Help requested! I’m writing a creative nonfiction paper on Pure O and I think it’d be cool to include some other people’s experiences so it’s not just me droning on about my anxiety-filled woes. The paper is, namely, about the misconceptions of OCD and the Buzzfeed “Check your OCD Radar!” quiz culture of “Oh I’m so clean lol I have OCD.” If you’d like to help me out either comment a story of how Pure O/misconceptions of OCD have affected you or something you want people to know about OCD. For full disclosure: the essay will be read by about twenty people (also pray I don’t get baker acted after exposing my intrusive thoughts in person to a classroom full of people lol)

I'm sry if this may make people worry or feel uncomfortable in advance! Hello everyone as u can see I struggle with ocd and I HATE IT WITH MY LIFE , it started in 2020 covid obv contamination ocd started here , I used to carry alcohol everywhere and used to wash my hands so much that it bled ( had to wear gloves to cover it so friends or family won't see it ) and everything else started since then , harm ocd with myself or friends I couldn't hold a knife..it was really hard..and I have unwanted sexual thoughts ocd , I have panic attacks bc of this..I sometimes cannot look people into their eyes and its so random and so scary..thoughts about.. 🍇..whether it's me or I'm gonna harm someone else uk..I sometimes cannot function properly.. unfortunately friends don't understand it rather think it's about " perfectionism "..I wrote those thoughts and stuff in a journal in more details ofc and doodle ( I'm scared someone will find it ) I hate myself tbh and I don't think someone will read this... I suspect I have ADHD with all this but ocd is " ur faking it " even though lots of people have hinted about it , I thought I actually killed someone for 2 years a girl..until I realized what HOCD is , I thought I faked my ocd too in fact , I have perfectionism ocd too it's bad and I HATE PURE O it's so DRAINING uk.. also idk if this has caused a problem for anyone but if y'all know the Truman show ( basically if u don't know the main character is being filmed and his life is fake and he doesn't know it ) THAT MOVIE HAS HARMED ME SO BADLY FOR YEARS that until today I have to check in the bathroom if there are cameras cuz like ocd makes me think I'm living in a fake world , I used to think people around me , everyone was like a Ai model or smth.. everytime until today I have to clean the toilet seat bc it may be dirty..I have been taking up to 5 showers a day cuz maybe I'm dirty..that's it for today tysm if u read this till the end I'd like to know ur thoughts if u got tips or have similar experiences ! 🤗 U get a chocolate bar 🍫 bc u earned it bc ik how ocd is so frustrating ( I also noticed everyone who has ocd is so nice right 😆! )

If you are anything like me (and most of you are, because let’s face it, we are all on this chat), you have OCD. Real OCD, not the organisation, matching colours everyone thinks it is. Real OCD. I’ve always known I was different, known that my brain does some waking things and deep down, I’ve always known I’ve had OCD. But there is just something that changes when you finally get the diagnosis. It makes more sense, you have an explanation for your behaviours. So naturally I told my friends. When they ask why I had to stop and step four times on a tile I said ‘oh, I have OCD’. I finally had a word, a tangible concept that I could explain to people. But nobody warned me about the massive misconceptions about OCD. Instead of support or acceptance, my friends seemed to question the diagnosis saying ‘that’s not ocd, don’t you just like things organised?’. And no matter how much I explain it they don’t seem to get it. And that’s the part that feels so cruel. I go through hell in my head and it can all be reduced to a phrase of ‘oh, aren’t you organised’. So please be careful out there you guys, and if someone try’s to downplay your experience, know that you are valid and that what you are going through is probably something that they could never handle. It’s a lesson that took me time to learn, but it’s important because our experience matters. Our real experience.

I wrote these two poems for an open mike poetry night at my college a few years ago. Freshman year of college my anxiety ate me alive. I chickened out last minute and never performed, but I recently found the notebook I wrote these in and thought I’d share. i’m sO sCareD You say, "Oh my god, I’m so OCD about my notes," while I am drowning in the undertow of thoughts that refuse to let me go. You say, "I just like things neat, you know?" while I check the lock again and again, wondering if this time will be the time my brain believes me— but it never does. It's the monster under the bed except it lives in my head, whispers masquerading as instincts, warnings dressed as logic, fear that wears me like a second skin. And oh, how easy it is to laugh it off, call it a quirk, a habit, a punchline, while I stand at the brink of a thought so loud I can feel it crack my ribs. You say, "I’m so OCD about my computer icons." I say, I can’t hold my mother’s hand without tracing the veins, make sure she’s alive, still beating and bleeding, rewinding, replaying, repeating, repeating, until I become the pattern itself. I say, I live on a hill. And if the picture frames aren’t straight, the ground will shift, the walls will give way, my home will collapse beneath me. And I can’t let it go? I say, I step in threes, three, three, three, reset, three, three— reset. Because if I do it wrong, something worse will happen, though I don’t know what, only that the terror knows it for me. I am not particular. I am prisoner. So when you say OCD, I hope you mean the way it steals— the way it clings, the way it suffocates, because it is not about preference. It is about survival. hallway girl. Why can’t I have the helpful OCD? The organized one, the productive one, the one people praise instead of whisper about? Why can’t my compulsions make me a genius instead of a joke? Why do they make me the hallway girl— “she’s still walking the hallway” as if it’s a comedy show. As if it’s funny to be trapped in my own head. You see it in sitcoms— the guy who can’t handle an uneven stack of papers, the woman who scrubs the counters too much, laugh track ringing loud— but no one laughs at the panic that coils in my lungs no one sees the terror when the stairs don’t add up and suddenly the earth is shaking and I can’t move No one shows the moments I cry over a step miscounted, staring at the hallway, knowing I have to start over, but already too exhausted to move. No one shows the shame, the whispered apologies, the effort of convincing myself this time, maybe, I’ll be strong enough to resist— but I never am. And no one shows the shoes. How I would run, sprint, chase time through our fifteen-minute break, Back to my room, because if they moved— if they weren’t exactly right— my dad would have a heart attack. And it would be my fault. So I checked. And checked. And checked again. Until I was breathless, But still had to sprint back to class and pretend I didn’t leave my mind behind with my shoes. So when they call me hallway girl, I bite my tongue so they don’t see how hard it takes Because if OCD is a joke, why am I the only one who isn’t laughing?