On OCD: March 2014

I had an obsessive-compulsive episode one week ago tonight, on March 6th, C.E. 2014.

I didn’t recognize it at first; I thought it was just another day of modest self-disappointment caused by lack of focus and over-scheduling.  Those days happen, and usually an hour or two of good focused exercise is enough to bring me back to my senses.

Not that day.  That day, I couldn’t get my failure to finish the day’s self-imposed job training assignment out of my mind.  It kept buzzing in my head through the late afternoon; it kept muttering during taekwondo class; it sent my brain spinning after practice.  It felt like my brain was going round and round and round and round, racing down a spiral stair, chasing after that one detail that I had failed, I had not done my job, and now I was risking the loss of a place to live and work—all this despite the fact that my deadline was almost entirely self-imposed.  It was so bad, I left my taekwondo studio nearly half an hour early despite having my black belt test two days later.

It wasn’t until I was leaving Yong Studios, around 19:55 at night, that I realized: I know this feeling.  I experienced it on a regular basis between the ages of four and ten.  This is the feeling of an obsession, and it was driving me toward a compulsion: namely, the compulsion to complete some part of the work I had failed to do earlier.  In a very real sense, once I got home, I would be obsessively-compulsively working.

It’s hard to explain this to one who hasn’t experienced it.  The running torture is a good analogy; it is a torture where the accused is made to run around a track without food, water, or rest until he or she either confesses or collapses.  It is an insidious thing, because it does not seem like torture; there is no rack, no whip, no thumbscrew, only the repetitive, exhausting pounding.

An obsessive attack is like that: the brain runs itself in the same circle, around and around that focus point, over and over and over and over and over and over and over until the afflicted either surrenders to the compulsion or collapses from the effort of fighting.  It makes no difference that the victim knows his obsession is unrealistic; the brain has its track, and the mind runs its course.

Terror.

That’s the best description I can give for my reaction.  I’ve known my whole life that I suffered from OCD and that I am a high-strung person, but for years I believed that I finally had the demon beaten.  For some of them, perhaps I did.  Now I face the very real possibility that, rather than defeat the demon, I have simply redirected it; and that is a terrifying thought.

There are some advantages, I suppose.  If nothing else, it provides a powerful motivation to meet my responsibilities.  My brain, quite literally, will not allow me to escape those tasks I (it?) deems important.  My job, hobbies, and friends need never fear neglect.

Yet there is a danger, and a very real one at that.  To begin, my motivation is almost all negative; I work because I flog myself, not because I seek the result.  More important, this represents a loss of autonomy.  I cannot change my path at will, nor can I escape my past plans, even when those plans prove impossible.  Flexibility is almost impossible, for how can I be flexible when my mind flagellates itself for even the slightest deviation from my plans?

The only solution I’ve found, thus far, is to categorize.  Only when I dissect and outline and factualize, apart from any and all emotional baggage, do I feel able to grasp the issue without panic.  Yet it seems I must go through the panic before undergoing the divorce, and any deviation requires some excuse.

It works.  I can survive this way.  But I do not want to spend the next ten years at war, dissecting all details, excusing each deviation, analyzing every choice.  It is a stiff life that leaves, inflexible, cold.  It would make Kant proud, I suppose: he and I would have got along splendidly.  But that is not the life I want.  I want to live, to laugh, to love, to cry, to grieve.  I want to skip my workout without feeling an urge to skip bread at dinner, I want to leave work early when the doctor calls, I want to take the time to meet a friend or colleague or lover in the cafe without analyzing how it might affect my night.  I want to live, not plan to live.  I have made great strides towards that goal in the past four years, yet this last episode, and the week following it, showed how far I have yet to go.

