Mother of all Lists — Waving A White Flag To OCD

Waving A White Flag To OCD

'Liking things need to be neat and tidy' and 'being a bit particular'; the term OCD is thrown about casually, as ever the reality is very different asLorna Hayward explains here...

First things first – picture me writing this hiding behind a cushion. Large vino in hand. Perspiring.
Let me explain. This post isn’t something I’ve been looking forward to writingdownfor all to see. It feels more than a little awkward. I know that some people(who Ireallyrather wouldn’t) will potentially read this and I am more than aware (less so prepared) for somesilent judgement coming my way.
Equally, I couldjust keep this to myself. But it feels a bit ridiculous to have started a blog as a cathartic way of helping me process my thoughts and emotions, if I don’t dojust that. And so, here they are:
A wise lady once said, “Anxiety. She’s a funny ol’ gal…” and she was right. Another told me “OCD is a bitch” and she was pretty much spot-on too.
Bothanxiety and OCD have been present in my life for a very long, unwelcome time. In fact, it had got to a point where anxiety was such a familiar foe of mine, that who I was, and how I felt and acted on a daily basis, had become the norm.
The tricky thing is, when you believe that something isnormal, and ‘just the way you are’,it’s hard to identify it.And if you can’t identify it, you cannot diagnose it – and so, you just tell yourself to crack the fuck on, pull your socks up and cope better.
And that’s dandy fora while. You can leave anxiety and OCD simmering softlyin the background, but ultimately, at some pointthey’re likelyto boil over. And boil over they did.
Three days after returning to work from my second maternity leave I had what you might like to call, a modest breakdown.
I refer to it as a modest breakdown because very few people knew about it.
My ‘modest breakdown’ was fairly discreet.
I wasn’t housebound, shouting and weeping for all to see. I was up after very little sleep, getting the girls ready, leaving for work with Elsie sobbing at the door, commuting, doing my job – but inside, everythingfeltmore than a little bit broken.
My return to work, coinciding with settling my eldest into a new preschool & my youngest with a new childminder had all intensified symptoms of my existingOCD and anxiety.
I was on edge, paranoid, frightened, angry and exhausted.
I felt shitty. Properly shitty. I am still unsure as to where my white flag juncture arose from, but I decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, and so, I asked for help.
Due to the stigma that still surrounds mental health, asking for help (namely from my GP) still doesn’t sitcomfortably with me. That might sound ridiculous, however for me, and for so many who I have spoken to since, I was not alone in thinking I was a bit of failure for seeking support.
Mental health isawkward totalk about.
But I’ve had to talk about it, process it and indulge myself in the cracksof it to assist me in my voyage to feeling better.
I’m a crier. I’m a moaner.
I’m not discreet in my emotions – happy to howl, cry and shout in public me –and I certainly don’t handle stress and anxiety with elegance and grace.
But I do cover up a lot.
You would think anxiety is quite difficult to conceal, it’s not – least not in my experience.
My anxiety does not manifest itself in nervousness, isolation or fear of leaving the house.
My OCD does an awesome job of shrouding itself behind the impression that I like to live in a perfect show home, so – to those around me I’m just the same old Lorn!
Historically I’ve found it’s easier to make light of my mental health worries; I’m all for a bit of banter so appending a little farce into how I was feeling somewhat took away the sting.
I mean who doesn’t like to laugh at mental health? It’s hilarious right?
No. It’s not really. It’s actually pretty bloody unfunny.
What is mildly amusing though is that after I sought help and made a plan (there always has to be a plan my friends, that’d be the OCD creeping in) I felt such a strange sense of empowerment.
Despite originally feeling pretty disappointed in myself for having to surrender to the shitters that are anxiety & OCD, I also felt a sense of relief – that I could say to my friends and family whom I had confided in ‘I haven’t got my shit together. I’m struggling’
“You keep it on the inside because that’s the safest place to hide.”
The statistics don’t lie.
In the UK, anxiety affects 4.7 in 100 people and women are almost twice as likely to be diagnosed in comparison to men; and yet, there is still so much notoriety surrounding mental health, and in turn taking medication. Why oh why my friends?

You keep it on the inside, because that’s the safest place to hide. Lorna Hayward

I’m a little reluctant to admit that years ago I might have envisioned an individual requiring medical support, to be sitting rocking back and forth, imprisoned in white-washed walls. How wrong I was.
Opening up the forum of discussion around mental health, I have discovered a surprisingly large amount of people who see that accepting the help of a little pill is no bigger deal than popping a vitamin C every morning.
And why should you?
The proven chemical imbalance that comes hand-in-hand with anxiety and depression are just that – achemical imbalance. Medication simply serves to correct that imbalance. So why all the shame?
For some, I know the process is somuch harder– a lengthyroad torecovery – but if youdodecide that medication is right for you,why would you not snatch the prescription out of the GPshand,leg it to the nearest pharmacy and cash that bad boy in?
I think it’s shame. Stigma and shame.
Anyone would think it was on a par withshooting up of a morning before sitting down to your latte.
I have lost count the amount of times I have heard“But if you had diabetes you would take tablets for that, it’s the same thing”.
And, in the midst of my epically low days, I would want to scream back“NO NO IT’S NOT– because diabetesisanactualillnessand it canKILLyou, so you HAVE to take medication”.
Yet, if I was talking to a close friend or relative of mine, I would be battling against every single word I think and mutter.
I would stand forthright and offer words of encouragement to them and say how proudI was of them for seeking help.
Why is it that a lot of the time we are incapable of doing this for ourselves?
I also know that for many, medication isn’t the answer andthat’sok too.
There are many avenuesto finding inner contentment again; CBT, counselling, exercise, mindfulness to name but a few.
Whatever YOU choose on your journey to feeling brighter and happier and ultimately less like a massive bag of SHIT is up to you.
A crucial synopsis to this post (I’m still hiding, and sweating behind the cushion by the way) is that you’re not alone.
Although I was lucky enough to have wonderfulsupport from a network of friends and family, I still felt isolated. I don’t anymore.
And finally (if you’re still with me), I believe it has to beyourjourney. Own that shit.

This has been and still is mine, and it’s certainly a process– but another wise lady once said (And I know a few) – “Forward is forward” and I’ll take that.