The “She” in My Head

A Narrative on the OCD Experience

Maya Nissenbaum

Irememberthe white lights, the smell of disinfectant and latex, the dust of my pencil and blisters all over my hand from test after test; and the tears soaked up on my shirt from hours of sitting in front of this strange woman who kept questioning me, I was 8. I was a child when I was told something had to be wrong with me. As I tugged onto my mom’s leg, hid in her shadow, and begged to leave, I only remember hearing the words, “something else is wrong with her.” I always wondered what this meant, but my mother never spoke of it again. Yet, in all my ignorance, the words something is wrong with her raged in my head, sending me into a spiral that only became more consuming and more shameful.

I always imagined her to be tall, slim, and with hair slicked back into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. She had glasses, a tightly buttoned up shirt, and the stature and stare that could cripple anyone. She was powerful, too powerful. You knew you stood no chance against her. She followed you around everywhere you went and her voice, yelling and screaming, drowned out the sounds of life. It is debilitating.

I first heard her when I was 10, although I am sure she had been waiting to show her face long before. She yelled at me and threatened that if I did not make it up the dark stairs in less than ten seconds, something or someone would come and get me and hurt me. So the second the room went dark, the countdown in my head began. She yelled, “you better run, 10…9…8…7…6…5….” I always made it up in 5, just in case. However silly it may sound, it felt so real, almost like I could feel the dark shadow brush my neck with a cold breeze if I was too slow. She convinced me it was real. She convinced me it was normal to feel this way and to be this scared. She only got more insistent from then on.

At 12, she warned me that if I did not hold on to a picture of my parents and think about them for their entire plane ride away for the weekend, wishing them safety every step of the way, surely they would get into a horrific plane crash. My thoughts would travel to the worst of places. She bombarded me with detailed images of the smoke seeping out of the failing engine and the look of fear and despair on my parent’s faces as they realized it was their last moments. She mimicked the yelling and screaming around them as they fell out of the sky. It was almost as if I was experiencing it for them, feeling every emotion, thought, and physical pain like it was real. “You know what the worst part is,” she would say, “it is all your fault.” It was my job to control all of this, and the guilt consumed me.

At 14, I couldn’t close my eyes in the shower for more than 15 seconds. If I did, she would creep in and say, “do you not wonder what horrible, gruesome danger is awaiting you if you do not open your eyes at 15?” Unsure what, it did not matter. Even if the soap seeped in and burned my eyes, I always opened my eyes at 15 and precisely at 15. Just barely managing to survive the shower, the worst part came after: The handles on my bathroom drawers. She said, “now be smart; you just showered, you better not get dirty again.” No matter what, no matter if my hands would peel and bleed from washing them, I could not touch a single handle, a single surface, or anything she convinced me was not contaminated with filth without immediately washing my hands after. My hands, cracking and breaking, would cry to me, begging for mercya breath of air, a moment to not be suffocated by soap scrubbing away at them. It did not matter, because she gave me a new lens; I could see the germs, the grime, and every molecule of dirt on every surface. It made faces at me, snickering and laughing at me. It knew I was scared of it, and so did she. It is dangerous, and it is because of these small moments of danger I was conditioned to understand danger was everywhere. At least that’s what she says, and I believe and do as she says; this is what I have learned.

At 17, she got loud, so loud. She would shriek and screech in my ear. It burned. I wanted to close my ears, curl up into a ball, and hide from the world. She felt like an itch so deep in my skin that no claws could scrape it away. I became uncomfortable in my own skin, in my own head, and in my own blood. The very body that was once my home became a war zone. Her voice was married to every atom in my body, as though I could not exist without her, yet she is the reason I became so disconnected from existing.

