My life with OCD

Since writing became a sort of a hobby, as well as a valve for this overheated brain of mine, today I will be sharing a story written in a slightly different way. This topic, being deeply personal for me, carries significant weight and I sincerely hope it can inspire others in similar situations to continue fighting battles with their demons.

Battles they dare not mention out loud, or share with a friend.

To hell with writing “rules”

For a change, I will address you in the first person about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) — a condition that, for better or worse, has completely changed my life.

You see, I’ve had OCD for as long as I can remember. Although I was officially diagnosed back in 2017, the battle with…well…myself, began long before that. I remember very clearly, when I was barely waist-high, how I already had this strange need to perform what medicine refers to as rituals.

The best example I can give you is touching an object a certain number of times. Or turning the light on and off twice. Of course, at that age, I had no clue this wasn’t “normal” or unusual behaviour, nor did I pay much attention to it. I thought of it as some kind of an everyday game.

The problems, however, began in the 5th grade of elementary school. Certain rituals (luckily I never had compulsions in the classic sense) started interfering with my ability to function.

While many people associate OCD with constant handwashing, the disorder is much more serious than most realize. Back in school, for example, I had the habit of blinking in certain patterns, or arranging objects on my desk in a very specific way. Avoiding those rituals would bring unbearable waves of anxiety and fear. Fear that something terrible would happen to me or to those I loved.

It is also important to note that OCD is not a straight line. It doesn’t stay the same over time. It changes its shape and motives as you grow. In elementary school, I blinked or took breaths in a certain way. In high school, I had to skip stairs in an order that only made sense to me.

The hardest period was high school, unsurprisingly — the most vulnerable time, when you’re still forming as a person. Month after month, I had new OCD “motives.” From obsessions with religion, the existence of God, sin, heaven, and hell… to fears of illness or accidents befalling my loved ones.

Everything culminated during my final exams, when the stress was at its peak. I was the one who in high school was always seen as calm and collected — this presumption collapsed like a house of cards. To the point that exams became the least of my worries.

I still remember my math exam. At that time, I was battling numbers. The number 3, in particular, caused me such a mental block that I couldn’t even write it down. I had to ask the teacher supervising the exam to write the number for me when I dictated it. I simply didn’t have the psychological strength to fight in that moment.

The exams ended, and I got my diploma — but it wasn’t a victory. My exam grades were disastrous, to say the least. I even failed IT. Yes, I graduated, but I failed a subject. Makes sense, right? Well, that’s another story.

Perhaps the scariest part wasn’t OCD itself, but its consequences. Anxiety, rituals, and sadness are sometimes hard to hide. I lost count of how many times classmates looked at me with concern, asking: “Are you okay?”

Of course, I wasn’t.

This genetic disorder destroyed a part of my life — a part I can never get back. Friends I once had drifted away, one by one. I don’t blame them.

Truthfully, I wasn’t good company back then (am I now? A little digression…).

In a way, I’m glad they left. Because it pushed me to seek professional help and finally understand what had been tormenting me for 20 years (I’m now at the “old” age of 26).

The struggle with our so-called psychiatrists is a story of its own. Still, I was lucky enough to meet one truly good doctor — above all, a good human being — who helped me finally realize what I’d been suffering from.

That was only the first step toward healing. After countless hours of conversations, I began Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy (CBT) — a relatively new method (at least in my country) where you learn to observe your own thoughts from a third-person perspective. It sounded abstract to me at first. Honestly, it still does.

In Bosnia, only two people are licensed to practice this type of therapy. I was fortunate enough to work with both.

Looking back now, I know for certain I missed many opportunities, lost people I cared about, and maybe even wasted parts of my life fighting myself. But that was my fault. And no — this isn’t a story of self-pity or drama.

If I had been wiser, or listened to advice just once, I would have spoken to someone. Anyone. Like everything in life, problems are best cut off at the root. What I avoided for 20+ years spread like wildfire and nearly destroyed me.

I will never forgive myself for worrying my parents, for putting a burden on their shoulders they shouldn’t have carried. But without them, I don’t know where I’d be.

Still, regret helps no one. From where I stand today, I see that I’ve lived through things with OCD that some people won’t experience in three lifetimes — mockery, ridicule, disgust, fights, and so much more negativity.

When I add it all up, my parents are fine, I am OCD-free (mostly), and now all that’s left is to patch up the holes it left behind. An adventure, I’d say.

At least I’m not bored.