I hate shaking hands with people.
No, it's not hatred really. It's more like a visceral loathing that makes me cling to things that can fill my hands.
If my hands are full, be it of a baby or a bag or my husband's hand, I cannot shake hands.
If my hands are empty, I am thrust into an uncomfortable, slowly rising panic while I decide which is worse: to offend someone by not shaking their hand or welcome thousands of tiny particles of germs, dirt and fecal matter onto my hand.
If I have chosen not to offend, I am now trying to act normally while I plan the most expedient path to the nearest sink or dig into the recesses of the diaper bag to find hand sanitizer. In the time before I can wash my hands, my base level of anxiety is climbing.
My ears are ringing, my mouth is dry, my mind cannot focus, my breathing is shaky and my heart is racing. I can literally feel the bacteria and viruses on my trembling hands multiplying and making their way through some portal of entry to attack my immune system.
Luckily, the panic subsides as soon as the water begins to flow. As I count to 20 (the number of seconds recommended by the CDC for proper hand hygiene, if you must know), calm overtakes fear. By the time my hands are dry, my composure has been regained.
Within my clean, scrubbed hands I am now holding the greatest delusion of all: I am in control.
I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and a generalized anxiety disorder. These diagnoses became official in the Fall of 2011, but they are not new.
I was always a nervous child, a perfectionist, a worry-wort, tightly-wound, and so on.
I can remember panicking on the first day of Christmas vacation in 5th grade because I realized that I misspelled 'maintenance' on a spelling test--this mistake would surely cost me entrance into a good college.
During middle school, there would be entire nights in which sleep evaded me as I wandered down convoluted paths in the game of 'What If?"
I developed my first ritual in 7th grade: kissing my fingertips, touching a picture on my wall, praying the exact same prayer every night, kissing my fingertips, touching the picture again, flipping the light switch, closing my eyes. Forgetting a step meant starting over. Period.
By high school, the OCD was moved to the back burner as my anxieties welcomed a new friend to the crazy table: anorexia nervosa. Though a different beast, anorexia was simply my newest ritual of control. Instead of light switches, I was turning off my hunger. Anorexia also brought me to therapy for the first time. I'll never be cured, but my faith and my family eventually brought me back to a healthy body and a healthier mind.
The newness of college seemed to breathe fresh air into my mind. I was focused, stable, out-going. Of course I had anxieties and a few mild panic attacks--who doesn't panic over piles of papers and daunting exams? A change was coming, though.
I wish I could pinpoint when OCD took back control of my mind. Was it in nursing school as I became a bonafide germaphobe? Was it when my boyfriend developed cancer and his care needed to be impeccable? Was it when I needed to score well on exams so I developed new rituals and checking behaviors? All I know is that by the time I graduated and began working, something was different.
I worked as a nurse for three years in an oncology department and an outpatient clinic. God has called me to be a nurse. I love caring for patients, healing hurts, putting together pathophysiological puzzles. I loved so much of my work...except the fear. I began praying the same prayer everyday on the way to work and if I deviated, I was sure that something bad was going to happen. Over the three years, my anxiety reached a new level in which handling needles became tantamount to torture. My mind was literally re-writing my memories to make me believe that I was getting needle sticks and deadly diseases. Even writing about needles makes me breathe a little unsteadily.
Finally, I swallowed my pride and sought counseling. I was drowning in fear. My anxieties were sucking the color and vitality from my life. At first, the therapist focused on my needle and blood-borne pathogens phobia. Then, she moved on to my moderately high level of constant anxiety. Eventually, though, we had a breakthrough. I had failed to mention (to anyone) that I had developed rituals throughout my life to help me cope with burdensome thoughts. As I described the treacherous ways my mind seemed to work, my therapist walked me through an official diagnosis of OCD.
It may seem strange, but that diagnosis was a relief. My therapist described it as faulty wiring in my brain's warning system. Something (a chemical imbalance, probably) told my brain that something bad was going on all the time. The warning signal that we have been designed with never turned off for me.
We worked through cognitive-behavioral therapy for a while, but I plateaued. Despite my extreme reluctance to try medication, it became my only option. I wouldn't say that the drug has made a night-and-day difference, but it helps. I was able to keep working as a nurse, able to enjoy life with my husband again, able to plan for a future. I was able to breathe.
I stayed on the medication until my husband and I began trying to have a baby. I tapered off the drug successfully, and by the grace of God, I got pregnant in the Fall of 2012. At first, I thought my nervousness was normal for a first-time pregnant lady. Doesn't everyone worry about miscarriage or birth defects? Doesn't everyone choose their meals carefully? Doesn't everyone assume that as soon as they feel happy about having a baby that the baby will die? When I shared that last question with my husband, he helped me to see that something was wrong.
Unfortunately, OCD can be triggered by the hormones of pregnancy. With my history, the anxiety and intrusive thoughts became deafening. I never wanted to take drugs during pregnancy, but my doctors helped me to understand that my mental health would have a greater impact on the health of my child than the small risk of side effects of the drug. I stayed on the medication throughout the 2nd trimester and then tapered off for the 3rd trimester to prevent any withdrawal symptoms in the baby. My husband and I welcomed our son into the world in May 2013. He was born before lunchtime and by dinnertime, I was back on my medications. My doctors have suggested that I remain on my medication until my son is a year old to prevent any combination of post-partum depression and OCD wreaking havoc on my exhausted baby brain.
All that to say, I am a new mom, and I have OCD and an anxiety disorder. The support I receive from my family and friends is remarkable, though I do not share this aspect of my life with everyone. When I do mention that I have OCD, most people assume I mean the colloquial meaning of "a quirky desire to keep their desk items in perfect order" or "the need to not step on sidewalk cracks." Usually, I let it slide.
Lately, though, I have felt the familiar tentacles of intrusive thoughts reaching for my sanity. Of course, I have coping mechanisms, and little rituals have snuck back into my day to help me keep breathing. However, more is required of me than just breathing now. I am responsible for a little life. Thus, this blog has come into existence.
Getting my fears and anxieties into the open helps me to decipher which ones are real and which are OCD. There is an old saying that says, "sunlight is the best disinfectant." In other words, bad things have a harder time staying hidden and powerful when exposed to the bright light of day. Between prayer, sharing with my husband and loved ones, and writing these words, I am truly blasting these intrusive thoughts with sunlight.
This brings me to the beginning of this (regrettably-long) post: shaking hands. A simple action that causes chaos in my mind. A greeting that literally causes my hands to tremble and shake long after the introduction is complete. It's time I start shaking hands in the light of day.