Walking a Wire: Mental Health & Employment Edition

Hey, all.
    As many of you know, I have spent much of the past few months looking for neuroscience and psychiatric research work, both through assistantships and graduate school.  I’m currently waiting to hear from a number of places and emailing PIs in these fields.
    In explaining why I wish to pursue neuroscience, personal history invariably arises.  And thus arises the tricky part, because I can’t explain why I want to pursue neuroscience without bringing family into the problem.
    I’ve made no secret of the fact that I have anxiety issues.  As a young child—six or so—I suffered obsessive-compulsive disorder so severe that my parents had to take me out of school.  I still remember those little white SSRI pills, and the compulsion to clean.  My problems are less OCD now, and more social anxiety; I constantly feel a need to prove that I am “good enough,” and measure myself against the people I respect most (who, inevitably, are the people who are most productive or most successful while still remaining satisfied with their lives).  Nor am I the only one in my family: my uncle has OCD (he won’t see a psychiatrist, but the entire family knows he has it), at least two cousins have suffered anorexia, my brother had mild OCD, and my sister had anorexia nervosa so severe that, for three months, the sight of a full plate caused panic attacks.  With the exception of my uncle (who, as I said, refuses to seek treatment), all have recovered; still, my experience, and the experience of my family, is what sparked and continues to motivate my interest in psychiatry.

    Almost all employers and schools want to know why its interviewees want a position.  When looking at psychiatric research, I need to mention this history if I am to answer honestly.  Yet, mentioning a familial or personal history of anxiety is usually the kiss of death in an interview; so I must dissemble or obfuscate if I wish to answer at all.
    I understand why employers and schools do this.  Taking on a student or employee with a health history, particularly one as unpredictable and poorly understood as a neuropsychiatric problem, is a tremendous risk.  Yet, from my perspective, it feels like I must hide my motives in order to even have a chance of pursuing my goals.
    Personally, I see my anxiety as a mixed bag.  Certainly, it means that I build a shell in social environments and have a very difficult time opening to others; certainly, it means that I’m sensitive to insult and hostility; certainly, it affects my ability to multitask, since I feel a need to finish one task before starting another (or at least meet benchmarks in it); certainly, it’s caused tunnel vision in the past (I’m trying to avoid that in future); and, beyond doubt, it causes suffering and health problems in the afflicted (me).  Yet, it has benefits as well.  I may have difficulty multitasking, but when I set my mind to a project, I focus laser-like on the problem.  The fact that I need to “prove myself” makes me seek constant improvement, and drives me to produce high-quality work.  That I can focus on a task to the exclusion of all else means that the task gets done, and fear of being caught flat-footed means I don’t half-ass work or bullshit my way through meetings; I don’t speak unless I have something to say.  The need for benchmarks keeps me scheduled, keeps me moving, and keeps me motivated.  And the drive to improve, to prove myself capable, to, in the words of Darwin Smith, “never stop trying to be qualified for the job,” means that I reflect on my actions and think about how to avoid repeating past mistakes.  I wish all this didn’t come with anxiety and shyness, but that is part of the package.

    You can’t understand me without knowing that I am anxious.  It’s part and parcel of who I am.  I want to be honest about it.  I don’t want to hide it; I don’t want to be judged by it.  I want to show that it can be controlled, it can be tamed, and it can be used.

From the Outside Looking In

Yo.

When I write on this blog, I tend to write on issues that concern me.  That usually means that a lot of people have strong opinions on the subject.  Further, the issues are often rather thorny, so that raises its own dangers.

Something to remember when reading is, I claim no monopoly on truth or knowledge.  When I write on Islam (I’ve finished A Dream of Red Mansions, and the Qu’ran is next), I will be writing as a lapsed Catholic/not-quite-agnostic with an interest in the subject and a few Muslim friends, not as someone with years of cultural and intellectual immersion.  When I write on feminist issues or gender roles, I write as a young man from a fairly WASPy background (I was raised Catholic, but still), not as a person with a gender studies or heavily feminist background.  When I write on science or engineering or history, I write with an eye more aimed at science than at political correctness.

The inevitable result of this is that I will express some opinions that they may be inaccurate, that may be objectionable, that may be naive or blunt.  Sometimes, this is deliberate; there is value in prodding the sacred cows every so often.  Sometimes it’s unavoidable; many of the subjects that interest me are contentious at best.  Often, however, it’s the simple ignorance of an outsider.  The best cure for ignorance is education, so before jumping all over that ignorance, we should try to correct it.  This applies to opinions everywhere, not just me (although, if the person displays stupidity and bigotry as well as ignorance, that's a different story).

The point I’m trying to make is, these posts are as much for my education as for my self-expression.  I’m still learning.  If something bothers you, let me know; if I’ve made an inaccurate claim, please correct me; just don’t treat it as a manifesto.  At this stage of my life, my views are hardly set in stone.