I remember having dinner with my family. It was an ordinary night; everyone talked, laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company. I could not. I could not enjoy the people I love the most because she was sitting next to me. She said, “have you noticed how many times your brother has breathed in the last minute? You must start counting.” I would start with “1…2….3… wait, but how many have I missed? When would I even start? Am I breathing?” She would smirk at me and scarily object, “are you sure there’s even air to breathe in the room right now?” The spiral began. I started counting my own breathing, yet suddenly, I couldn’t seem to. My chest got tight, my throat closed up, and the air felt thin, almost nonexistent. She would start to panic, and of course, so would I. It was as if she cultivated a tornado of thoughts and concerns. It lifted me out of my chair, suspending me in the air, punching me, and tossing me around like a doll. She screamed in fear and confusion, “How do they all look fine? Do they not notice that there is no air? Maybe it’s just us? No, it can’t just be us. Oh no. They can definitely tell something’s wrong. Quick, act normal.” “Maya, are you okay?” they would ask with concern and love. Yet despite the warmth and genuine care they had for me, I got angry, so angry. She told me to. She said, “Maya, it’s better they hate you than think you’re crazy.” I agreed. In my frustration, finally being launched back to the ground after being battered and bruised, without the ability to understand or express myself yet, I would yell, lash out, and storm off. This happened many times.

At 19, life became a storm of impending doom and danger. Even in the stillest moments, she was not; she was chaos. Hazardous situations started to be everywhere. “Maya, if you choose to turn down the wrong street, that one decision means a car could run you over and kill you.”

Next came vivid imagery of being brutally run over by a speeding car, the sounds of the tires screeching in my ear, and the sensation of my entire body being crushed. I absolutely had to make the right choice. “Maya, do not dare use that sharp knife. You are going to cut a finger off.” Next came imagining the knife slicing through my finger, ripping through every cartilage and bone, and I could feel and see it. I put down the knife and became scared to even go near them. “Maya, have you made sure to plan out every hour, every minute, and every second of your day tomorrow? If you don’t, who knows what horrible things can happen if you are not prepared.” Next came hours of laying in bed, trying to figure out all the possible ways every moment of the next day could go, and I mean every possible way it could go. So, I planned, predicted, and ruminated for as long as it took. I had to finish this before I allowed myself to sleep. She was so persistent, and this only scratches the surface.

When anxiety turned into heat flashes, when fear turned into my reality, when ruminations turned into nausea, when overthinking turned into headaches, when worry turned into shaking, when thoughts turned into obsessions, and when obsessions turned into ritualistic compulsions that I had no control over, that is when I knew this was not normal.

Around turning 20, I realized I desperately needed help. This was its own battle, as she did not want to be silenced, and she made that very clear. Yet, I pursued on, in hopes of regaining control of myself. The help I received came in the form of medication, which was a huge mental hurdle for me to cross, as it is for many. To accept defeat is what it felt like. Yet, to my surprise, it was the opposite-for the first time- I won.

I took a deep breath, and it was like I was tasting air for the first time. I could feel it fill every corner of my lungs, circulating through my veins, giving life back to my soul. I sat in silence with myself, genuine silence. I never knew the world could be so quiet, so empty. I found myself looking for her. I almost missed her. I was not used to living a life where she was so absent. However, I knew she was not gone. She is there somewhere and always will be. Yet, I took back autonomy over myself and finally felt free. I could be the gatekeeper to my own head again, choosing when I opened the gates to her and when I would not. It became that simple.

In much of my life before this, she became my biggest fear, the person I hated the most, yet the person I could not seem to get away from. She is a part of me, whether I like it or not, a massive part of me. I spent much of my life resenting her and trying to battle and fight her away. I would try to block my ears so I couldn’t hear her. I would be scared to tell people about her, so I isolated myself so that I did not need to. I lashed out at those I loved the most out of fear that they would not like her and how she clings desperately onto me at all times, whispering in my ear, sitting heavily on my shoulders, dragging me slowly and painfully down to the ground. I was so ashamed.

Yet, as I have spent most of my life with her, I have learned to love her. I saw the beauty behind her cold eyes. I have learned she is the embodiment of all my strength and resilience. She is my superpower, a bright, shining light that only I own. She makes me feel like myself. Without her, I would be an empty shell of the person I have looked in the mirror and called “Maya” my entire life. I am no longer at war with her. Instead, she holds up the sword, and I hold up the shield, and we fight the war together, braving life’s challenges hand in hand. I accept her for who she is and all her flaws, and so does she with me. There is nothing wrong with me, and now both of us know that. Holding this hand I used to resent, gripping it so tight, yet knowing I could also let go, she looked down at me and smiled. For the first time, I noticed her dimples pressed so deeply into her cheek, the smile lines around her eyes, and the glistening of her pupils as she gazed with warmth so deeply into my being. She is beautiful.