Alison Dotson is a former OCD sufferer, advocate, and author of “Being Me with OCD: How I Learned to Obsess Less and Live My Life.” You can learn more about her and her book on her website.
Over the past couple years, I’ve been writing more and more about my personal experience with OCD. And let me tell you—it hasn’t always been easy to do. I’ve bared my soul to strangers and published words I still can’t say out loud without blushing or looking over my shoulder to make sure no one else has heard me.
My worst obsessions were disturbing by almost anyone’s standards. Many people didn’t understand why I had them, why I worried about the things I did, but they could certainly understand that having the thoughts took a toll on me.
When I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist eight years ago, it took everything in me, all of my strength and courage, just to give him a general idea of why I was sitting there in his office. I forced myself to tell him I was struggling with obsessions, but I was terrified of how he might react if I told him even a fraction of the truth, let alone a detailed rundown: I couldn’t shake the gut-wrenching fear that I might be a sex offender who just hadn’t acted yet. I thought he might have a professional, legal, and moral obligation to report me. As outlandish as it seems now, before I met with him I had images of him reaching under his desk and pressing a button that alerted the authorities as I unknowingly continued to pour my heart out.
Luckily I was able to get enough out, and he understood what I was telling him—he even understood what I left unsaid. I was relieved to be diagnosed with OCD because it meant I had a treatable disorder. It meant I wasn’t a bad person, despite my bad thoughts. It meant I could try to move on and lead a happy, healthy life.
Not only have I gotten a strong hold on OCD, I have started to talk about it with a transparency I couldn’t have imagined that day in my psychiatrist’s office. People often talk about the stigma surrounding mental illness, a very real problem, but I’ve never had a problem telling people I have OCD. I’ve hesitated, however, when they’ve asked me what my symptoms were. How could I tell them about my sexual obsessions? What would they think of me if they knew what I’d obsessed over, even if I tried to explain that my thoughts were unwanted, unpleasant, intrusive, unbending?
Sometimes I still can’t believe that I now regularly blog about my personal experiences with OCD, and I really can’t believe I’ve written a book about it. I’ve shared secrets I long thought I’d keep inside for my entire life, and I’ve done it because it’s what I needed when I felt most alone: someone to “confess” first, someone to say “Me too” or “You’re a good person, Alison, despite those images in your head.”
Years after my diagnosis, when I decided to write a book that would help others with OCD, I was doing remarkably well. I hadn’t really obsessed for years; whenever I had a bad thought I was able to talk myself through it, and I was on effective medication. I felt ready to share my story so others would feel less alone—but before I sent my first draft to my editor, I did some editing of my own. I deleted every mention I had made to the most taboo sexual obsessions, and I even added a line about having violent obsessions, thinking people would be much more forgiving of someone who obsessed about wielding a knife than someone who obsessed about sexually assaulting somebody. As honest as I wanted to be, I was still afraid of how people would react. If my sister-in-law read my book would she forbid me from seeing my nephews? What would my husband think? Would I be shunned at work?
My editor gently nudged me to share more details. I knew his advice was sound, and I knew I could be the most helpful to my readers if I was as honest as possible. I was scared to include so many embarrassing details about my obsessions, and yet that was exactly why I knew I had to do it anyway. I wasn’t diagnosed with OCD until I was 26 years old, but I’d been struggling with intrusive thoughts for nearly two decades. Could I have felt better sooner if someone like me had already written a book and admitted they’d had obsessions like I’d had? Every time I hesitated to be more forthcoming I would think of someone else out there who feels just as alone as I used to, just as ashamed and hopeless. And I knew I had to get over myself and follow through on my goal to help others. It’s been so worth it. I’ve connected with so many wonderful people at all different stages in their journeys with OCD.
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