A Teddy Bear In a Plastic Bag

A Teddy Bear In A Plastic Bag

When I realized I would have to get a medical procedure that would likely bring back old trauma, I immediately wondered what coping mechanisms would get me through it.

I knew that this would be a difficult choice, since the procedure is being done while I’m awake. If it was being done under anesthesia or some other way of altered consciousness, there wouldn’t be as much of a need - but since I was traumatized by three surgeries I had while I was awake ten years ago, I find myself needing something more than the run-of-the-mill coping mechanisms I rely on for everyday things.

It’s hard to explain to doctors why I need a coping mechanism. I’ve found that mental and physical health are often separated to the point that only one of them matters at a time, and during a medical procedure for physical health, mental health is shoved aside. No doctor would knock me out simply because of my fear or my past experiences, and with the procedure happening on my face, there is no way for me to avoid what’s going to be happening literally right under my nose.

It thus fell to me to come up with a solution that would take care of my mental health at a time that would be triggering for me while still obeying the doctors’ instructions.

I first thought of the things that usually work best for me. My usual favorite coping mechanism for potentially triggering situations is not being alone, but thanks to the hospital’s COVID policy, I’m not allowed to bring anyone past the waiting room. I can have a friend waiting for me outside, but not in the procedure room - which will be the most frightening part. So, after securing a friend to stay in the waiting room, I began to think of what might work during the procedure itself.

My Nintendo Switch is too big, and I won’t be able to see it if my face is being operated on. Same goes for my phone, which is frowned upon in these settings anyway. I’ll try to bring headphones so I can listen to music, but there’s no guarantee the doctor will let any sort of technology in the room. It seemed to me that technology isn’t a solution for this particular situation.

I decided to branch out and get creative, trusting in my years of experience coping with a variety of things to find a technology-free solution. I quickly dismissed books for the same reason as my Switch - I won’t be able to see the pages if the doctor is standing between me and the book - and then I thought of the fact that I was likely to bleed during the procedure and didn’t want to stain a book.

I then realized that I hadn’t even thought of my favorite coping mechanism - but at first, I thought it would never work.

I’ve had Puffy - a pink Gund Snuffles teddy bear - since I was six weeks old. He’s been with me through everything in my life, and even though it’s been nearly thirty years, he still has most of his stuffing, even if his fur is rather short. The texture of his remaining fur, the smooth eyes and button nose, and even the stitches from the many, many “operations” he underwent to reattach said nose are all incredibly comforting to me.

The only problem is, Puffy can’t be washed by the machines in my apartment building. They’re industrial size and strength, and I don’t trust that they would leave such an old and very-loved toy intact. Since I was afraid of staining him and not being able to wash him until my next visit home, I almost dismissed him as a solution until I came up with an idea that I knew would work.

Thanks to years of me sleeping with Puffy cradled in my arms every night, he is significantly smaller than he was when my parents first bought him for me - which means that he can fit inside of a large Ziploc bag. If I seal him inside, I can have the comfort of my favorite teddy bear who has been with me my whole life and not feel alone during the procedure, and if I bleed during the procedure, there is a protective layer between the blood and the bear.

As soon as I figured out that I could do this, I felt a weight lifted off of me. In situations when I know I am likely to be triggered, I often feel out of control, which makes my OCD worse. I spiral into all sorts of negative thoughts and may even start to panic - and although it’s thankfully been years since I’ve had a panic attack, I still experience panicked thought patterns and my heart rate soars.

Bringing Puffy might not be in any sort of pre-op instructions, but I know that when I have him there, I will know that something is in my control. I won’t know if any of the horrible things I picture whenever I think of medical procedures will happen, but thanks to a suggestion from my therapist, I know that if I can control even one thing in a stressful or scary situation, I feel immensely better.

