I first displayed the symptoms of OCD thirty years ago, at the tender age of six. My parents were horrified, trying to find help for the little girl who was obsessed with turning light switches on and off and counting things in sets of three. Now my OCD is well-managed with medication and therapy. I live a very full, lovely, happy life.
I’ve written all about that over on Scary Mommy, where I sometimes contribute. This is, of course, when I’m not busy obsessing over whether or not I bought the right kind of bread or whether I said the right thing to the telemarketer on the phone. (I wish I were joking, friend.) This blog is a battleground of sorts. Like a war-weary soldier, I look back at the bullet-holed fortress of my words and safety and I look forward to the final goal that spurs me on to where I want to be. (I’m not exactly sure what that looks like yet.)
I’ve dealt with #infertility, #birthdefects, #miscarriage, #PTSD after my near death due to post-partum hemorrhage after the birth of my last child, the heart-wrenching life experience that is foster care, and the struggle with #OCD and #anxiety. If you have suffered with #mentalillness you know what I know: things are not always what they appear on skin-surface. It’s ok that they aren’t. I talk about it. I hope you find comfort in that.
If all of that seems like a lot to you, I’m sorry. It was a lot to me, too.
I was raised in a loving, black-and-white #Evangelical home smack-dab in the middle of the #Biblebelt. Sometimes I have trouble believing in a benevolent God. Other times I don’t. Thank God truth doesn’t change according to my fickle whim.
I am the lucky wife to a computer nerd husband and the lucky mother to three very different children who are not extensions of me but their own little people.
Life is breakneck and if I don’t write it down I will forget.
I don’t want to forget.