Sunday, July 08, 2007
"You've been anxious ever since I've known you, and it's been 10 years," my friend informed me this morning on the phone. "Longer than that," I countered. "I remember dealing with this stuff when I was 12."
We started talking about my issues. "I can't leave my house unless it's clean, is that normal?" I asked. "Like today, we're going to pick up my brother. I could not leave the house Until. It. Was. Clean. I'll bet it would be really healthy for me to leave it one day," I mused. "Walk out and shut the door, leaving the mess. Of course," I added, "There are people who can't leave their houses until they swab them down with alcohol. I've read cases like that."
You know, I just had to make that hefsek between me and raging OCD. I don't have compulsions. But anxiety and ruminations? I've lived with those for years. They're a part of me, and I'm uncomfortably used to them. "Change is hard," I told my friend. "It's easier to get pregnant than to face a psychiatrist." Those words were ones I'd felt for a long time, yet telling her them made them real. It was startling to hear them. It's startling to type them.
I won't take meds when I'm pregnant or nursing, states I'm often in. And I'm hiding behind these maternal veils because I'm afraid to get help. I'm afraid to talk to a stranger about my turmoil. I'm afraid medication won't help. You know, The Rebbe said if you are locked in jail, it is you sitting on the keys. Rebbe, what can I do?
I'm afraid to stand up...