I once had a therapist tell me I should never try mindfulness. Or meditation, for that matter.
“Nothing that encourages you to spend more time alone with your thoughts,” she elaborated with the most seriousness she could muster over our Zoom session. A speck of avocado was smeared on her lower lip. Her tongue darted out to retrieve it as I digested what she was saying. I couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or not. She was seven or eight months pregnant at the time, and that combined with general COVID-19 quarantine madness had rendered her more blunt than usual.
“You want to ask why,” she supplied for me. I nodded. “People like you need less awareness of what you’re thinking, not more. Maybe one day mindfulness can be in the cards. Today isn’t that day. Not while you’re still in this elevated state of anxiety.”
By people like me, she meant people with Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). By elevated state of anxiety, she meant the (at this point) four month-long OCD flare-up that would’ve sent me to in-patient if it were any other year beside 2020. Most hours of my day were spent cycling between screaming, crying, and shaking. With my therapist’s help, I was improving and seeing my symptoms subside. Less shaking like an earthquake, more like a leaf—but still, it’d be another seven months before I started to feel anywhere close to “normal” again.
That might sound like a long time, but get this: it’s been four years now, and I’ve still yet to receive that green light on the mindfulness stuff. I’ve started to suspect she only told me that to placate me. I can’t blame her. It was not my finest hour, to say the least.
If you’re reading this, you’re likely hip enough to know that the common understanding of what OCD looks like—neat freaks, hypochondriacs, label-maker lovers, etc.—is terribly incorrect. You also likely never bothered to learn anything beyond that. You have no clue how those stereotypes are wrong, or what OCD really is. Never fear, for I present this accessible definition from the International OCD Foundation website, my favorite source when I’m too tired to explain this shit myself:
“Obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) is a mental health disorder that […] occurs when a person gets caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions. Obsessions are unwanted, intrusive thoughts, images, or urges that trigger intensely distressing feelings. Compulsions are behaviors an individual engages in to attempt to get rid of the obsessions and/or decrease distress.”
Need an easy example? Imagine you’re standing on the roof of a skyscraper and a voice pops into your head and says, “JUMP!” Most people, the OCD-free, wouldn’t blink twice at their little suicidal intruder’s suggestion. They’d shrug, think huh, weird thought, and move on unscathed.
But not the OCD sufferer. It never ends there for us. A spark of anxiety accompanies the original intrusive thought, and we’ll wonder why we’d ever think something so awful. We’ll question if we actually do want to jump, and, if so, does that mean we’re secretly suicidal? But that can’t be right. We’re not depressed…or are we? No! No way. But if we’re not depressed then why would we ever—
And so on and so on. Get the idea? An obsession’s been born. We start avoiding tall buildings and throw out our kitchen knives and pill bottles just in case we’re suicidal and don’t know it yet. This may seem illogical—that’s because it is. OCD fears are not based in reality. But if there’s even the slightest possibility it could happen, even the smallest what if? to be asked, then OCD will clamp down and refuse to let go.
This could occur with any thought. For me, it has. I have what’s colloquially called “Whack-a-Mole OCD” in our community’s support circles. A cutesy way of referencing my particular flavor of hell: as soon as I beat one obsession down, another pops up. If OCD Whack-a-Mole was a real arcade game, I’d finally bring home that Nintendo DSI in the lock box behind the prize counter.
I’ve compulsively avoided stepping outside after dusk due to my obsessive fear of being bit by a bat. I once spent hundreds of dollars on snake-oil supplements to slow the progression of a psychotic disorder I do not have. I “needed” to flip a light switch sixteen times each night, or else my dad’s best friend from high school would drop dead. These are three of the hundreds of obsessions and compulsions I’ve battled in my life. Some are dormant now. Plenty more are not.
My therapist told me to avoid mindfulness because she knew I was still far, far away from employing the huh, weird thought tactic to any success with my intrusive thoughts. Most days I awake to find myself trapped in a panopticon of my own making. Not every intrusive thought triggers a new flare-up, but I can never anticipate which will be The One. I can never let my guard down.
