Relationship OCD (ROCD) | Intrusive Thoughts
The experience is not fundamentally different than dating someone . with being “too serious” about the subject of depression or anxiety. Factors that predict whether someone with OCD will attempt suicide include the severity of their OCD symptoms, the co-occurrence of. I feel like if I even get a slight vibe from someone where they don't really and out of mental hospitals; she had breakdowns, would attempt suicide, "I was diagnosed with major depression and anxiety six years ago, in my.
I rose and said, "Thank you for the meal. The street was dark and cold, and the dog strained against the collar. Someone was burning bracken and the air was mossy. In the wood I couldn't see my feet, just two iridescent eyes flashing between the trees. I turned the topsoil of my mind for an answer about what the image meant, but the possibilities made me dizzy, and I had to sit on a wall.
Beyond the trees, the noise of distant traffic was the noise of everyone else, everywhere, and it frightened me. The more I tried to stop thinking about the image, the quicker it flickered. I pulled my thighs up to my chest and pressed my eye sockets hard against my knees, breathing hard. When the dog licked my ankle I raised my head and gasped, as if breaking from water. I mouthed the words slowly to the dark, "What if I'm a paedo?
A Wife’s Journey: Supporting My Husband with OCD
People with pure O experience repetitive thoughts, doubts and mental images about things such as sex, blasphemy and murder. Needless to say, I don't feel too "pure" when I've woken every morning for a fortnight to the crystalline thought of assholes. Purely obsessional OCD is so-called because the compulsions are largely invisible, and not often acted out in the more obvious, better-known ways such as cleaning or hand washing. Pretty much everything about pure O is secretive. These are things you're not even supposed to think about, let alone talk about.
Or a gay man who kept having thoughts about vaginas when you made love to your husband? How would you begin to talk about it? You'd keep it secret for years; for your whole life, perhaps.
This is why it's difficult to say how many people have pure O.
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In an effort to resolve it, he might Google the meaning behind his thoughts. He might deliberately conjure mental images of his sister while monitoring how he felt: He might start ignoring her calls, or give up guacamole for ever.
He might spend 10, 16, 20 hours a day in a spiral of rumination and problem solving, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to him. He wouldn't understand this yet, because he wouldn't know that he had pure O, but all these attempts to rid himself of doubt and anxiety would merely be compulsions. And because he was so terrified of someone discovering his shameful obsession with incest and avocados he'd strive for normality. Even though the World Health Organisation considers OCD one of the top 10 most debilitating conditions in terms of quality of life, not a soul would know.
After my first panic attack on that spring night in the wood, my mind started spinning. This was the big, pressing question of my adolescence, bigger than the Kickers-or-Pods question, bigger, even, than the Keanu -or- Leo question.
Or when we'd renamed Barbie and Ken as Fanny and Dick and made them "make babies" in a shoebox. During long exams, every second stroke of my pen marked the flicker of some forbidden obscenity in my brain. Sometimes I got up in the night and had five seconds of forgetfulness. But by the time I'd stepped blinking into the bathroom, the thoughts had always caught up. The next day there'd be teeth marks in the toilet roll where I'd stopped myself from screaming. Church was the worst.
There was the penitential rite, the confession and absolution. There I was, every week, a child, saying the words and trembling: Barbie and Ken had been my fault, kiss-the-bride had been my fault.
My thoughts, even, my unstoppable thoughts — they, too, were my fault. So I'd lie in bed on Sunday nights murmuring that line over and over. And I'd slip into sleep on the damp pillow, trying to focus on the sound of my parents' heavy sleepbreathing in the next room, or on the ceiling's fluorescent stars; on anything that was outside of me. I wasn't always obsessed with paedophilia, though. As is common with OCD, the theme of my obsessions changed, and I was 17 when I first noticed the inexplicable new thoughts creeping in.
My friends and I were playing bingo in the old Dudley hippodrome and I started seeing images of their tits in my head. I tried not to think about what I'd seen.
But each time I pressed the soft ball of the red bingo marker on to the paper, I saw the images again; I couldn't look up from the page. Back at home that night, I sat down to watch the most innocuous TV programme I could find — Ray Mears — hoping to snatch a few minutes' respite from the thoughts. But as the camera panned down across a cliff face, each crevice became a startlingly detailed vagina.
Peeking at the breastfeeding women outside nursery, all those years ago. Did that mean I was gay? From then on, every minute of every day, I wasn't seeing naked children, I was seeing naked everyone, compelled to figure out which thoughts turned me on the most.