The procedure is tomorrow, and I’ve left out a Ziploc plastic bag next to my medical paperwork. I might not be able to control whether or not I bleed, how many needles go into my face or anywhere else, or if my worst fear about the procedure will come true. I don’t know how much it’ll hurt or how long it’ll take me to heal. But I do know that when I have to leave my friend in the waiting room, I won’t be entirely out of control when I go back for the procedure - and that’ll make all the difference for my mental health.

 Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

Some Wounds Don't Heal

Some Wounds Don’t Heal

Have you ever had a cut with a scab that stays on forever, and just when you think it’s ready to be peeled off, the cut reopens and you have to start all over again?

That’s how I feel every time someone tells me I’m “too much.”

I was taught, as a child, that because of the way my brain works, I will always be “too much” for most people. I knew, deep down, that even my family needed breaks from my energy, enthusiasm, and obsessions - and since I didn’t have friends, they were my barometer for how the world would treat me.

It was because of kindness that they encouraged me to take up less space, took me to therapy where I learned how to blend in, and inadvertently ingrained into my head that I can never fully be myself with anyone.

After many sessions with my child psychologist, I felt bad to inflict myself upon people - even my family. I became resentful that there was no room for the one coping mechanism for my OCD that actually works - choosing to obsess about something positive instead of something negative. I hate that in my childhood I was always bursting with energy and joy and positive obsessions and when they had nowhere to go, I shoved them down and down and down until, even now, they only pop out in specific circumstances when I feel safe from rejection.

These little moments feel so liberating, but they are rare. I try so hard to fit in, but inside, I’m screaming for the chance for my heart and passions to be let out. I’m frustrated that people can casually say “I’m so obsessed with this TV show/movie/band” but if I try the same thing, it’s weird and strange and makes people uncomfortable.

People tell me this in a variety of ways. A friend once told me - after she witnessed me and another friend exchanging Lord of the Rings-related puns - that she felt like I was intimidatingly smart and wouldn’t want to associate with anyone who didn’t get the jokes. At work, I’m told to branch out my topics of conversation even if I don’t know about those topics, and when I fall back on my usual MO of being quiet when I don’t have anything to say, I’m too meek or shy. And recently, my DM for D&D told me I was taking up too much space with roleplay.

My current therapist tells me that it’s about other people, not me - if they are uncomfortable and don’t have a way to deal with their feelings, they pin it on me. But I don’t believe her, even though I trust her with almost everything else. I don’t think so many people could be wrong, and after a lifetime of hearing it, I’ve grown to accept that my passionate, energetic, enthusiastic, obsessed self is something to hide and be ashamed of.

When I hear the words “too much,” it’s like flipping a switch. If I was comfortable with the person who told me this, I am no longer comfortable. I no longer want to share what matters to me, whether that means the big things or the little things. I feel an urge to “maliciously comply” with what they say - like if I am told I talk too much, I want to never open my mouth again around them.

And so, when I heard from my DM last week, I wondered what to do about D&D since it is one of my favorite activities. I thought of so many ways I could stand up for myself, and then used none of them, since I was told so many times as a child that my social skills are bad enough that if someone tells me I’m “too much,” they’re right.

And so, I stayed quiet. It was a roleplay-heavy session - one practically designed for me - and I only spoke when absolutely required. My lack of participation forced the person in the group who doesn’t like roleplay into center stage, and with a character not designed for that, he struggled. I let myself have the one petty moment of “Oh yeah, my +18 in Persuasion (one of the main dialogue skills in D&D) would have helped here,” before I returned to my silence. But in the end, I think the only one who was hurting was me.

And the worst part was, no one thought to say or do anything about the fact that the usually friendly and chatty Ellie was imitating a mannequin. I was listening to the feedback. Being a good girl who does what I’m told, and there’s no need to comment on that, no matter how much it hurt me.

I don’t like lashing out when I’m hurt. I don’t like that I have this big, blaring button on my chest that keeps getting pushed no matter how hard I try to blend in and act “normal.” I don’t like that I befriend people who support me to a point, then tell me I’m “too much” and reinforce that the only person who really wants to care about me 100% of the time is me.

