It All Started on the Walk Home From School
Then, finally, came the diagnosis. I had obsessive-compulsive disorder.
I thought it was just a quirk, and nothing more. I thought I was just an odd little kid with an odd little habit. But in hindsight, the severity of it was a pretty big clue that something was terribly wrong. My mind wasn’t functioning as it ought to be.
At that age, I had neither the wisdom nor the perspective to distinguish obsessive, unnatural thoughts from normal, harmless thoughts. So when my mind began pleading with me to step over any cracks I encountered on the sidewalk, I brushed it off as just a peculiar, passing thought.
That was a mistake and a very big one at that.
What started as a peculiar thought quickly evolved into a matter of life and death. Well, not quite a matter of life and death, but that’s precisely how it felt. I had become convinced that if I stepped on a crack in the sidewalk, something awful was going to happen. Maybe my closest friends would all die in a car crash. Or maybe I would die from some awful disease. Or maybe my dog would get eaten by a bear!
I couldn’t pinpoint the origin of this absurd idea, nor could I figure out why I felt so certain of its validity. I intuitively understood it to be so ridiculous and laughable that I couldn’t even bring myself to confess it to my own parents. But I also couldn’t bring myself to resist the mysterious voice that was screaming at me from the depths of my subconscious. I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t say no.
All I could do was comply.
On each and every journey to and from the bus stop, I kept my eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of me, scanning every square inch of the concrete for any cracks that might be lying in wait. And each and every time I encountered one, I would do a little Texas two-step right around it, my gaze never once straying off course.
This went on not for weeks, or for months, but for quite a few years. It began when I was around 11 or 12 years old, and continued into high school. No one ever noticed it, and I refused to tell anyone about it. I was both confused and humiliated by my apparent weakness. I knew it was crazy to think that stepping on a crack could spark a disaster. I knew that no harm could ever come from it and that the stupid voice inside my head was flat-out lying to me about what might happen if I chose to ignore it.
But I kept listening. And I kept obeying. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year.
Then, one day, the voice finally went silent. It had grown bored with our little sidewalk game and decided to take a very short break.
But when it returned, it returned with a vengeance.
First came the intrusive, unwanted thoughts. Then came the paralyzing guilt. Then came the obsessive fear that I would end up in a hell that I wasn’t even sure existed. I was always worried. I was always anxious. I was always listening to that voice inside my head, which at this point refused to hold its tongue for even a microsecond. And there was nothing I could do about it.
The whole experience was eerily reminiscent of the first time I encountered turbulence during a plane flight. When that happened, I was paralyzed with fear. Images of broken wings and burning fuselage tore through my mind, and my face turned as white as the clouds outside my window as I glanced down at the ocean below and wondered whether anyone had ever survived a plane crash at sea.
Deep down inside, however, I knew everything would be fine. Everyone around me was as calm as you can imagine, and the pilot reassured us all — multiple times, and in the most measured tone he could muster — that our little adventure through that rough pocket of atmosphere would be over any minute.
The thing is, when you feel turbulence for the first time, you can’t help but feel some degree of fear. It’s a reflex. An instinct. And if you’re not accustomed to dealing with it, it can prove almost impossible to subdue. After all, you’re at the mercy of a force outside of your control that could kill you at any moment, and there’s virtually nothing you can do about it. For many people, that loss of control is terrifying.
The day I started skipping over those cracks in the sidewalk, I suffered through a similar loss of control — control over my thoughts, my feelings, and my own behaviors. Years later, I found myself being steered further into servitude of a slaver disguised as a shepherd, and I hadn’t the slightest idea how to stop him.
Then, finally, came the diagnosis. I had obsessive-compulsive disorder.
That was the beginning of a whole new journey, one that would nearly destroy me many times over before I finally found the peace and happiness that my lovely wife has brought into my life. But looking back, I wonder just how much pain and suffering I might have been spared if someone older and wiser than me had taken notice of my quirky behaviors and stopped to ask me if I was okay.
That’s not to say that there is any blame to be placed on any person’s shoulders, of course. It certainly isn’t anyone’s fault that my OCD went unnoticed for as long as it did.
That being said, I do strongly believe that we, as adults, should be a bit more vigilant in regard to our children’s behaviors and that we should check in with them a little more often when they aren’t acting like themselves. It may very well be that they’re just going through a phase, or that there is a perfectly ordinary explanation for their “quirky” conduct.
But knowing as we do that mental illness can manifest at a very young age, and that early intervention can be hugely beneficial to those who have it, it’s probably a good idea to at least investigate any potential warning signs whenever they reveal themselves to us.
