaline that makes you feel immortal and invincible. You have no clue if and when you're going to want to hurt someone else out of rage, or hurt yourself out of sadness or guilt. And the worst part is, you feel entirely capable of anything, from deep-cleaning your entire house to assassinating the president. It takes an incredible amount of psychological power to filter those urges as they come to you as rapidly as they do, because you feel so very capable of anything, and as a result, your conception of consequences is skewed. Sexual hyperactivity and promiscuity are very common because the idea of feeling good dramatically outweighs the thought of getting hurt.

Bipolar I has mania, while bipolar II has hypomania -- I have the latter. Hypomania is marginally less severe than mania; I am less likely to go on a coke binge during a hypomanic episode than Charlie Sheen is during a manic episode. I've never killed anybody (of course, not to say that people with bipolar I are more or less likely to be murderers). But I have hurt myself, and I've hurt others, out of a pure knee-jerk reaction to a sudden unexplainable rush of emotion.

Depression, on the other hand, is the part that a lot of people are more familiar with. It's the part of bipolar that isn't obvious or sometimes even visible at all. It's not the same as being really sad. Anybody with regular old clinical depression could tell you that. In fact, when you're depressed, actually feeling sad would be a breath of relief.

The best analogy I've seen is that depression is the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry. Where mania is feeling everything at once, depression is feeling nothing at all. It's a void. It's a vacuum where stimulus goes to die. Depression is an existential nothingness that's so deep it hurts, but you can't find the strength or the energy to care. When you're depressed, you feel empty and without substance. Nothing feels real, or if it does, it's not important. Within that, too, it's not exactly that nothing matters, it's that nothing that you logically know that matters is worth the energy that it takes to care. Logic and execution are at war with each other. You know you need to shower. You know it's important. But you don't do it, and you put it off for a week, and it's 6 pm and you haven't eaten, and you're sitting around in your bedroom, starving and filthy, because you just don't care. You can't care.

Lots of people who experience depression also give the analogy of drowning. And, without actually having drowned before, it's about the closest you can get. You're suspended in nothing with no way out. Trying to breathe is useless because you know it's not worth anything. But you can't escape, so you just sit there, motionless, waiting for the release of death.

When you've analyzed your behaviors and your emotional responses long enough, you can see the episodes coming. You start preparing your more strict self-control measures in identifying the precursors of your mania, like a werewolf chaining itself up before the full moon. The dread is palpable in the ache that spreads across your entire body as you crash into depression like a hangover. And the miniscule amounts of time spent in between the extremes of the roller coaster give you nothing more than a painful grasp at normalcy.

Having bipolar is like being on a beach in the middle of winter, where huge tidal waves come and overtake you, knock you around, and then leave you cold and shivering, almost wanting to be back in the relentlessly powerful water just to feel something again. There's rarely any balance where the tide ebbs and flows steadily and gives you time to adjust. With bipolar, it's either everything or nothing, and you don't have the power to choose.

It's also not helpful to get words of support, however well-meaning, from people on a beach in Jamaica who tell you how they understand how you're feeling because one time the tide was unexpectedly low at night and they got a little chilly. Especially because it came back evenly at one point, and they had the sunlight to warm them the whole time. Even the people on the shore of Alaska, who are freezing all the time, don't have the experience of a foundation-shaking tsunami. And surfers on Venice Beach don't feel the effects of the cold.

You can't control the wave patterns. But you can control how you handle yourself in them. Therapy teaches you how to right yourself and how to swim, while there are medications that give you steadying weights so that you at least know where you are. Sometimes the addition of an antidepressant can give you an extra layer of a wool coat so that the cold absence feels less like hypothermia. But nothing will give you gills. You just need to learn how to control your breathing so that you can survive, if only for the sole purpose of proving that you can.

The Dream

So I’ve been having this fantasy lately.
 

I’m a dreamer, but I’m also practical, so I generally give up on dreams that aren’t at all feasible. This one is somewhat wild, but ultimately… It’s possible.
 

The dream is, at the basest level, to sell most of my stuff, put the rest of it into storage, trade in my car for a cargo van or an RV, and live in it while traveling the continent as a Romani-style vagabond.
 

Obviously, there’s questions that come with this.
 

Why?
 

It’s no secret that I hate my job, but at the same time there’s nothing that I’ve found so far that exists yet that I would want to do long-term as a career that would guarantee me a secure living. I also don’t like living with roommates, and rent is so very incredibly high right now -- at least in places that I would want to live -- that it’s unlikely that I will be able to afford to live alone any time soon. At this point in my life, while I do fear being homeless, I’ve had such bad luck with living situations that sometimes I would almost rather be homeless.
 

I am 21 years old, and I’m feeling that natural wanderlust that I’ve been told people normally get at this age. I also have a very prevalent avoidance mechanism, that’s been present practically since day one. The mixture of both of these things has been causing this persistent itch to run away, to leave everything behind and see the world for myself. I feel stifled, and I’ve been having these existential crises that make me terrified that I’m going to be this way forever, caught in a cycle of discontent and unhappiness.
 

