An Unspoken Torment of the Mind, Part Two

Second Song of the Day: Farewell Neverland by John Williams, from Hook

In my previous post, I discussed Robin Williams, going on to eulogize him after I said that I wouldn't. Apologies. There was, however, an overarching purpose to that post; that is, to lead me to this post. The reason I discussed Robin Williams so extensively before was because he has become yet another example in a growing list and lengthening story of sadness. We are making strides to better understand mental illness, but there is still so much more we can do.

I won't pretend to know the mind of Robin Williams. He was who he was, and I am me. I hope that, by giving someone a glimpse into what it's like for someone who suffers from anxiety and depression, it can help shed light on the subject.

Quote from the 2009 film World's Greatest Dad

After my cousin passed away suddenly in 2012, my hypochondria - something I've had since I was a little boy - kicked into overdrive.

The thing about hypochondria is that, for an observer on the outside, it ranges from mildly amusing to a frustrating nuisance. But on the inside it's terrifying; it torments you. Everything, from an ache to a cough, becomes a "what if" scenario,. Everything you've ever read about every heinous disease becomes a likelihood. If you do as I did when I was a child, you will have read up on every disease from common cold, to ebola, to cancer, to kuru. Although you are well educated, and logic tells you you're fine, you think of the bad diseases. Everything comes to your mind except for the most likely possibility. You obsess over every sensation in your body, thinking about what disease you might have while you know the day is wasting. Ironically, you set aside your life because you're in terror of what might end your life.

It is a terrible existence to live.

I'd like to be able to say that hypochondria is the only issue I have, but the truth is that it is only a part of the issue. It's a piece of the puzzle; of what it is that goes on in my mind. It is but a fraction of the magic that is me.

In 2013, I went to the doctor a total of 8 times in the span of two months. That's roughly one visit per week. I'm certain my doctor, patient (haha, get it?) though he seemed, grew weary of seeing me. Not to mention the expense for my copays. Each visit was a mess for me, full of so much anxiety that I often came on the verge of tears while waiting to find out if I was dying. Hint: I wasn't.

I knew that, whatever was wrong, it wasn't something with my physical health. I was embarrassed, ashamed of my fear and weakness. But, during my eighth visit to the office, I finally got the courage to say: "I think there's something wrong with me." It was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.

After that I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety, and a mild form of depression. In therapy, I came to grips with the fact that I had these issues long before my cousin died. Time, and a lot of reflection, helped me see that I have had these issues since middle school. I was just very good at repressing the issues until Lynn passed away; that was a trigger.

OCD is not like Monk, where his OCD is kind of like this magical detective tool. Maybe I'm not channeling my gifts properly, but more often than not, OCD is intrusive; a cycle of thoughts that disrupt all normal action and cause me emotional distress. When I am a neat freak, I become angry, mostly with myself. I know in my heart that I shouldn't be so hung up on whether or not clothes were left on the floor, but I am. When I'm not a neat freak, I have hypochondria, or I need to look up articles about terrible things happening in the world (which feeds my depression), or I have an anxiety attack. At best, OCD's in the back of my mind. At worst, I cannot function. When I finally come down from my anxiety, the shame at my actions and reactions is waiting for me at the bottom.

I think the shame makes people clam up, instead of talking about it. Among other things.