How do I explain OCD to someone who’s never experienced the insidious, fearful and intrusive thoughts that seem to threaten my existence? Let me try. Here’s a glimpse from the beginning…1997.
You might wonder if I endured horrible abuse throughout my childhood. My parents were loving, and I was blessed with a happy childhood, one that my husband characterizes as a wholesome, Leave It To Beaver kind of perfection. However, a spiritually and emotionally abusive season of my life from age seventeen to eighteen, from highly respected male leaders at my church, triggered my first awareness of an intrusive thought, though I had no knowledge of intrusive thoughts at the time. I would remain ignorant of their existence for nearly twenty more years.
In my bedroom, I knelt to gather my college books and notebooks, most likely with Tim McGraw or Alan Jackson riding the airwaves from Chicago’s greatest country music station to my radio. As I went to stand, an unwanted thought brought me to my proverbial knees. That defining moment shaped my life’s trajectory in ways I never would have imagined.
After the abusive season and prior to the defining moment, I wrestled condemning and fearful thoughts. Would I ever be good enough for God to love me? I must be unlovable. Would people reject me if they knew the “real” me, whom I imagined as a broken, rejected shell of a young woman. Those thoughts - they were damaging but manageable. This new, terrifying thought seared my soul.
“Kill your father.” Paralyzed and confused, I sat there, fearful of one tiny thought comprised of three little words. I felt crushed under the weight of an elephant or two atop my chest. I loved my dad more than anyone else in the world. At the time, he was the most important person to me. My gut filled with a sensation that can only be described as pure horror. I would never want to harm him. But I couldn’t reconcile my loving feelings for my dad with this heinous thought in my mind. Surely it must represent me at the core, right? After all, it had flitted into my head for a nanosecond. It didn’t matter that the thought was unwanted and caused immeasurable pain - a pain that words would never sufficiently describe.
Though scared, I shared the experience with my parents - how I had this thought and how much it scared me. I trusted that they would help me. Both did. With one on each side of me, they loved me with hugs and encouraging words, assuring me the thought wasn’t mine. They said they knew me - that I’d never hurt anyone because it wasn’t in me to even do something like that. They said I didn’t have a violent bone in my body. They said I was loving, compassionate, loyal and kind. While they talked, I wrapped myself in a blanket of shame and trusted the reasoning in my head, which whispered a very different message than theirs.
“How could that not have been your thought? It was in your mind, right? Must be yours. And since it’s yours, what does that say about you? Shame. You’re certainly not lovable now. How could you be? What a horrible person to have this thought. This must be some deeply buried desire, and you certainly don’t deserve love now.”
The idea that this excruciatingly painful thought was some underlying desire ravaged any remaining joy I had. The harmful thought regarding my dad returned a few more times, but mostly scrupulous thoughts perpetuated the hamster wheel of consciousness in my mind. I dropped my head in shame, closing my eyes to the darkness seeking to suffocate me. I cried often. I just wanted to be loved and love God and others - a desire that seemed beyond reach. I silently grieved, feeling like a fraud amongst family and friends. How could anyone ever love me now?