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Obsessive-compulsive Disorder & Me (Part 2)
Obsessive-compulsive Disorder & Me (Part 2)
(Continued from previous post)
I suffered from extreme OCD for more than a decade.
Then, just by chance on day, I found an ad in The Hartford Courant asking for people suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder to volunteer for a study involving a new treatment regimen for the disease. I didn’t know what Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder was, but I sure recognized the symptoms that were listed in the ad.
I applied to be a volunteer, sat for an interview, and got accepted into the program.
It was and eight-week program. I would go down to Yale once a week, have a complete physical exam, (E.K.G., urine sample, blood work, stress test, the whole nine yards.)
They explained to me that they suspected that people with OCD had a deficiency of an endorphin in the brain called seratonin. Seratonin is some feel-good chemical that normal brains produce to relieve anxiety. The theory was that my brain wasn’t producing any of the stuff.
Half the volunteers in the eight-week study were given a new drug called Certraline. The Certraline (And the spelling of this drug could be all messed up here.) was supposed to kick-start the production of seratonin inside my skull.
The other half of the volunteers in the study were given a placebo for the eight weeks.
I never knew if I got the real McCoy or the sugar pill.
I never met any of the other volunteers in the study.
All I know is that, at the end of the eight weeks, I no longer had the symptoms of OCD.
It happened gradually over the eight-week duration, but, slowly but surely, I no longer had to check and check and re-check things. I no longer constantly worried about every little thing to the point where nearly heart-stopping panic set in.
Since the study concluded, I’ve never taken another pill for the symptoms, and yet, 25 years later, the only remaining vestige of the disorder in me is that I count my steps when I’m out on my daily run. That’s it.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what changed. I don’t care. I’m just glad that it did.
I’ve spoken about this whole situation only once or twice in the last twenty-five years. One person I spoke to about it was a psychologist who was helping me deal with things when my father passed away.
After listening to me tell my story, he told me that he was completely amazed by it. He said that, in all of his years in practice, he had never met anybody who had beaten the disease.
He said that I must have a strong will, and I must have really worked hard at defeating the syndrome.
I’m not so sure about that.
I’m glad it’s behind me.
There is still some kind of unexplained shame that I feel for having the disorder, and I don’t speak about it that much.
Was I nuts? I don’t know.
Am I ashamed of it? I’ve already answered that.
So, why am I telling you all about it?
Well, I figure that maybe if I put it all out there in the sunshine like this, the shame and humiliation will also disappear. If I make it be totally exposed, I just have to hold my breath for one second. Then, it’s out there, and I can’t reign it back in.
If you think less of me now, so be it.
If not, then we’ll be friends.
Reliving that time in my life while writing this post has been hard. Right now, I feel really wiped out, and a little afraid.
I’m still not sure if I’m going to post this.
I’ve been through a long and convoluted battle, and I’ve come through in one piece.
I’m no hero. Everybody has their demons. Some give into them. Others fight.
I was just lucky enough to fight and win.
Here’s the chorus of an old Joe Cocker song that I’ve always loved:
"Come together.
Lift up your voices!
This time my song of love of life won’t fade away!
I’ll live forever
Here in the sunshine.
I’ve lived to see the sun break through the storm
And I’m so glad I’m standing here today."
posted on Mar 27, 2008 5:39 AM ()
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I see no shame in OCD or diabetes.
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