I used to have the same obsessions about my children while they were at daycare when I was working (not a car accident, obviously, but an earthquake, kidnapper, you name it). I’m a SAHM now, so they’re constantly with me, and I’m so afraid to pass this horrible THING off on them. I *think* I’m very careful at hiding it most of the time, though. My husband doesn’t even know a fraction of the extent of it, because most of it goes on in my head, so I guess that I hide it well. But I feel you. It’s agony. And that’s only one of my obsessions. It’s the most frequent and time consuming of them all.

And I’ve noticed that they get worse when ANYTHING positive happens, even if we work hard for it. We found a great deal on an apartment in a really nice area with a really great elementary school, and we got approved. We move on Saturday. I’ve been waiting for the “inevitable” awful thing to happen. Then I’ll try to talk myself down, saying “it’s definitely your OCD. Everything will be fine.” Then my OCD demon will pipe in “Maybe I’m getting a bad feeling for a reason. Maybe I’m sensing
imminent doom.” You get the idea. For hours that can go on in my head. I’ll be up all night, checking to make sure my husband is breathing, checking on my children to make sure they are breathing and
that they haven’t been kidnapped.

As I type this, I realize how crazy it all sounds. But it feels so real. I actually always EXPECT something horrible and catastrophic happening. I’m wasting my life, and it really is such a wonderful life. Beautiful life, with lots of wonderful people in it. Any girl would be lucky to have all that I do. I’m just afraid of losing it all, and I can’t tell anyone about the extent of my mental state, because I fear that I’ll lose my children and husband or end up in a psych ward. I’m really terrified that I’m really really crazy, and that if I tell anyone, or even let on how I truly think a lot of the time (not really all the time. It cycles a lot. Sometimes I’m relatively “normal”) that I’ll get put
into a mental institution and be declared unfit as a mother. My family is my world, and I want my children to have the best of everything. I love them so much. And sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve them. Very very painful.

My Story is not of me, but my husband, I’ll try to explain myself best I can. When I met him 3 years ago, he told me he use to get very dry skin on his hands and that was caused by keeping them in water all the time, he told me at the time, this was from his building work and mixing cement etc. He did tell me at this time about his obsession with cleaning and having a clutter free room. I was fine with it, didn’t really think any think of it at the time.

Today 3 years on I think it may have altered, He is not the same man I married he has a new obsession about mountain biking downhilling to be precise. He can not go an hour with out seeing a mountain bike, be it either on the lap top downloading videos, watching dvd, riding his own bike, buying parts until he has no money left, he has dreams about downhiling. Its getting between us. We only see each other on weekends due to our jobs, yet he feels im keeping him from doing his biking as I’m there on weekends. (I asked him not to go once, as it was our 1st anniversary) I haven’t heard the end of it since!

I’ve read through the web about the categories it can be put in. yet I’m not sure which one he could be, as its about an object (Bike) or the action (Biking) I don’t know?

I am worried I may be the cause as he brings up petty things I have said 7 months ago, he can’t seem to forgive or forget either? I feel like its me that’s the cause and it’s making me feel like I should let him go if I’m the problem, then he’ll get better right? I have now pointed him in the direction of the doctors, as he feels its all getting too much, hopefully that will start the healing process and get down to the bottom of what the trigger is for him, so we can get on with our marriage and live our lives the way we want to, not the way OCD wants us to.

She sat there reading a year old Time magazine. She was too thin and had dark circles under her eyes. There was something stretched about her.

She and I were alone in the small waiting room. Was she crazy too? What hell had she been living in? I thought, watching her study ancient news.

The room, like any other room in this new hospital was seriously neutral in color, browns and beige’s, the lighting indirect. Functional comfortable furniture lined the walls. There was a low table in the middle of the room covered with old magazines with the address labels peeled off. I couldn’t read. I wanted to smoke, to pace, to be anywhere but here. On the wall were pastel watercolors in gallery frames, I wondered if they were chosen for their calming effect.

