It was a very wise therapist who taught me to treat my OCD as an infant or at least a much younger version of myself. Someone who knew very little and went into hysterics about the smallest thing without the use of any logic. Someone who thrived on fear and doubt- and trust me there was alot of that to go around. He taught me to call my OCD “Rin” (that is the ending of my actual name) so she could be part of me, a child I was to nurture not scream at or abuse. Prior to this it had never occurred to me that I could actually have compassion for the part of me that was causing me so much misery. But she was just a child. Maybe just as scared as me. I learned to dismiss Rin. Who lets their mental state be determined by a four year old?
Today Rin is still a problem but I deal with her. She pops up when I leave the house asking me if I had left the oven on or the journals out of their boxes. But I patiently endure her tantrums and don’t turn back. I will confess I bribe myself. If I go an entire month without checking I plan to buy myself a prize (something small, maybe a book or something). When I first tried to quit checking, my psychiatrist suggested this. My mom would take me to Barnes and Nobles every week if I was good and didn’t check with her. I really really wanted books and sometimes I thought I would pass out from the OCD’s uncertainty if I didn’t give in to it’s demands. It was like being choked and held up against a wall. But today OCD has tiny fingers. And I’m ending this month with a book of my choice.
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