I don’t want to feel that way anymore.
 

I’m not an outdoorsy person. I don’t like backpacking or hiking, and I especially don’t like camping. I have back problems and can’t sleep on the ground. I’m a germaphobe. I need to shower and wash my hands. I need sturdy shelter. I need electricity and I need to be able to plug in and use the internet. So I wouldn’t be able to do this on foot.

I also like driving. So there’s that too.
 

And car payments would most likely be much cheaper than rent.
 

How?

 

That’s a fantastic question. I’m glad you asked.
 

There are a lot of things I would need to make this work.
 

I would want to trade in my current tiny commuter vehicle for a much, much larger one. I’m a simple lady; I could do this in a cargo/cutaway van, although an RV would obviously be nice. The van might be an interesting challenge though, and it’s definitely cheaper. So, for all intents and purposes, we’ll assume that it’s a van that I’m getting.
 

In the cargo area, first and foremost, I would want to put a mattress. For food, I would need a mini fridge & freezer, and I would want to include a hot plate, and possibly an electric kettle (I’m not big on hot beverages besides coffee, but I might want cup noodles or something). Besides that, I would need lots of storage bins, and lots of bungee cords to hold things in place so they don’t move around when they’re jostled, as they are guaranteed to be when in the back of a moving van. I could put a space heater and a portable A/C unit in there, and then otherwise deck it out with fairy lights and big-ass pillows and bean bag chairs and aesthetic things of that nature.
 

All these things are going to need power, of course. My solution for that is to cover the roof with solar panels, and hook it all up to a battery (several, for backup) which can power a generator (again, probably several, for backup). The fridge would need to constantly be powered, although if all else fails, I can always fill a cooler with bags of ice from the grocery store and keep perishables in there. To be safe though, I would probably want to keep the number of perishables to a minimum.
 

Running water would also be a problem I would run into. Bathrooms are not a rarity, laundromats exist, and YMCAs have public showers, which is something that I don’t have to do every day. But I do have to brush my teeth twice a day, and acne is a hell of a thing, so I also have to wash my face as many times. And you can’t do those things at just any rest stop. So I would have to stock up on gallons upon gallons of clean fresh water, not just for drinking. That’s as easy to come by as any grocery store though; it’s just a thing I would need to keep track of.
 

I also rely pretty heavily on my mood stabilizers for my bipolar disorder. With my current prescription, I would have to go back to Seattle every two months to refill it. Technically, I could do it anywhere, but it’s a lot more difficult to explain to a psychiatrist’s office and pharmacy that I want to live in a van and travel all over the country than it would be to just go back to the one. I would also have to go back home to vote -- that’s not a right that I’m willing to give up.
 

Internet would be taken care of via my phone. My current plan allows for unlimited data, so I could set up a mobile hotspot as long as it’s plugged into a constant power source, i.e., the generator. The connection slows down after so much data is used, but that’s no big deal. I can survive watching YouTube at 240p, and there will always be places with free WiFi.

I would want to adopt a dog. Being an ambivert, I would probably occasionally get lonely. Social media is one thing, but connections in the physical world can’t really be falsely simulated. Me being me, an animal would absolutely be enough, and while I usually prefer cats, it’s doubtful that just any cat would be well-suited for this kind of lifestyle. Self-defense is also something incredibly necessary to keep in mind. I am young, a woman, and alone, which are three qualities that generally make me a target. So having a big ol’ scary-looking dog would be a good deterrent. Obviously this isn’t going to stop everyone, so I would have to keep a few things to use to defend myself if necessary, because people suck and the world is scary.
 

Ultimately, my biggest obstacle is money. Doing this, I wouldn’t be able to have a real job or a steady source of income, and there are many many recurring expenses, including but not limited to health and auto insurance, car payments, phone payments, food, toiletries, and gas.
 

I also am a recovering shopaholic who has made very bad financial (and life) decisions in the past, and I am currently approximately $9,000 in debt. And that’s a pretty conservative estimate - there are some people and organizations to which I probably owe more money than I know of for sure. In order to make this dream a reality, I would have to pay off all of that, cancel at least two of my credit cards, and close out an entire bank account.

Therefore, including all the supplies and equipment and the elimination of all my current debt, and excluding the down payment on the van (which will differ depending on which one I decide to get and where I would be getting it from) and savings for emergency purposes, the very conservative estimate for starting out would be approximately $11,000.

That’s a lot of money.
 

However, assuming I can keep my current job, and depending on how much I would be paying in rent and internet after I move out of my current place once the lease is up in the spring, I could do it in about two years.
 

The absolute ultimate all-time ideal would be to get the starting funds via GoFundMe. Then I would document my journey like the pretentious narcissist that I am through a blog or YouTube channel or both, and have a steady stream of income from Adsense, sponsors, and Patreon. The reason why this might be able to work is because while there are several people (looking at you, Casey Neistat) who would be wont to do this kind of thing, none of them have quite the same personality as I do, and none of them would be able to bring the kind of presence that I would.
 

Of course, this is all an unrealistic fantasy.
 

But a girl can dream, right?