Part III: Feeding the Monster
When I was four years old, I was consoled when my special striped socks were in the wash, soothed when I screamed in defeat as I crumpled up my fifth piece of english homework and threw it on the floor, comforted during my uncontrollable tantrums when the door cracked an inch too far so that it prevented enough of the light from the bathroom to enter my room, and I was gently reminded at least thirty times a day—and more if I needed it—that, “It’s okay.” and “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But you reach a point when the constant reassurance—the one that you relied on with your entire being from the person who you depended on much more than she could have ever imagined would be required of her motherly duties—is taken from you before you knew it was even possible or imaginable to live without it.
It is the only thing I vividly remember from my OCD childhood.
As a child, I don’t ever recall a day that I felt relaxed. But I did feel intense moments of comfort immediately following my mom reassuring me I didn’t do anything wrong. That is when I felt the happiest—but it didn’t last forever.
A quiet knock came from my door. My mom entered my room slowly, holding the note I wrote her. She sat next to me on the bed and took my hand.
“You can leave me those notes, Alyssa, but I am not going to read them,” she said.
I went from a feeling of relief to intense uncertainty.
The first feeling was utter betrayal, which was soon followed by a complete sense of panic. Tears streamed down my face as my mom embraced me tightly. It is then that I realized I would no longer receive the reassurance I needed. Shaking vigorously, I wailed in pain.
“Mom, I don’t understand,” I cried.
“Dr. Whitlock explained that it’s a monster that just gets bigger and bigger. By giving you reassurance, I am feeding the monster; I am going along with the rituals, allowing them to happen.”
I felt a total loss of control—a loss of stability. The continuous comfort was the only thing that kept me sane.
I sprinted through the doors of Dr. Whitlock’s house in sheer distress. The alarming look on her face confirmed my fears. Tears shot out of my eyes as I quaked in terror.
“How do I make this stop,” I screamed in complete panic.
“PLEASE,” I cried. “Make it stop!”
After my first day of middle school, I run up the wooden stairs and their creaking sounds are followed by the thumping footsteps of an eager Golden Retriever. I go into my room, plop my backpack on my bed, carefully taking out my math, science, and English folders as I pet Goldie’s large head with my other hand. I glance up to my open closet door. I grin at the sight of my pink and dark orange shirt with an embroidered red heart on the front hanging there, unworn. My eyes scour the room for my beaded headband, but it’s nowhere to be found; I shrug.
I open up my math notes and turn to a blank page. With my notes beside me, I begin to re-write them—making sure my title is bolded, and each number fits exactly on the line. After an hour of writing, erasing, tossing, and rewriting my notes—I am exhausted. I look down to the discarded papers on the floor; I can see the hardwood floor through the worn holes of the paper.
At 10 p.m. my mom approaches my door. She comes into the room as I ease under my white puffy comforter, pulling it up to my chin. She gives me a tight hug.
“I’m glad you had a good first day, Alyssa.”
She makes her way out of my room, shutting the light off on the way out as she says “Goodnight, Honey. I love you.”
“I love you, mom,” I say quietly as I glance at the slice of light coming through the small crack in the door, which is left open to an unknown angle.
I close my eyes until I hear my mom’s footsteps fade. Quietly, I pull out my pink and black Samsung, flip it open, and begin constructing a text to send to my mom. She said she wouldn’t read my notes; she never said anything about texts…
No matter how much mental or physical effort I put in, I always lost to my thoughts. They beat me, exhausted me, terrified me. They devastated any chance I had at being happy because happiness wasn’t even the goal; gaining control back was. I couldn’t think of one thing that could help me in that moment, so I cried for help, I begged for help. After screaming at Dr. Whitlock, I remember sitting there petrified looking at her—but I don’t recall her response.
I don’t remember what happened next, or how I got past this.
To remember the feeling, but not the growth seems cruel. And I don’t think I’d have to convince you that the growth is something I knew I wanted to remember.