The secretaries laughed about something. The sounds muffled by the sliding glass window that separated them from us. I looked over at the girl. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t looked up when I came into the room and was, even now, fixated on her magazine. I had chosen a seat on the far side of the room– there was something about her that said not to get too close. We sat there. The only other sound, the occasional rustle of a well-read page being turned.

Earlier, when I came up to the hospital, I could see that they had begun the demolition of the old facility. Sitting there I could feel an occasional rumble as the wrecking ball undid in seconds what had taken years to build.

That’s where it all started, I thought, twenty years ago, in the old main hospital. Life sure seemed to be circular at times. Now I was back to see if I could start again.

Remembering the dark, shiny green and yellow walls, the cloudy worn tile floors, the small heavy rooms. Sights, sounds and smells came back to me. Antiseptics and decay. My draft board had assigned me to work there. The worst of the worst jobs were given to me. It was policy. Total isolation, that’s where I worked. I cleaned the rooms of those so sick that no one could go near them without being gloved, gowned and masked. Tuberculoses, meningitis, pseudomonas, unknown viral infections. After finishing I would have to dispose of my protective clothing in special receptacles near the door and then disinfect myself. Then on to the next room and the next over and over. My hands and arms became raw from scrubbing with those little Betadine sponges that smelled so much of cinnamon. I remembered some of the patients.

Cid was a student at the U. The doctors had been amputating one of her legs, piece by piece, just ahead of the bone cancer. Her stump had become infected with pseudomonas. She was from Australia and her family was unable to be there. Her fiance was in the army, stationed in Europe. I was one of the few people that would sit and talk with her. We became friends. She married shortly after getting out of the hospital, was pregnant in a couple of weeks and died a few months later. The Doctors said that her pregnancy had caused the cancer to explode, wildly and decisively.

My remembrance was cut short when the door across the room from me opened and a gum chewing secretary called out my name. I followed her down another beige corridor to another beige room. This office had a window overlooking the destruction of old main. The view partly obstructed by the thin white slats of venetian blinds. There was a desk, empty except for the telephone with three of its buttons lit, a forth blinked on as I watched. Three chairs in the same style as the waiting room, a potted plant and another pastel on the wall finished the room. A comfortable neutral room. Sitting there waiting, I watched the silently swinging wrecking ball. I could see what was going on out there but I couldn’t hear it. The sealed window keeping not only the sound but the heat and dusts out of the air-conditioned beige. A section of wall fell after the impact of the ball, raising a large cloud of heavy dust. I remembered the asbestos wrapped pipes that had snaked everywhere through the old hospital. Wondering if they had removed all the carcinogen before knocking down the building, I made a mental note to make sure I stayed upwind of the demolition.

“Hello, I’m Doctor…” Something.

Turning to the door I saw an attractive woman at least ten years younger then me. Her badge said Department of Psychiatry.

Keeping my hands in my lap I said, “Hello.”

Twenty years I thought. Be honest. Don’t minimize.

Memories of what I had seen when visiting a friend at the state hospital came unbidden. The pain, the insanity.

I thought again, be honest. You’re not that crazy.

“Tell me about it.” She said, sitting back in her chair. Behind her I could see, outside the window, the wrecking ball swinging.

“I used to work there.” I nodded my head in the direction of Old Main. “One day I took my work home with me.”.

That’s almost what it is, I thought, a job. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week.

“How much has this affected your life?”

I laughed out loud. “It’s what I do. Affected my life? It is my life.”

Staring out the window behind her I thought about how it had affected my life. Two failed marriages, the lost jobs, the lost opportunities. I wasn’t living anymore I was just existing. Outside, another large cloud of dust was rising.

“I’m going to ask you a lot of questions now.” She said, pulling a stack of preprinted forms from a drawer in the desk.

“OK.”

“Do you ever hear voices or sounds that no one else hears?”

Not since I stopped doing drugs. I thought. “No.” I said.

For over an hour the questions came. I answered yes too often, the memories of the state hospital coming again. I had kept this problem hidden from everyone that I could for twenty years. Now I had laid it all out. I felt naked, defeated.

