Painfully Astute

            When first asked how abnormal psychology is relevant to my life, I can’t help but state the obvious. I have OCD and this class may identify the cause of the obsessive knocking, praying, and counting that consumes much of my life. I also expected this class to provide a definitive answer as to why my mind is wired this way. At first I assumed I inherited a genetic predisposition from my dad, but after learning how genetics play a minimal part in the development of disorders, I realized my assumption was fundamentally flawed. So the question still remains: Why do I have OCD? Were these behaviors learned in childhood and fostered throughout my life, or is my OCD really the result of a chemical imbalance?

            It started when I was 5. They must have forgotten to sever the umbilical cord because I literally clung to my mom at all times. Separation from her was unbearable. I was unable to function without knowing that my mom was safe at all times. Because separation anxiety is common in children, this was not a dire concern at the time. But it quickly worsened and became an all-encompassing malignancy.

            Like most children, I annoyed all of my teachers with my disruptive and inappropriate behaviors. Apparently it was so distressing that my parents sent 8-year-old-me to some doctor who made me click a bunch of buttons and wait for little lights to illuminate.  All that we gathered from this assessment was that I was not mentally-retarded nor did I have ADHD. The doctor described me as a “bright, yet very anxious child.” Anxious. Is that all it was? Of course not.

            Instead of years of consistent and expensive therapy, my parents decided that a quick fix might be a more suitable solution. When I was 12, I met my psychiatrist. At the time he seemed like somewhat of an elitist snob but I waited a few years before I officially decided that.

            In blue pen, he  wrote down my first prescription on acrisp, yellow palimpsest, 50 milligrams of Zoloft, update in three months. “I see you’re picking your finger nails a lot,” he said. He wrote it down.

            I listened as he described a disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts and rituals.  Blah, blah, bloodstream, blah blah serotonin levels. Chemical imbalance. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. The details seemed pedantic, as the only fact I found imperative was that I had a disorder. After this painful meeting with this cold psychiatrist, I ascertained that my life would only get harder with this big fat label stamped on my head and that all of my behavior would not be interpreted in terms of my disorder.

            Therapy told me that there’s a little monster that lives in my brain. It feeds off of me and my obsessions provide it with the nourishment it needs. For much of my childhood and adolescence, I allowed this parasite to wreak havoc on my life. Therapy helped, but I think of Zoloft as my savior because it made me see the light that the monster forbade me from seeing.

            Psychology allows me to know myself the way I need to. My own introspection has facilitated an interpersonal aptitude that allows me to relate to others. Thus, I have concluded that the relevance of this class expands far beyond my personal psychological issues and extends into my interpersonal relationships. My OCD once ostracized me from the majority. Now, it motivates me. The same obsessions that ate away at me created an introspective and curious future psychopathologist with a passion for exploring the infiniteness that is the human mind.