We were late. Very late. My mom rushed out the door, annoyed with me. My dad was late to take a shower for work. My sister was thrown off of her school morning routine. My entire family including the dog was thrown off, disoriented by the stress-filled morning. They ran around like headless chickens, flocking from place to place within the living space. Such stress and havoc was a daily ritual for me. When people speak about OCD and their problems with obsession, they do not normally speak about the truly impactful drawbacks this disorder has.
In fifth grade, my OCD problem grew, crippling me in every which way. When I walked to school, I had to take 3 steps in each square of concrete. My left sock had to go higher up on my leg than my right. My sink faucet had to be at a 45 degree angle. I needed to tie my right shoe, THEN my left. Never the other way around. I had a routine for every little aspect of my life. At first, these routine rituals I performed throughout the day were simply annoying, but not truly crippling. As my fifth grade year progressed, my Obsessive-compulsive disorder began to worsen. I began to feel shut out and alone, like nobody could understand why I “needed” to live life with such structure to each of my tasks. This took a toll on me both mentally and physically. It was exhausting, like I needed to do these things in a certain way, knowing they were pointless.
In school one day, Ms. Sharp, my fifth grade teacher, noticed my struggle. She saw that I had been writing my essays about 5 times each. Any assignment I turned in was erased about five times, then re-written 5 more times. The most troubling part of this entire experience was that I knew the stupidity of rewriting things or having a precise bathroom routine, only I physically could not stop. This is when I met Kevin. I do not know his last name, but Kevin is the therapist I began to go see. Through my struggles, he would somehow aid in providing relief from these voices in my head. He had me compile a list of my most stressful routines, and forced me to perform them the “wrong” way. At first, such was impossible, but with time, those routines that I HAD to accomplish began to have less importance. I got familiar with the “wrong way,” and grew to accept it. His voice was in my ear, telling me to leave the right faucet out, not the left. I could hear his voice saying to take 4 steps on the sidewalk panels, not 3. OCD could not beat me. I was not going to let routines that I “have” to perform define me.
Afro kid with a voice 