She placed the papers on the desk. “I need to get another doctor down here, she said, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

A few minutes after she had gone I went to the window and looked out. From four stories up I had a good panorama of what was going on at the demolition site. I stood there awhile watching the construction workers run their silent jack hammers. Most of them were shirtless and had deep tans. I wondered how many of them would die from melanoma. Hearing voices coming closer, I returned to my chair and tried to look normal.

Three people entered the room. All wearing those short white lab coats that must come with their diplomas. My original interviewer introduced a man as the Clinical Director and another woman whose badge said she was a Clinical Nurse Specialist. I didn’t shake their hands either.

The Clinical Director asked, “Ok, what do we have here?”

My inquisitor said, “We have a 39 year old male presenting with…”

They talked back and forth as if I were not there. For some reason I found this amusing. They talked–I watched the wrecking ball. The crane operator swung it in a long slow arc. I watched it hit the wall. Felt the vibration as another large section crumbled to dust. As the dust cleared I could see an entirely new view that until moments before had been obscured by yellow brick.

The Clinical Director looked at me and said, “What we have here is genuine OCD. We can treat that effectively.”.

Twenty years, I thought.

I felt the vibration as another wall came down.

‘The OCD Project’: Obsessive-compulsive disorder gets the spotlight in new series (SUPERTRAILER)
Exposure and Response Prevention is widely recognized as a best practice for the treatment of OCD. In this program, a group of OCD patients will live under one roof throughout the course of therapy to address the illness and provide round-the-clock support for each other. The Exposure and Response Prevention approach can appear severe and horrifying but viewers will ultimately see why these highly intelligent, creative and empathetic participants whose lives are spiraling out of control need to undergo such harsh treatment. The series will chronicle each participant’s journey into the debilitating doubts that consume their lives and witness the amazing transformations this treatment can provide. At the end of the three weeks, not all participants will have completed the program but find support and tools to use as they work to overcome their compulsions.

‘The OCD Project’ premieres Thursday, May 27th at 10 P.M on VH1.

My story is a long one, but I will try to condense it. When I was sixteen years old I was raped by an older man at a party, while heavily intoxicated. What makes it worse is, I was a virgin. Anyway, I didn’t really realise that it was rape until a year later. I was sitting in class six months later when I saw a sign about HIV. That was when I had my first panic attack. I really thought I was going to die because I remembered the incident and put two and two together. Besides the guy who raped me, was into drugs and a pretty devious character. I ran straight to the school nurse and told her my situation. I asked her “how likely do you think it is that I contracted HIV?” Her words resonate with me even today. She replied “very likely.” The drive home on the bus was a total blur I was in shock.

Long and short, I had an HIV test (my parents went with me, although obviously in shock.) That week waiting for the test was the WORST WEEK OF MY LIFE! I sat on the end of my bed, feeling incredibly guilty and like I deserved what I got. I clutched onto my Bible and prayed that I would be ok. I think that’s when OCD came into play. I kept asking and praying “god will I be ok?” “send me a sign”. Over and over and over
and over and over again….Funny thing is my father (who is a priest) came in right after one of my prayers, and proceeded to dance saying “all will be well, yes all will be well….” A true God send if you ask me.

For two years after that event I had numerous HIV tests, all negative. But then I would find myself in situations where I would think I had contracted it. So then I would go for another test. This behavior
went on and on. I eventually stopped having tests, but it was always in the back of my mind.

Sixteen years later I still have contamination fears. But now it has progressed to worrying that I will get up in the middle of the night and drink poison. So I tie up all my cleaning solutions so I can’t get to them. I can’t stand blood also. If I see blood I start to freak out. I can’t even handle it when my husband bleeds. I worry that he will get HIV because he has cuts on his hands often and he might come into contact with someone’s blood. The list of paranoid thoughts goes on. Sometimes I think I am the only one in the world who thinks of these things. I constantly fear needles as well. And I also have paranoid thoughts about other people. I annoyed a nurse the other day and I am worried she may try to harm me, she knows where I live too!

