Author Archives: Melanie

Walking in the Shoes of OCD: My OCD and Me Got a Tattoo

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“The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.”

This is from a poem I read ten years ago. This is from a poem that inspired a tattoo two years ago when I wrote the words “invite them in” with eyeliner, as skillfully as a layman can, on my inner bicep.
This is from a poem that as of yesterday, I have tattooed on my arm.

It reminds me to let all of my emotions hangout in their guestrooms. And two years ago, many of the guests had questions about the prospect of getting a tattoo:

What if I regret it?
What if I can’t tolerate the pain?
What if I contract a disease?

Pretty standard. The guests permitted a consult with an artist. However, the consult was not a good experience and the idea was shelved–until I picked up my eyeliner again a few months later.

The new guests asked “what if I’m allergic?” followed by “what if there’s carcinogens in the ink?” They insisted upon fear-mongering research. The fear of an allergic reaction festered the most because of my sensitive skin, not to mention my skin’s ability of once turning a mosquito bite into a pyogenic granuloma.

I consulted with a few people who likely meant well but their responses fed the guests more sustenance. The idea was placed back on the shelf until just a few months ago when I stumbled across a local apprentice’s work and fell in love with her dainty, crisp lines. If I was going to take a chance on all my fears, it was going to be with her

But first things first: write a novel of questions to the shop owner about safety concerns. A mere sampling:

When do the needles expire?
Is the shop blood borne pathogen certified?
(They are! But I’m pretty confident this is not a standard question).

Before I knew it, the deposit was out of my pocket and my appointment was booked.

I became what felt like the client from hell in the days leading up to my appointment.

Was the font loopy enough?
Too loopy?
Too big?
Too small?

I took comfort in knowing that my inspiration photos held steady for two years but making my vision a reality was both agonizing and exciting. Agonizing when I had printouts of tentative versions taped onto my arm. Exciting when we did a test run of the stencil the night before and realized all that was left was to enlarge it slightly.

Things become agonizing again a few hours later when I went to wash off the stencil. It. Wasn’t. Coming. Off.

Yes, it faded. But I wanted it gone.

What if the longer I waited, the harder it would be to get off?
What if it interferes with the placement of tomorrow’s stencil?
What if this results in me regretting the placement?
What if I can’t tell whether I like the stencil?

I tried soap, makeup removers, an acne face wash, argon oil–whatever the bathroom supplied. It was tenacious, that stencil.  I then grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed. I scrubbed so vigorously that I popped a few blood vessels and was left with a burning arm. This sent my OCD into a tailspin.

What if the broken blood vessels mess up the tattoo process?
What if it doesn’t heal properly?
What if I end up with a deformed arm?
What if it warps the shape of the tattoo?
What if they don’t know the answer to my concern?
What if they are wrong?
How could I have scrubbed like that?
Why didn’t I take the stencil off right away?

I could fix this. I could heal it with lotion. I would apply enough to cure it overnight.

I was advised by various people, “wait and see what it looks like in the morning.”

I looked at it at 6am. The popped vessels were still visible. I sent photos to friends, featuring a zoomed in version and a bonus collage comparing the status from night to morning.

“Melanie I don’t even see anything.”

“Melanie I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Too late. Already saw it. Already worried.

I was in a panic and felt an urgency to analyze the situation incessantly. The tattoo was in a few hours.

It wasn’t until a friend connected me with a tattoo artist who not only hastattoos but has OCD as well. He brought me to a point where I felt I had the facts. I was able to see that the OCD had commandeered my excitement. I was back. But not without anxiety.

On the drive to my appointment, I oriented my friend Krista to the location of my juice and snacks in case I felt faint. I reviewed my notes with her–questions to ask, things for her to remind me of. I informed her that I had aponcho stuffed in my purse in case I became cold or started shaking.

I wanted any control I could still hold onto. But once we arrived, I knew I had to start loosening my grip. I had to be calm. I had to be calm despite not getting a good night’s rest or eating a hearty meal as I had researched to do prior to a tattoo. I asked my rigmarole of what felt like painstakingly embarrassing questions, knowing that as each question was answered, I had to let up on my grip.

Laying down on the table was like a ceremonial surrender. But fear quickly found a way to join me in the experience.

What if I flinch and ruin the tattoo as a result?
What if I get startled and move?

I used that fear as motivation to keep still and to squeeze Krista’s hand when it hurt.

