My Life With OCD: What It’s Like to Live With the Chronic ‘Doubting Disorder’

October is National OCD Awareness Month, a time dedicated to fighting the stigma against obsessive-compulsive disorder and spreading awareness about the reality of this debilitating mental health condition.

In honor of this month, and in an effort to support the community as an OCD advocate, I wanted to share my own journey battling the disorder. I hope my story brings you peace, comfort, and awareness.

My OCD Diagnosis

I was first diagnosed with OCD when I was just six years old, two years after I endured child-on-child sexual assault. The guilt and shame of my “immoral” act consumed me, especially as a child in Catholic school, and soon after, I began doubting my own goodness.

At the time, I was too young to voice what had happened to me—what I’d been forced to do, how I’d been threatened by another (though older) child. He’d told me he would hurt me, hurt my family, if I ever confessed. 

From there, I began performing rituals to keep myself and my loved ones safe. I locked the door 12 times per night, checking and rechecking over and over each hour, rarely getting sleep. I would visit the nurse’s office at school each day to call home and make sure my mom was still alive. I would make my dad repeat a word-for-word script each morning, promising me he would be safe at work.

But it was never enough.

One day in pre-school, I had my first panic attack, sobbing and gasping for air in front of all the other children as I grew overwhelmed with both fear and self-loathing. Some of the kids laughed. Others furrowed their eyebrows in confusion. A few appeared sympathetic yet too hesitant to console me.

The panic attacks persisted, and eventually, my thoughts became more frightening. I was keeping my family safe by doing my daily compulsions, sure, but what if I was someone to fear? What if I somehow snapped and hurt them? What if I were capable of such a heinous crime? I mean, I’d already engaged in a sinful act. I felt too far gone to salvage any virtuous side of myself.

The thoughts were so disturbing, they’d jolt me awake in the middle of the night. I’d spend hours on my bathroom floor, dry-heaving over the toilet in hysterics. My brothers would often wake up to comfort me, and my parents would sometimes sleep on my bedroom floor so I wasn’t alone. I hated being left by myself—I didn’t trust the petrified, wide-eyed girl in the mirror staring back at me. I felt so detached from her.

My first therapist tried to diagnose me with schizophrenia, immediately wanting to start me on medication, despite the fact that I was only six years old. Thankfully, within days, I was properly diagnosed with OCD by a different therapist.

OCD was widely misunderstood at the time, so when I confessed that I was experiencing graphic images in my mind and worrying that I’d lose control and hurt someone, the original therapist interpreted it as, “She’s hearing voices telling her to harm others.” 

That was the furthest thing from the truth. In reality, I was terrified of doing such a thing. I wouldn’t even go near my dad when he was cooking, because what if I somehow snapped and grabbed the knife? I would feel too guilty to hug my mom before bed, because what if I had a negative thought about her in the process? 

My OCD assigned deep meaning to every single fleeting, unwanted fear, judgment, or image that popped into my head. As you know, you can’t control your thoughts—just your response to them. But to someone with OCD, we immediately believe that having the thought in the first place makes it real. 

For example, have you ever had an intrusive thought when standing on the edge of a bridge? You know, you’re looking down at the water below when you randomly say to yourself, “What if I jumped off?”

Now, most people would shake the idea away and laugh it off, knowing they don’t actually want to leap to their demise.

But someone with OCD will begin to panic and wonder…“Why did I have that thought? Does that mean I want to die? Am I suicidal? Should I check myself into a hospital?” 

And so, the obsessions—and compulsions—begin.

Obsessions, Compulsions, and OCD Themes

I’ve experienced nearly every OCD theme possible, from harm-OCD and emetophobia to relationship-OCD and moral scrupulosity. The disorder is basically characterized by ego-dystonic “obsessions,” followed by “compulsions” meant to neutralize your anxiety. 

According to the International OCD Foundation (IOCDF), “Obsessions are thoughts, images, or impulses that occur over and over again and feel outside of the person’s control. Individuals with OCD do not want to have these thoughts and find them disturbing.” 

Often, the individual is so distraught about having the obsession to begin with that they believe it indicates an irreparable flaw within them. So, they perform compulsions to try to calm their anxiety or “figure out” their thoughts.