I have some bright spots on the horizon - conventions, certain online meetups, and a trip to New Zealand in nine months that I’ve wanted to go on since I was in high school. In these places, I don’t have to mask at all. Everyone is either interested in the things I care about to the same degree as I am or find my enthusiasm an asset.

But whenever I let my guard down in regular circumstances, and I’m told that I’m “too much,” this is what goes through my head: You’re just as bad at hiding your OCD as when you were a kid. You’re doing it wrong. No one wants to see the real you. Why would you think you could trust these people?

When I think like this, I try to remember the quote I have pinned to the wall of my cubicle, from Danielle Laporte:

“You will always be too much for something for someone: too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy. If you round out your edges, you lose your edge. Apologize for mistakes. Apologize for unintentionally hurting someone - profusely. But don’t apologize for being who you are.”

When I look at this quote, I feel a scab begin to form on that ancient cut once more. One day, I hope I will get to a place where the scab won’t just rip off again, painfully. One day, I hope I can be in a situation where being myself fully is no longer a bad thing, and I can finally, actually heal.

Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

Bringing A Fishing Pole To A Sword Fight

Bringing A Fishing Pole To A Sword Fight

For me, one of the major ways OCD has always manifested itself is perfectionism. Everything has to be done in the right way, and if I’m too far away from what I consider the right way, I start to feel anxious. This feeling tends to compound itself in group settings, especially since I’ve felt the need to make friends by impressing people since I was a child and “normal” friend-making techniques didn’t exactly work.

So, I was all the more stressed out when, this week, I had to deal with a situation where I made a mistake in front of a group of new friends who I was definitely trying to impress.

During a “raid” in Lord of the Rings Online, one of my favorite video games for the last decade, players work together as a group to do an objective (usually a fantasy-style fight). In this particular raid, I was in a group of six people working to battle a dragon and reclaim its hoard.

It’s a tough battle, and as the newest person in this well-established group, I really wanted to prove myself. I knew that most - if not all - of the other people in the raid had been playing even longer than me and several played more competitively. I wanted to prove that I was worthy of having a spot in the group - after all, they were letting me in when they could probably find players with a lot more experience in raids who would be a better asset to the group.

In other words, my old childhood mindset of “they could have done better - but I have to prove them wrong” came in, and I set out to be the best raid participant they could ever ask for.

The beginning portion of the raid went smoothly, but when we were preparing to fight the dragon, I decided to take a look at my weapons once again, to make sure everything was okay. It’s not something I needed to do - in fact, it’s more like how I check that I have my keys at least twice before I leave my apartment most days. And yet, I did it anyway.

It took until the fight started to realize that when I was checking my sword, I had accidentally clicked on a fishing rod in my character’s inventory, which made my character pick that up instead of her sword. And, thanks to the way this game works, I would be unable to change the “weapon” I had equipped for the duration of the fight.

I was immediately mortified. My first raid with these new people who had welcomed me even though I was definitely not on their level was going to be a disaster - and all because of my need to check once again that I had equipped the correct sword.

As soon as the fight began, I spluttered to the group in our voice chat that I had messed up and that the group would essentially be doing the raid with five people instead of six. I apologized, did my best to explain what had happened, and fully expected to be kicked out of this new group where I didn’t even know the people all that well.

But instead of the hatred I expected, all I received was uproarious laughter. Not at me - at the circumstance of the game and the way it wouldn’t let me change the fishing rod for a sword! The whole conversation turned jovial and we all got a great laugh as I cheered from the sidelines, waving my fishing rod, watching as the five people in the group who were far better equipped than me brought down the dragon.

It took longer to complete the raid than if I hadn’t been holding a fishing rod the entire time, but it wasn’t that big of a difference. Everyone was still able to work together and the more serious group members enjoyed the challenge of bringing down the dragon with fewer people. And, at the end of the night, the group leader explained that it was their tradition to take a screenshot of the raid group with the prize - and they wanted me to stand in front and wave the fishing rod.