They say a tattoo feels like a cat scratch on a sunburn. I haven’t experienced that. So if someone asks me what it feels like, I’ll say that it’s not as bad as vigorously rubbing a washcloth repeatedly over an area of skin until it’s red and burning.

But what hurt more than anything else was the anticipatory anxiety. Yet it was also that familiar feeling that helped me commit to my decision toproceed with getting a tattoo.

I know anticipatory anxiety will return, being the frequent flyer that it is. But when it does, I’ll know what to do.

 

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Let’s End the “I’m so OCD” Trend

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By Melanie Lefebvre

 

OCD is not a meme.

It’s 3 letters that should be seen,

for the reality

of what can feel like tragedy.

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Self-proclamations knock me to my knees.

An injustice to the torment,

the terrorizing dread.

You don’t recognize its breadth.

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Said with such glee,

thrown on like an accessory.

 

While there’s me,

an uninterrupted factory,

custom orders of fear and guilt,

stitched together like a quilt.

 

That’s my accessory.

 

Let’s make a trade.

Maybe then you’ll be swayed,

and realize the adjective needs to be slayed.

 

Try it on for size,

think of all that dies.

Try on being a pawn,

think of everything that could go wrong.

Wrap my quilt around you,

let it concoct its brew.

 

Breathe in the suffocation,

exhale the damnation.

The castration

 

of hope.

 

A slippery slope.

Am I out of your scope?

 

“I’m so OCD.”

 

Is it still your choice accessory?

A Canadian Perspective on Access to OCD Treatment

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Melanie Lefebvre

Melanie Lefebvre

I’m a Canadian living with OCD in a city of just over 150 000. As a Canadian, I have access to free health care, but having OCD means, ideally, access to specialized care. Specialized care can be hard to find. And often, when (or if) you find it, it ain’t cheap.

Let’s reflect back on the 80’s in Canada for a moment. As a child, I wouldn’t allow my mom to use the stove. Perplexed, she asked a public health nurse for guidance:

“Make sandwiches.”

So my mom made sandwiches.

A rare window into the psyche of a child had been revealed: an opportunity missed.

Based on my personal experience searching for specialized help for OCD, it’s likely these opportunities may continue to be overlooked. I can’t speak for other cities across the Great White North. But I would hope that metropolitans like Toronto have more options.

Speaking of options from my experience, here’s the first for review:

Option 1: Counselling (for a fee)

As a young woman in my early twenties, I recognized I needed help. I displayed signs of hit-and-run OCD, but other than that, I only knew the typecast of OCD: checking, hand washing and having things in order.

With time, I learned that my city has counselling agencies with sliding scales for payment based on one’s level of income. Through my career, I learned that if you’re receiving government assistance, the price goes down substantially and can be affordable at around $10 a session.

Option 2: Counselling (Free)

If you’re on social assistance, the government allots you a time limited amount of free counselling sessions. But let’s say you’re not on social assistance. Well, there are still options. We have a couple of short-term counselling agencies for people with limited income free of charge, one of which is specific to the French-speaking population.

If you’re employed with the luxury of an Employee Assistance Program, you’ve got a batch of time-limited sessions of counselling for free.

The catch to counselling? You’re not necessarily going to find an OCD specialist.

That’s what happened with me. The counsellors I’ve had throughout the years, through various means, reassured me countless times, doing more harm than good.

Option 3: Psychologists

If you have benefits through work, your parents, or your spouse, you may get a nice chunk of psychologist fees covered. Otherwise, fees range from $125 to $200.

I’ve been down this road. By the time I was scoping out psychologists, I had more knowledge. The OCD workbooks I’d read suggested interviewing them, ensuring you’re getting the cream of the crop. I couldn’t seem to find much cream specializing in OCD.

I ended up going with the psychologist whose notes I had scribbled on a tissue after running out of paper. Could this have been a premonition for tears to be shed in his office?

I mailed him supplementary literature from my trusty OCD workbooks to ensure he was prepared. I drafted a letter explaining that I was ready to do exposures, that I was hoping he would be my co-pilot, quite literally. We’d take my vehicle and venture onto the pothole ridden roads. But when it came time for this, the letter I had written felt bogus. I wasn’t ready. It was clear that exposures were the answer. I had entered into therapy claiming we would be on the road together. But the road was left untraveled.

Option 4: Skype Therapy

As time went by, my willingness for treatment would wax and wane. I searched for creative ways to obtain therapy and experimented with a few OCD specialists (finally!) from the United States via Skype. But help with funding for the service was not a possibility. And when the Canadian dollar is so low (so, almost always), fees ranging from $125 and upwards of $200, are more like $180 through $240.

