Despite the Voices

I stepped out of the chilly school bus as the cool wind hugged against my cheeks. I glanced ahead of me and there she was, just like every other day. Her mouth fell into a smile as Chile–our dog–lay in her usual spot beside my mother’s foot. I ran toward Chile, watching her face light up, tail frantically wagging. She gave me a few licks to express her enthusiasm, which lasted a good five seconds before her day continued as if I had been there all along. I didn’t care, though, because all I wanted was to be with them, to be free of the everyday embarrassment of my 8th-grade classmates eyeing me for my abnormal behaviors seven hours a day. I hugged my arm around my mother as we began walking home, our shoes crunching on the partially-snowy sidewalk. She asked me how my day was and I said it was fine, and she could tell by the exhausted look on my face that I didn’t want to continue that conversation any further. Her smile shifted to a concerned look as she opened her phone to a Google page. “Gracie, have you ever heard of OCD?”

“Beep… Beep… Beep….” It started as a fast-paced noise and slowed down significantly after. I stumbled a bit while transitioning from sitting to standing, but that was probably normal. “Okay, now I’m going to need her to get into a gown to record her weight.” It felt weird being at the doctor’s office; I hadn’t been in a few years. My old pediatrician didn’t work there anymore, so when my mother found out that my brothers’ was available, she booked me an immediate appointment with her. Ever since that chilly afternoon walking home after school, we both agreed on an intake to diagnose me for my OCD. I thought this would finally be the end of my mental suffering that had only gotten significantly worse lately. After she recorded my weight, we waited a few minutes until she walked in. We greeted, she told me her name, and asked me basic questions like How is school going? What do you do for fun? Who lives in your family? When she asked us what brings us here, my mom and I explained. I told her about what my obsessions and rituals were and how I think OCD is a perfect description of my intrusive life–while sparing some details I was too embarrassed to tell. I was so determined to get help for my condition that I didn’t even notice that there was a different concern in the doctor’s eyes.

The question was so random that it took me aback. “Uh, yeah. You mean like those people that are super neat and organized?” “That’s what I’ve always thought, too. But look.” She scrolled and clicked through links on the Google page for what felt like minutes. There were a few dropdown menus: one read “ADHD”, the other "Bipolar disorder”, and the bottom one “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder”. I was familiar with ADHD: my best friend had it. She took medication for it every day that would make her focus better. My mother clicked on a dropdown to reveal a paragraph below. “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a mental health condition characterized by a cycle of uncontrollable, recurring thoughts (obsessions) and repetitive behaviors (compulsions). People with OCD feel driven to perform these rigid rituals to temporarily relieve the intense anxiety caused by their intrusive thoughts.” My eyes paused on one word: rituals. I reread it again. Rituals. The word echoed in my head as the last few years replayed in my mind—repeating prayers over and over until they felt "right”, starting over if I stumbled on a word, feeling a wave of panic if I tried to stop before finishing. For the first time in my life, I realized that the thoughts and rituals I had carried for years weren’t me; they were symptoms of something bigger than myself.

It was nine in the morning and I had just completed my last night at the Children’s hospital Eating Disorder inpatient program. I was in my bed; I couldn’t move. Well, technically I could, but my OCD had become so debilitating that moving a muscle the wrong way sent me into a never-ending spiral of re-enacting my actions until they felt “just right”. I had spent most of breakfast feeling intimidated as I watched the other anorexic girls stare at me while I whispered prayers until I said every word exactly right (I was only allowed to eat my food once I’d finished my prayers). Now I was going to a new hospital, a more homey one, except that here there would be many more people with eating disorders who probably wondered what I even had. I didn’t want to go; I didn’t think they could help me. You’re not like them. You don’t have an eating disorder. You don’t deserve help. My situation was so complex that not even I understood it. For a while I thought my OCD was the reason I couldn’t eat, but I also found myself continuing to count calories and obsess over what I ate ever since my OCD intake where the pediatrician found out about my significant weight drop. Every professional I went to said something different; my personal therapist said it’s OCD, the doctor said I have anorexia, and an outpatient woman said I probably have ARFID. It didn’t matter anymore, though, because I had no choice. I had to start my recovery at an eating disorder facility. And I didn’t want to stay at the hospital any longer. Reluctantly, I allowed the nurses to help me out of my bed and into the wheelchair. Next thing I knew I was outside of Children’s and put into my mother’s car seat. I already felt that nobody at the eating disorder facility would be able to help me, but I had to at least try. I didn’t want to live like this anymore.

Standing there on a gloomy, gray day watching my chilly breath escape from my lips, I thought about all of the years leading up to this day. Back in the first grade when my intrusive thoughts would tell me I had to blurt out swear words but then when I did, I was a bad person. In middle school, where I struggled with scrupulosity and a fear of offending God and being punished every living second. This wasn’t normal, but it also wasn’t me. And I wanted help. So bad. “I can try and see if I can get you a pediatrician appointment this month. It’s hard to schedule them at the last minute, though.” I didn’t know what was to come, but I wanted to get better. I knew I had the ability to free myself from this. So that’s what I would do.

Through my experiences in treatment, I began to realize that I wasn't fighting only an eating disorder or only OCD; I was struggling with how the two intertwined and reinforced one another. For years, I felt confused by thoughts that didn't fit neatly into one category, making it difficult to understand what I was experiencing, where my struggles “fit”, and how I could get help for them. Deciding to get better, walking upstairs into treatment despite every thought telling me to turn around and that I wasn't deserving of recovery, was my biggest moment of perseverance. These experiences showed me how isolating it can feel when your struggles seem too complicated to explain. In the future, I want to pursue psychology and help bridge the gap between OCD and eating disorders so that people like me can have access to the support and resources I once struggled to find, and have the motivation to recover from whatever their thoughts kept them captive to.