What started out as a mistake turned into people telling me that I made their night by bringing humor into a usually serious situation. They told me that I was welcome in any raids they do, and while it might be more helpful to bring a sword in the future, it was hilarious that I wielded a fighting rod against a dragon in my first raid with the group.

As the anxiety of making people hate me faded away, I thought back to how I joined this group, not so long ago. The reason I felt so comfortable joining was that the leader welcomed me when I was having trouble in a different raid - even going so far as to send me a message of encouragement when I was stressing about doing everything right.

In the end, no one actually cared about the fact that I brought a fishing rod to a sword fight - and no amount of preparation or worry could have taken away the silly mistake I made. It’s now turned into a joke within the group, the first “inside joke” I’ve been part of - and it makes me feel welcomed in a situation where my anxiety could have led to a far worse outcome.

 Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

What Trying A New Food Looks Like

It’s a Friday night and I’ve just won a Magic: The Gathering card game draft, which is a tournament among eight people. I’m proud of myself - it’s been six years since I picked up the hobby, and I’ve never managed to win a draft before. My confidence in my performance at the event makes me giddy, reckless enough to agree to go out to dinner with some friends from the event.

The idea occurs to me, as I sit in the back seat of their car, that I don’t know where we would be eating, nor do these friends know about my… unusual eating habits. A polite way, I tell myself, of saying that I eat like a 5’9” toddler thanks to being afraid to try new foods for the majority of my life. The anxiety and obsessive thoughts that prevented me from trying new foods as a child are still there, albeit better hidden (most of the time).

It’s a few minutes past 10 PM, which means most places are closed. We look at a few places I’ve eaten at before, then my friends get the idea that we should go to a nearby Indian place that’s open. Some of the joy of victory slides away from me as I hope that I can be brave enough to try something that will let me keep my pride in front of my new friends.

I think of what usually happens when I don’t. If I just get a side dish or something plain, I get well-meaning but horribly obtrusive questions about my diet, weight, and lifestyle. I feel inadequate when I am asked these questions. Like somehow, even my best effort over the course of over twenty-five years has amounted to me eating a less varied diet than a grade-schooler. It’s a reminder of the roadblock between me and “normal,” even if friends, family, and therapists alike tell me I give too much meaning to that word.

I enter the restaurant anyway and check out the menu handed to me. It’s a pretty big menu, which is a good thing - higher odds I’ll find something I can eat. The sides appeal to me right away - I know I like naan bread and plain rice, but my friends are ordering proper dishes, and I feel ashamed. Somehow, the fear and the remaining joy from winning the draft combine, and I decide to try a new food.

I’ve never had chow mein before, but from the picture in the menu, it looks like it has noodles and onions. I can see from the allergen list that it won’t kill me. I can only pray that my childhood fear of any new food making me throw up is an obsession and nothing more. It’s a gamble, but I order and pay and sit down with my friends like nothing’s wrong. For a while, I live in the bliss of bravery as the food is prepared, not having to eat anything - but soon enough, the food shows up, and it sits there.

I notice immediately that the noodles are very skinny, much slimmer than I had expected. That is the first detail of many that throws me off. I’m used to a different restaurant, a different dish, a different everything. But I do recognize the onions, and force myself to pay attention to that.

My therapist tells me to pay attention to sensory details like this when I’m about to get caught up in my head, and in this instance, it works. It pulls me back to the conversation, which is still about the cards and the draft and the games we played and the games we hope to play in the future. I twirl the noodles around a plastic fork and pretend it’s lo mein or spaghetti marinara. I hesitantly take a bite.

It’s taken years to get to the point where I can do that - and it feels like a huge step to chew, acknowledge the mysterious spices in the noodles that I am utterly unfamiliar with, and swallow. I then look down, the portion seeming monstrously huge as I know each bite will be its own challenge. Nevertheless, I continue.