I have been to counselors, psychologists, psychiatrists and even tried “spiritual healing.” Well, I am sad to say that neither has worked. I am currently not on medication and haven’t been for many years. I just
live one day at a time, hoping not to get into any OCD provoking situations. Its by no means the life I always wanted for myself. But on the bright side, I have a husband that is very understanding and a family that supports me and they have come to accept that I have some weird stuff that I do sometimes.

To the outside world, I am “normal.” I have hidden this disease incredibly well. The only people that know are my family and husband. I am ashamed to have this. No doubt my past has a lot to do with the
progression of my OCD.

There is a history of sexual abuse in my family. My sister was sexually abused by my Grandad and another sister was sexually assaulted. From the trauma of this I have to deal with a lot of sexual obsessions relating to abuse or anything to do with sex. As a gay man this is very distressing and takes a lot of energy to let go of some of the thoughts that come up. I know they are false but they feel so real when it’s bad.

Some things that happen are when I’m walking past women I will look at their breasts and think what if I reached up to them. Then I will wonder why I’m even looking at breasts when I’m a gay man!

I might have a word stuck in my head like women genitals or a song. My compulsion is too figure the thought out so I will go back over time and try and figure out why I’m thinking such a disgusting obscene thought.

I’ve just recently found out OCD brains are a little different to regular ones. I’ve ordered a book from my local bookshop called “Brain Lock” by Jeffery Schwartz which I think will help me.

My therapist puts it this way. Having these thoughts proves what a beautiful and loving individual I am as I am so appalled by them, especially when they relate to people I love. It proves I’m overly responsible and kind. These thoughts are so in contrast with my own personal values.

What’s happened with me is that love and sex have become confused and mixed up. If I think how much I love someone dearly, sex might come into the thought. Very distressing as you can imagine but that’s what sexual abuse can do in a family.

My Mother and sister had/ has bad OCD so it’s definitely a gene thing to a degree. I’m just so relieved that people talk about it now especially sexual obsessions as to admit to them is quite painful but the start of healing.

Some other obsessions I have had are:

Thinking I could abuse baby’s or my sisters.
Linking flower smells to sex.
Women in skirts.
Knives or pointed items. Thinking they are phallic like. (I was involved in a knife point hold up at a hotel I worked at in my 20′s)
Feeling strange at parks with kids there. Wondering if mothers are thinking what’s that man doing there on his own.
Hot water. Thinking I might scald someone with my cup of tea.
Bad religious thoughts.
Bodily fluids, urine and faeces mixed up in thoughts and related to food.

I used medication when I had a bad episode when I was 30 for three months and then went off it gradually and decided to go it alone just with my own brain. I had to learn to relax, walking, yoga, guided meditation time out to myself. Anything that made me feel calmer helped long term.

This is just a small part of my story. Thanks to all the other stories here. They have helped me to realise it’s not just me and that was the biggest relief. I have OCD and that’s ok. Life goes on. Good luck to you all. We are family all my OCD brothers, sisters and me.

Eventually I could no longer drive because I became fearful that all these thoughts about car accidents would cause it to actually happen. I went into a state of depression and believed that these thoughts
were actually suicidal thoughts. I had no one to talk to about this because I started thinking that perhaps I was suicidal because why else would I think of dying this much?

Eventually I decided to tell my Dr and she referred me to a therapist who I am still seeing. My therapist and I uncovered my history of OCD and dated it back to when I was 11 and believed I was possessed by the devil. Today I am relieved to know that I was not going through a state of psychosis or schizophrenia then. Anytime I had a second to think I was telling the devil I wouldn’t sell him my soul. For months this was happening to me, and I’d even dreamt about the devil (dreams which I still have today). Now I know it was my obsessive thoughts.

The obsessive thoughts are the majority of my OCD but they are dramatic enough to leave me feeling powerless and out of control all the time (though people say I am a control freak). I have a tendency towards symmetry in my body (ie: finger tapping, kicking, scratching on both sides of my body to make it feel ‘even’).

