I feel like I'm being hunted. My heart races. My chest feels tight. My mind spirals. But where do I run? There's no where to go when the monster is inside of your head.
OCD feels like a monster in my head. But the weird thing is that the monster doesn't look bad. It looks good. The monster is wearing a pristine, ironed outfit—somewhat old-fashioned and traditional in style, but in a way that feels "right." The monster's whole appearance has a certain rightness that I will never achieve. The monster's hair is tightly pulled back in a bun—no stray hairs, no cowlicks, nothing out of place.
The monster looks friendly. It looks righteous. It looks good. It looks like the person I'll never be. Sometimes the monster feels good too. Maybe because it's always there. It's reliable. It's consistent.
But even though the monster looks good, when I stop to think about it, in brief moments I realize that the monster doesn't treat me well. Those moments don't last long though. In an instant I forget the criticism, the belittling, the constant nagging... And I convince myself the monster is good and worth paying attention to. Why? I don't know. Probably because the monster embodies all of the things I'm supposed to be but never will be.
OCD feels like I'm never enough. It's so real. So convincing. And so...normal. I'm not sure what my mind would feel like without it there. Is it not normal to have a voice inside your head that constantly belittles you, tells you you aren't enough, convinces you you should be doing more? More of what I'm not sure... Maybe just more of whatever is unachievable and out of reach.
The consequence of not listening to the monster? It's bad. BAD. Whatever will happen if I don't listen to the monster—although I can't quite put into words what that thing is that is sure to happen—I FEAR it. I fear what will happen if I don't listen to the monster. The monster almost always tells me what to do.
The monster tells me how to be a better mom. Then it tells me that my efforts were not enough. And I should try something totally different. Because maybe I can still redeem my pathetic attempts. First I'm supposed to be a better housekeeper. When that doesn't work, I'm supposed to give up on housekeeping altogether and do something else that I might succeed at. (But who knows what that is! The monster isn't very good at explaining things. And when it tries to explain, its logic ends up as a blur between perfect sense and complete nonsense—I'm usually not sure which it really is.)
OCD is spending one day trying to be present, happy, and involved as a mother. Then spending the next day guilty brainwashing myself by pursuing some kind of bizarre obsession, hoping it will distract me from the pain of failure and inadequacy.
OCD is feeling like you need to cry... but all the cry is stuck in a bottle, and you can't get the cork off the top to let it out. It's just stuck inside, bouncing around, turning into ferocious anxiety that might eat you if you do end up getting that cork off.
OCD and anxiety feel like desperately needing connection, but fearing anything that might actually make that connection possible. Like seeing people. Or talking to someone.
OCD is intense fear of being present. And feeling completely incapable of being present. All while craving mindfulness like some kind of illegal sustenance. Mindfulness is the thing you need and the thing you can't have. It's the thing you fear and the deepest desire that feels like it will fill the emptiness.
OCD tells me that if I don't do that one thing (what that thing is changes frequently), my life will be unfulfilling, and all the good things that I have done that aren't that one thing will be pointless.
It feels like there are a lot of invisible monsters in today's world. Monsters that you as an individual might deal with everyday, that no-one else seems to see. But maybe by shining some light on our monster's ugly faces, we'll be able to make more sense of them, see them for what they are, and then walk past them without giving them what they want—our unhappiness.
In contrast to those invisible monsters lurking in the shadows, I believe in angels. Angels that are fighting battles with us. Angels that shine light at those monsters and tell them to get lost. Angels that sit and listen when we need to talk. Angels that put their arms around us. Angels that say, "I'm brining you dinner." Angels that are hard to recognize at first glance. Angels who are invisible, or who are visible, but look like an ordinary person—a cherished friend, a loving family member, a friendly neighbor. And angels who we can't see, but if we could see, we might recognize as an ancestor.
In the times we feel alone, I know we are not alone. That doesn't mean it doesn't feel lonely, but it means there is hope. There is friendship. There is love, acceptance, and peace. If not in the moment, the good things will come eventually. It's okay to let hard moments be hard. We are here on the earth to experience the good and the bad. And without the bad, the good wouldn't be as gloriously sweet.