So you have to be ready. That’s what’s tough. With fees that drain your pockets, commitment is crucial. I terminated treatment several times before I could commit.

If you’re from a different Canadian city, your menu of treatment options may look entirely different. This is unfortunate. Navigating my city’s menu has taken time, energy and has involved a fair share of frustration. When you need specialized help, ideally there would be a “no wrong door” policy so that wherever you end up, you’ll be guided to the proper help.

Regardless, I recommend patience. Sometimes the government works in your favour. I learned of a free ERP-based group therapy program from the hospital. Now I was getting somewhere.

The group gave me the jump start I needed. It also made me realize that because I was finally doing exposures, I was ready for personalized help. For me, this was important. I’m currently doing therapy Skype style with a specialist in the United States. I’ve found a good fit and it’s worth the investment for my well-being.

What about psychiatric care and medication?

For medication, just because it’s Canada doesn’t mean medication is free. It’s not. It’s expensive. You either need benefits through your employer, spouse or parents to cover a chunk of the cost. Or, if you’re on disability assistance, your medication will be covered. People can also apply for special funding programs if they meet the eligibility criteria.

As for psychiatrists, they are free! But the catch is the wait. If you take the OCD group at the local hospital, you have access to a free consultation with a psychiatrist. This is a start. Otherwise, you may be waiting as long as a year if not more.

A creative loophole (if you have a family doctor, which can be a wait in and of itself) is to request a videoconference with a psychiatrist from a different city. This can often be scheduled in a much shorter amount of time. The psychiatrist can then complete an assessment and provide the doctor with a detailed guide of how to assist the patient through the trial and error process that so often accompanies finding the right psychiatric medication.

You’ve now been given a sample Canadian menu for OCD treatment. My hope for everyone, regardless of where they are from, is that one day someone will bring the menu to us, with more affordable options, and that it won’t feel like we’re playing a game of Where’s Waldo.

 

‘Twas an OCD Night Before Christmas”: A Christmas Poem

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By Melanie and Brandon Lefebvre
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
when all in my head,
The thoughts they were stirring,
while I lay in my bed.

The stockings weren’t hung,
by the chimney with care,
To ensure that both cats,
come morning were there.

The kitties were nestled,
all snug on the bed,
While visions of death,
danced in my head.

With Clive all curled up,
and Doug on my lap,
I had trouble settling in,
for a long winter’s nap.

While up in my mind,
the thoughts wouldn’t scatter,
The doubt and the fear,
just went pitter patter.

I ran down the stairs,
in a midnight mad dash.
The compulsion to check,
had spread like a rash.

Had I put them away?
I just had to know.
Could they be on the mantle,
just left out for show?

Approaching the chimney,
it soon became clear.
My OCD fooled me,
I succumbed to the fear.

The stockings were stored,
yet again I’d been tricked.
And doubting my actions,
had made me feel sick.

I returned to my bed,
all ridden with shame,
When checking you know,
OCD is to blame.

Now down again, up again,
Checking left me unsure,
With all of this doubt,
I hoped for a cure.

OCD was convincing,
of that I won’t lie.
I’d grown tired of fearing,
that my cats could die.

Maybe come morning,
it was time for a call,
To get peace from a therapist,
once and for all.

—

Special thanks to my husband and the poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore (1823). Following the poem’s format was a fun way to spread OCD awareness together.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Melanie, Brandon, Clive and Doug

An OCD Sufferer’s Experience with Online Support Groups

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This post comes from our regular contributor, Melanie Lefebvre. melanie

I once kept my OCD diagnosis under lock and key. It may as well have been in Fort Knox.  But today I’d have it displayed on a Times Square billboard; not because I’m proud of it, but because I’m no longer ashamed.

The power of the World Wide Web had a lot to do with this. People say, “get off your phones and smell the roses.” I’ve smelled the roses alright—the roses of an online OCD support group and the aroma is still lingering.

It took courage to join almost a calendar year ago. I debated whether to create an anonymous profile but the inconvenience of having to swap accounts triumphed. I was naked in cyberspace, so to speak. But thankfully we all were. A community of vulnerable souls connecting over our commonality: OCD. 

Prior to discovering the online secret garden, I read through the experiences of people commenting on a psychologist’s blog who had written an article about hit-and-run OCD. I joined in, dubbing myself “Secretive.” But the activity was low. We were scared, anonymous posters who needed more than a new response once a month.

