So last night I wrote this on Facebook to my friends and family: Please don’t describe yourself as “so OCD” if you don’t actually have it and make it seem like less of a struggle than it genuinely is for people who do. OCD for me means my mind is always loud and running at a fast speed. OCD means insomnia and nights with 3-4 hours sleep. OCD means if I don’t want to be late in the morning I need to give myself 3 hours to get ready. OCD means everything around me has to be perfect or I can’t concentrate. OCD means carrying out the simplest task can cause a massive amount of stress. OCD means relief when I arrive at work because I have finally gotten myself out of the house, no matter how long it took! I get to work and my stress levels surprisingly reduce because one of the toughest parts of my day is over! And it’s a heap of other things I deal with! OCD is something most people don’t see. I laugh about it when I can but it sucks 🙄 people understanding it better helps ❤️ I’m just sick of people using it as a phrase and making it sound like no big deal!

Lately I’ve seen way too many comments under posts about OCD, especially the harm, POCD, and relationship themes that are incredibly misinformed and honestly harmful. People saying things like “these thoughts are unnatural,”or “you need to go get real help” and encouraging confession ***compulsions*** when they clearly have no understanding of how OCD actually works. Let me be clear: OCD involves distressing and unwanted thoughts, images, or urges. That doesn’t make someone dangerous. It makes them someone with a mental illness who is terrified of their own brain. Saying these people are “unnatural” or implying they’re broken only reinforces shame, and shame is the opposite of what helps anyone heal. If you’re commenting under OCD-related posts on an OCD ***app*** without understanding what intrusive thoughts are, or what compulsions can look like, or **how OCD can attach itself to the things we fear most** then please, stop. You are not helping. You’re reinforcing stigma and pushing people further into silence. OCD is already isolating. We don’t need more people moralizing or projecting trauma theory onto something they haven’t experienced or don’t understand. If you really care, go learn. Read about intrusive thoughts. Learn about ERP therapy. Or maybe just listen. Because some of us are barely hanging on, and comments like those don’t just miss the point, they can do real damage. I’m sorry if I come off too angry, it just really upsets me to see people speak on something they clearly don’t understand. End of rant. Thank you for reading 🤍

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?