The dinner lady or the headmaster? The lollipop lady or the policeman? Cherie Blair or Tony Blair? I'd buy Attitude and Divaspread them out on my bed and sit there waiting for an answer to rise up from the centrefolds. At university in Leeds I would "try out" gayness some days, bouncing to campus like Pinocchio to school; other days I'd be unequivocally straight. I'd describe my gay thoughts to my friends and use their reactions to gauge the plausibility of my homosexuality.
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I'd browse profiles on lesbian dating sites, trying to imagine myself kissing each stranger's face. And so went the next seven years of my life, or my "life", I should say. Because when the pure O exploded, my life grew inverted commas and flew away. All that was left was an effigy of a young woman and a neon pink MySpace profile. Sexual orientation doubts are common among straight and gay sufferers of pure O, and the obsession has an extra sting its tail.
I remember thinking that if we did have to go to the Emergency Department in the middle of the night, the stress of the waiting room might finish him off.
The next morning, we sat with a psychiatric nurse at our dining room table. Changing medication was their first priority, and his new prescription increased his appetite and made him drowsy. He could finally rest and refuel. That was the start of things getting better. The Present At times, this period has felt like the hardest.
In all honesty, there are times when I preferred the firefight. Now, I have to deal with it all: We went through many iterations of prescriptions until we found the one that worked. Each time he would be subjected to an increase in mental agony brought on by the changing chemicals. We found him a therapist who specialized in OCD.
I was also never physically alone. For the best part of 6 months, we were completely dependent on family staying with us, never having a full 48 hours without someone sleeping in our front room. The additional houseguests were in many ways, lifesavers. They cooked and cleaned, and enabled me to leave the house to go to work almost every day.
They helped me organize our calendar so we could make sure he was never alone, and I was able to attend all his appointments without having to worry about childcare. One of the silver linings of this whole experience has been watching the bond between grandson and grandparents blossom. Having said that, I found the constant intrusion into my life crippling. I had no respite from the endless conversations about OCD and mental health.Watch This Before Dating Someone With OCD
I had no say over the food that would be served to me. I had no peace and quiet. Anytime I had alone with my son, which was often wonderful, was overshadowed by knowing that when we would return home, he would be ushered away from me by his grandparents so I could sit with my distraught husband.
Between his medications, therapy and familial support, we muddled on. There was no escape from remembering how far we were from the life we thought we should be living. I would sit in my car in the driveway, feeling trapped and alone. As much as I loved my family, I felt as though my emotional reserves were being drained. To control his anxiety, we would have to plan out every hour of the day, but no more than one day in advance.
This left no flexibility for anything to change. If I was ill — physically or mentally — it would make him crash. If the toddler had a meltdown — it would make him crash.
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If the weather was too hot that day — it would make him crash. A crash meant overwhelming worry and emotions for him, and juggling between mother and caretaker for me. I would essentially triage the two of them, trying to put myself in the place I could be most effective. Thankfully, the steady medication regime and powerful support from his therapist — both at weekly sessions and in emergency phone calls — meant that our plans gradually shifted from hour to hour to day to day.
And in time, week to week. Still dependent on live-in support, he started to go back to work from his home office. This meant he was able to carefully increase his hours while maintaining his self-care.
It also meant that we could have people stay in the house with him as he adapted to the change. Despite this adding to his stress, it also gave him a renewed confidence and we started reducing the days we had people staying with us. This was a significant relief for me, as I started having more space of my own, even if I had to spend that time taking on chores that had been done for us by others for the months before. Normally, I hated to cook. Now I relish being able to plan our menu.
I remember with clarity the things his anxiety-riddled brain said to me, and the times I would find myself planning how to live as a widow and single mother. I feel angry at being in this situation in the first place.
The OCD makes him vulnerable to a sense of overwhelming responsibility. If I forgot to put the bins out it could trigger him. If I said I was struggling with sleep, the pressure he felt to help me would trigger him. If I was in a bad mood, he would take it to mean he had done something horrifically wrong. I felt at times as though I was the only thing making him ill, and the only thing that could keep him well.
I lived on eggshells — everything I said had the potential to upset him, anything I did could have been construed to be uncaring. These triggers can be extremely isolating.
On the evening I took a beloved pet to the vet to be put down, I was all alone without anywhere to turn. My grief had made him too sad to support me. Fortunately, this is improving. We are both learning how to listen for the rational voice in our irrational outbursts. We have slowed down, accepted more help, and actively look for more beauty in the world.