The secret garden came to my rescue and broke down my security measures: I posted about my hit-and-run OCD with my name attached to it. This was real. This was raw. To read other people with OCD tell me that they were going through the same thing was more than any olfactory experience I could partake in.

The members have shared many nuggets of wisdom with me: anxiety is part of the process—it means you’re trying; there’s bravery in doing exposures even if you end up succumbing to the compulsion. They’ve validated me when my efforts have felt futile: exposure can feel pointless with no endgame in sight, but they’ve reminded me to keep at it.  Progress is measured with actions, not anxiety. 

 I’ve made connections that have blossomed into friendships. I’ve chatted for hours exploring the ins and outs of my formerly secret world of OCD and connected the dots with theirs.

 I work in mental health and had always known about peer support on an intellectual level. It made sense that receiving support from someone who’s walked in your shoes would provide a different level of comfort. But it’s not until you walk in those peer support shoes that you feel the security of the insoles, forming to your feet and letting you know you’re walking your path in good company.

Overcoming “Hit and Run” OCD

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melanieThinking you killed someone every time you drive is gut-wrenching. What’s a girl to do? Stop driving, that’s what.

Little did I know that the avoidance of driving was a compulsion that kept my hit-and-run OCD holding strong. And I must admit, I knew what I should have been doing– Exposure and Response Prevention therapy. There’s a reason haunted houses are called haunted houses. Starting ERP may as well be entering a haunted house. And not for the person who enters willingly.

Treatment involves driving. I couldn’t drive. I didn’t want to drive. Every bump, every crevice, every pedestrian, everything led to thinking I killed someone. Why would I willingly get behind a wheel?

Fast forward to me volunteering at a workshop at the International OCD Foundation’s annual OCD conference where I told my story to a room full of strangers. I sat with a psychologist who assigned me homework: create an imaginary script of my worst-case, Stephen King scenario and listen to it on a loop daily for 45 minutes. He said I’d be driving by the end of the summer. Yeah, we’ll see.

But I had committed to the homework in front of an audience of 100 people. Whether they knew it or not, their presence helped hold me accountable.

A psychologist from Texas approached me afterwards with the thick, southern accent that I love. “Just drive an inch,” he drawled.

An inch. An inch I could do. An inch was reasonable. I’ve never been so excited about a unit of measurement.

His drawl stayed with me all the way back to my hometown.

I started doing my daily Stephen King homework. Over and over I listened to myself saying that I accidentally killed someone, that I was going to jail, that I’d never be able to get over this. I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty. Some days, anxiety would spike. Some days, I’d listen to it with my cats on my lap and wonder whether their comforting purrs would be considered cheating. Other days I’d zone out and want to go to sleep. Eventually I got so fed up with having to sit there for 45 minutes, that I decided it was time to drive that inch. Take that, Stephen King!

My husband welcomed his impromptu role as my exposure coach as he drove us to an empty parking lot. I got out of the car and headed towards the driver’s seat. A seat I hadn’t sat behind in months.

It felt foreign to be behind the wheel. Driving doesn’t feel natural to me. Shouldn’t we all just be riding horses?

The engine was on. I just had to shift it into drive. Drive that inch. Remember the drawl.

And I did. I drove that inch. The inch led to two. The two led to three. Before I knew it, I drove a complete lap around the parking lot. At a snail’s pace, mind you, but I was driving.

We practiced daily around that parking lot until I felt like it was time to venture onto a backstreet and into, you guessed it, another empty parking lot. Then the day came where I found myself merging onto one of the main roads. My husband would purposely keep his head down and focus on his phone, “I can’t tell if you hit anyone, I’m not paying attention!” I wasn’t supposed to check. I wasn’t supposed to replay situations in my head. And I didn’t, despite every cell in my body wanting to rebel. The anxiety really did subside. This treatment thing was legit.

This could only mean one thing. It was time to drive solo. Return to being the lone ranger.

I didn’t want to. The rebellion thing was happening again. And riding a horse just wasn’t feasible.

Two steps forward and one step back is a cliché for a reason. I had days where I didn’t want to drive anymore. I’ve felt discouraged. It’s felt pointless. I wanted out of the haunted house. But I kept getting behind the wheel. It hasn’t gotten progressively easier like it did when my husband was in the car with me. But I’m on a scarier floor of the haunted house. There are masked actors with chainsaws on this floor. I have to remember that they are masked, that their chainsaws are props. And until the day I find the light switch, I’ll keep driving that inch.

Melanie also makes informative videos about OCD. Visit her youtube channel here. 

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