Now I recognize other things I do because of my OCD (usually religious obsessions… I was raised a hardcore Catholic). For example, making the sign of the cross when I get into my car to bless my drive, flipping over shoes (when I was younger my mother told me that shoes that were facing the ground meant I was stepping on God instead of the devil… to this day I think something bad will happen), not stepping on cracks, counting stairs, etc.

As you can see a good amount of my obsessive thoughts and some compulsions are religious in nature.

The worst part of having OCD is hearing people say they think they have it. This part really hurts me because they don’t understand the real anguish that came from my obsessive thoughts. It isn’t fun for
me to spend 10 minutes thinking about stabbing my mother and which knives would be most effective. These thoughts happen several times a day and cause me a great deal of anxiety.

I am still in weekly therapy and recently began medication with Zoloft.

I’m grateful for this website and wish you all the best.

I function in society, run a business, but feel pain and anguish most of the time. I won’t even try to go through the evolution of my OCD, as I have had probably every conceivable configuration and iteration
of the disease, since age 13. Medicine and cognitive therapy have provided occasional relief, but it cycles in and out, affixing itself to my most difficult times in life, as my constant companion. It
knows how to maneuver in such a way as to attach itself, as a leach attaches to the skin on your body and sucks your blood. Instead it attaches to and sucks your brain. It sucks out the rationality and
intelligence of reason and composure. It works its way into your deepest desires and potential triumphs, and preys upon your fears so as to overcome and counteract the joys that you may have. That is
the goal of this insidious disease, and it can succeed if allowed to flourish on its own. OCD is a villain, a rapist, a murderer, a molester, a monster of the worst kind. It selects innocent people and distorts their sense of intellectual well-being, causing doubt and uncertainty to pervade one’s mind, until there is nothing more than doubt and pain. It competes with good thoughts and normal feelings to sabotage one’s intellect and sense of being alive; it is a fierce enemy.

I know you well, OCD. I feel your constant efforts to create havoc with my mind. As a youth, you played with my immature brain and attempted to destroy it, just as I was trying to create a sense of self-value. In my most formative stages, you attacked. As an adult, you convinced me that I was dying and didn’t have a basis to be comfortable with each day of my life. You eroded my sense of self, my enjoyment of life. You deprecated and depreciated the good things that I had, by forcing a behavioral pattern of fear and defeat. There were not even drugs or therapy for OCD for the first twenty years of my disease, so I was left to work through it on my own, too embarrassed to tell anyone in the world what my mind was doing to me, all the while attempting to fight this enemy by myself.

As a mature male, I fear everything, I distort the reality of what I have, I find faults and constant defects in myself and those near and dear to me, and I obsess about all of these things constantly. After ruining my marriage, now in separation, I fear having contracted HIV from heterosexual safe sex partners, and even from kissing women, attractive, healthy women. The fears are overwhelming. Thanks OCD for so cleverly working your way into every crevasse of my life, so as to make it as unbearable, even the parts that are supposed to be good. And the sad part is that my life could be pretty good, were I to lose this miserable partner – my OCD companion.

I will continue to fight, saddened by the length of time that this killer has engaged me. I will attempt to be strong and beat this thing, and I will not give up. Even on the worst of mornings when I do not want to get out of bed, and when I want to check myself into a hospital, I will endure the agony and I will survive; no I will conquer, for the alternative is to allow this miserable disease to have triumphed over me, to gloat and wallow in its defeat of good and well-meaning people. None of us should let that happen. Fight for
your life!

POSSESSED on Vimeo
‘POSSESSED’ enters the complicated worlds of four hoarders; people whose lives are dominated by their relationship to possessions.

While on the subject of hoarding here is another article on it.

Submerged in stuff, hoarders keep collecting – Mental health- msnbc.com

“But thanks to new research, the cluttered, confusing world of the compulsive hoarder may finally be starting to sort itself out.”