Our current understanding is that OCD cannot be cured, only managed. Similar to ADHD or Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), we believe OCD is caused by a difference in brain structure. As of my writing this, there is no medication manufactured specifically for the treatment of OCD symptoms. Some anti-depressants and a select few anti-psychotics provide decent relief, but no matter how well you respond to medication and therapy, another flare-up is always hidden just around the corner.
For me, said flare-up came two months ago. I’m still fighting it off now. It’s the worst I’ve had in years, and it’s put me back in therapy and on medication for the first time in my life. My experiences during quarantine helped me catch it early this time. So far, recovery is going well.
But I’m not cured. I’m not better enough. Certainly not enough to be mindful. Every second I spend idle is another second I leave myself open to an attack from within. I need to keep moving, keep busy all the time, or risk losing my progress. Until the day comes where I can sit with all my thoughts, even the intrusive ones, without falling down a rabbit hole that leaves me wondering if I somehow assassinated JFK, there’ll be no mindfulness for Lee.
Why share this? Why focus my energy on explaining this particular facet of OCD as opposed to all the others? One reason is that the other parts are, frankly, way sadder. You and I are going to need to work up to that. Another is my belief in the importance of talking openly about these sorts of things to erase the stigma. As a #MentalHealthAdvocate (vomit), I hope anyone else with OCD who is reading this feels less alone.
Which brings me to my most important reason for writing. There is an epidemic plaguing the OCD community, one that is not talked about nearly enough. And if I must be the one to say it, then so be it. Without further ado, I, on behalf of countless OCD sufferers in the New York Metropolitan Area, present this solemn plea:
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP INVITING ME TO HOT YOGA.
Also: regular yoga, guided medication, silent retreats, all of it.
Pilates and spin classes are fine, so long as they don’t make me focus on my breath for too long or get weirdly motivational and pseudo-religious in the final stretch. But that’s the limit. If the activity requires us to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, chances are it’s going to ruin my, and—by extension—your day.
It’s not that I dislike you! It’s not that I don’t care to strengthen my core or that I’m judging you for doing so, or don’t understand the benefits, or want brittle, bitch-ass bird bones when I’m forty. I’d love to pull my leg up and over my head and bend myself like a freaky little pretzel if I could. Alas.
IT WILL LITERALLY KILL ME.
Fine, fine, maybe not literally. But anything’s possible—just ask my OCD. Besides, the fallout will not be worth it. Put me in a yoga studio for sixty minutes of silent stretching accompanied by lo-fi beats and a scented candle, and I’ll put even Miyazaki and Disney’s imaginations to shame.
I’ll have convinced myself I caused Pompeii, that my apartment burned down because I forgot to check the stove twelve times before leaving, and that my ex broke up with me because I liked Barbie (2023) a little too much… do you want that? Are you ready to accept these consequences on the subway ride home? How would you like to hear me have a panic attack about these topics over a Cava bowl?
I don’t say this to trivialize a very serious issue. I also don’t speak for all people with OCD. Some of them might be able to go to hot yoga with you just fine. But I can’t, and for me it’s not trivial. To let you in on a little secret: it’s not really about the hot yoga. (I know!) It’s the daily frustration of knowing your illness can turn anything into a trigger if you give it the chance to. So, while I so appreciate you offering me your free friend pass this week, I. Don’t. Want. It. I know we’re in our 20s and we’re in NYC and this is what we do, but neither of can handle the possibility of what might happen if my brain produces the words what if,,,
Know that I hate I’m like this, too. I hate explaining it, I hate pulling the mental illness card to get out of exercise like I’m back in middle school gym class trying to escape the mile. But unlike when I told Mr. Bristol that moving at a pace greater than two miles an hour would plunge me into an irreparable depression, I’m not being dramatic when I say that going to hot yoga with you could literally ruin my life.
Today (October 13, 2024) marks the start of OCD Awareness Week. To do my part, I’ve made you aware of this issue. Now that you’re aware? Consider the countless activities we can do that won’t give me an express pass to the Ninth Circle. They’re probably going to be cheaper.
One day I might get to the place where I can unlock my chakras with you, but until then, save your class pass deals for your friend with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I promise, they need it more than I do.