In 1994, I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, more commonly called OCD.
I was 11 years old, and at that point, my parents had known for several years that something was not right with me. If anything disrupted my routine, upset the order of the universe — whether it was a potato chip snatched from my bag by my father or my bed moved an inch too far from the window and thus clearly not safe for sleeping — I threw my whole body and soul into a theatrical tantrum my parents could do nothing to contain.
They tried everything — coddling, comforting, bribing, giving in and restoring the order I so desperately needed — or, many times, telling me to get myself together. And what getting myself together meant was to hide the howl inside me, to hide the disorder I didn’t yet know I had.
But by the age of 11, the signs and symptoms of my OCD were unmistakable, and I was prescribed Paxil, an SSRI that was indicated for children at the time. Exposure therapy, behavioral therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy were not really a thing back then for children, or even for adults. I just took my Paxil prescribed by my child psychiatrist and sometimes a Xanax prescribed by my pediatrician, and thus medicated, I was supposed to function normally.