I gain a little more confidence as I eat more. I’m eating a new food, I realize, and it’s not killing me or hurting me in any way. The negative thoughts were wrong, as they usually are. I have the proof before me tonight - but at the same time, I know that eating a small portion of a new food is not going to make the next experience less scary. I will still have the ingrained fears. I will still need to use therapeutic techniques and positive memories to get through.

And yet, I will. I may not try new foods often, since this ordeal is something I prefer to avoid if possible, but the option of trying new foods has enabled me to participate in more social opportunities than I would otherwise have. It may be a fight every time, but it’s worth fighting to take yet another step on my road to healthy thoughts and eating habits.

Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

It Came Just The Same

It Came Just The Same

As soon as I saw the second line show up on my COVID test, I felt an inescapable sense of dread. After all, I’d spent two years trying to avoid getting sick - and here was the irrefutable evidence that something bad was going to happen to me.

I already knew I wouldn’t be asymptomatic, because I woke up with a very sore throat and a fever. What I didn’t know was whether I would get severe enough to have to go to the hospital, something I knew would push me out of control in my head.

Ever since my first (and extraordinarily unpleasant) hospital experience nearly ten years ago, I have developed coping mechanisms for anything that could bring me there - and that brings me a sense of control over a situation I feel powerless to fight against. I know which distractions to bring, which medical papers I need, and which people to call to come help.

But the problem with COVID is that no one can come over to help. Whether or not I needed to go to the hospital, there was one unavoidable thing I was afraid of: being alone.

I got angry at my therapist when she suggested I take a COVID test, even though I felt sick, because I was in denial. I didn’t want to face the situation I was afraid of, no matter what that meant. I wanted to pretend that everything was normal even when it felt like the world was falling down around me. I wanted to be the same girl who, nearly ten years ago, went to class instead of going to the hospital when I had a blood clot.

I was so deep in denial that even when I caught a glimpse of the second line on the COVID test signifying a positive result shortly before the timer was up, I convinced myself that the line would go away by the time I was supposed to look at it.

But in the end, I had to face it. None of my denial or distraction could stop the virus from coming. I couldn’t help but think of a moment from “How The Grinch Stole Christmas,” one of my mom’s favorite cartoon movies: “He hadn't stopped Christmas from coming! It came! Somehow or other, it came just the same!”

And once it came, there was nothing I could control or change. I just had to settle in with lots of beverages and soup and prepare for whatever happened.

As things turned out, I was feeling too sick for the first two days to stress too much. I couldn’t talk much, and between my sore throat and fever, I had plenty of things to concentrate on besides anxiety.

As I got better, I started to actually have to face the illness head-on. I spoke with my internist, used medical equipment, and started to accept that everything was real. I even started to pack a bag for the hospital when I used my brand-new pulse oximeter machine incorrectly and it displayed an oxygen level of 94.

In the end, thankfully, I didn’t need to do anything like that. After the third day, my symptoms improved day by day. Even if it was only a tiny improvement, I took heart in that and felt encouraged that the worst was over. And, about a week after I first showed symptoms, I was feeling like myself again. Another few days (I followed the CDC’s guidelines religiously), I was able to leave the house; now, I’m resettling into the rhythm of my life.

Looking back on the week, I can’t believe several things. First of all, I only panicked once - the moment I saw the positive test for the first time. I know part of this is because I wasn’t feeling well, but still, my friends and family were pleasantly surprised at how much my therapist’s advice helped me, that I didn’t fly off the handle.

I was also pleasantly surprised at how many people stepped up to offer companionship (virtually), food, and various other kinds of help when I wasn’t feeling well. As someone who grew up without many friends, I felt like I was part of a loving community and that the help I often give to others was coming back to me.

It’s also hard to believe that I was able to face the truth that I was in a situation that scared me a great deal instead of pretending it wasn’t real. As someone who would prefer to be imagining a fantasy universe instead of living in the real world, the fact that I could live in the moment in a situation I’d built up in my head to be a terrifying thing for the last two years showed me that I can, in fact, be strong in the face of sickness - no matter what my childhood germaphobia would have me believe.

Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.