“Compulsions are repetitive behaviors or thoughts that a person uses to neutralize or counteract the obsession—essentially to try and make their obsessions go away,” the IOCDF explains. Unfortunately, the more you engage in compulsions, the stronger the OCD gets. It’s almost like a reward to your misfiring brain.

One of my main OCD themes is the fear that I’m a harmful partner. Why? Because the idea that I could possibly hurt someone is so deeply disturbing to me that I want to do everything in my power to avoid it. And so, I over-analyze every thought, feeling, urge, and behavior I experience, mentally “flagging” potential warning signs that I’m capable of such a thing.

In every relationship I’ve been in, I’ve beaten myself to a pulp over the most minor mistakes or basic human needs and emotions. Any time I had the slightest bit of an emotional reaction or tried to advocate for myself in a relationship, I would immediately relapse into a spiral of negative, self-loathing thoughts like: “I’m a horrible person who doesn’t deserve love.” “I am emotionally abusive and harmful to my partner.” “I would be better off alone because I’m too damaged to be in a relationship.”

Not to mention, my tolerance for uncertainty within relationships has always been quite low. I’d often obsess about whether a relationship was “right” for me and the other person. At my worst, I would go from questioning my own feelings for my partner to questioning their feelings for me in the span of hours. One day, I’d feel head over heels in love; the next, I’d be doubting everything about myself and my relationship. “What if I lose control and cheat on my partner?” “What if I’m lying to myself and him?” “What if I’m preventing him from being with someone who is a better fit for him?”

My main compulsions have been rumination and reassurance-seeking, which are difficult to spot as they’re not as physical as other compulsions, like hand-washing or tapping. To me, this would look like going over the same conversation with my partner in my head for hours on end, trying to figure out “why” I felt a certain way or whether I said/did something terrible to hurt him.

It was exhausting—both for me and the other person.

During my low moments, I’d sometimes ask my partner whether he felt I was treating him well and if I was being supportive enough. Additionally, I’d scroll through Reddit asking questions like “Am I a bad person for…x, y, z?” “Is it wrong to feel…x, y, z?” 

What I was really asking was: “Is it safe and acceptable to be myself—to be human?”

OCD Treatment

The gold standard treatment for OCD is exposure and response prevention (ERP), a type of cognitive behavioral therapy that aims to decrease anxiety through repeated exposure over time.

As the IOCDF explains, “The exposure component of ERP refers to practicing confronting the thoughts, images, objects, and situations that make you anxious and/or provoke your obsessions. The response prevention part of ERP refers to making a choice not to do a compulsive behavior once the anxiety or obsessions have been ‘triggered.’”

Now, I want to preface this by stating that ERP is not always the answer. For example, because I had a history of trauma, ERP re-traumatized me as a child, leading to worsened symptoms and physical manifestations of the disorder due to chronic stress. Thankfully, I’ve since received the proper trauma treatment and am now able to continue with ERP in adulthood. 

Moral of the story? You know yourself best. If you feel ERP is too extreme for you, there are other options, including acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT) and additional treatments, like medication.

OCD might be a lifelong struggle, a chronic illness that flares up just like any physical one might, but it doesn’t define you. Over time, I’ve accepted that I might always be a little more anxious and a little more doubting than others, but that doesn’t mean I can’t lead a beautiful life. My tolerance for uncertainty is getting higher every day, and my mental muscles are strengthening. 

I still struggle—and probably always will to some extent. My symptoms still pop up from time to time, and I’ll admit, I’m not always the easiest person to be with in those moments. But life isn’t about living pain-free or earning love through perfection; it’s about learning to embrace your unique human experience, taking accountability when you’re wrong, and connecting authentically with others in the process.

My most important piece of advice is to surround yourself with the right people. I can’t count the number of times I’ve given my power away to unsupportive friends or partners who—knowingly or unknowingly—took advantage of my vulnerabilities and further fueled my chronic shame. Having the right support system—one who loves and accepts you without enabling you—is crucial. 

But remember: it’s up to you to do the work and heal. You must create a sense of security and safety within yourself, so you can respond to your thoughts with the inner validation that “You got this.” Because I promise, you do.