Unmasked & Unapologetic

"You're a clean freak," "a little bit particular," "she just likes things just so." For years, those were the simple labels people gave my struggles—labels I often used myself to explain away the constant, exhausting mental battles I was fighting. But deep down, I always knew it was far more serious than a quirk. It was a suffocating, non-stop loop of thoughts and compulsions that had secretly been dictating my life, long before I ever had a name for it.

Before my diagnosis, my mind felt like a deafening, chaotic echo chamber. Every decision, every interaction, and every mundane task was put on trial by an internal jury. I’d spend hours mentally replaying conversations, checking and re-checking that I hadn't said the "wrong" thing, or performing secret mental rituals just to ward off some imagined catastrophe. This wasn't about being tidy; it was about desperately trying to silence an incessant, demanding voice that lived inside my head. The exhaustion was absolute, and the isolation was profound because I was constantly trying to explain a reality, I barely understood myself.

The truth finally broke through after the birth of my first child in 2003. At his six-week health visitor check, she gently pointed out that I hadn't put the baby bag on the floor—I was clutching it tightly to my chest. I remember giggling nervously, saying, "Oh, it's fine, I don't mind holding it." She asked me to put it down, and I refused, quickly placing it instead on her clean desk. The internal panic I felt in that moment was overwhelming. My anxiety about my baby's health was so intense that the thought of placing all of his belongings on a "dirty" floor in a place filled with ill people was unthinkable. I explained, through mounting tears, that I was just trying to keep my baby safe and alive. At that point, there was no holding back; I burst into tears.

She asked me a few kind questions, then went to fetch my GP. As I tried my best to explain the sheer chaos of my internal world, my GP gently suggested, "It sounds like you're experiencing OCD." A wave of powerful emotions washed over me all at once. There was immediate relief—a name! A framework!—but also a strange hesitation. I didn't spend all day washing my hands. Was this really "OCD"? I realized then how much the narrow, media-driven stereotype of the condition had clouded my own understanding.

That diagnosis wasn't a life sentence; I found it was a key. It didn’t magically make my struggles disappear, but it gave me a vital map for moving forward. I finally learned that OCD isn't a personality quirk, but a complex anxiety disorder driven by unwanted, intrusive thoughts (obsessions) and the repetitive actions or mental rituals (compulsions) we perform to try and reduce that crushing anxiety. I discovered that contamination is just one form, and my specific brand of "checking" and "mental reviewing" was just as valid and debilitating. Understanding this was the powerful first step toward taking my life back.

My journey to self-understanding began with that OCD diagnosis, followed later an autism diagnosis, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and ADHD. It certainly hasn't been easy, but knowing those names has been infinitely better than living in the dark. Now, at age 50, I feel like I've been given the instruction manual to my own life.

This OCD Awareness Week, I want to share this message with deep conviction: If you are grappling with persistent, distressing thoughts or feel compelled to perform repetitive behaviours to find relief, please, seek professional help. Don't dismiss your struggles as "just anxiety" or quirky habits. There is a name for what you’re experiencing, and with that name comes understanding, support, and a pathway to real relief.

You are not alone, and you absolutely deserve to live a life free from the grip of undiagnosed OCD.