You’re confused when it first happens. The Voice, I mean. You’re sitting at your desk, legs tucked up because you’re cold. If you don’t rub your hands five times on this desk, your family will die.

You sit, suddenly frozen, The Voice interrupting your previous train of thought about what you had in your lunchbox. You’re confused. You don’t want your family to die, they’re your family! Suddenly you feel responsible for whatever happens. The Voice thrusts you into a godlike position, where you have the fate of your family in your hands.

Your heart will start to pound, and your palms will sweat.

Since you don’t want your family to die—you’re not crazy, of course—you carefully rub your hands five times on the desk. And just like that, the thought disappears.

Your heart isn’t pounding anymore. Your palms aren’t sweating.

Scared

You’ve become scared of your own brain. You’ll be walking down the hallway, minding your own business, when The Voice comes into your brain. If you don’t touch the next classroom door with both your toes, your family will die.

You don’t want your family to die. Of course you don’t! You’re not crazy. You are once again responsible for the outcome of your family.
Your heart starts to pound, and your palms start to sweat.

Since you don’t want your family to die, you touch both of your toes to the next classroom door.

But then, just as your hearts stops pounding and your palms aren’t sweating, The Voice comes again. Do it again, or else your family will die.
You’re terrified right now, and helpless against your own mind. You want to cry, that’s how scared you are.

But you don’t want your family to die, and so, you, your palms sweating and heart pounding, repeat the action.

And The Voice goes away, your palms stop sweating and your heart stops pounding.

Frustrated

You hate The Voice, and you’re trying to figure out a way to stop it from coming. But as you’re walking home from school, and The Voice starts, you get frustrated. You get frustrated with the stupid things it has you do, the way it whispers in your ear when you’re least expecting it. You’re frustrated with the way The Voice grabs you and pulls you tight, not releasing you, instead plunging you into the darkness, only temporarily allowing dim light.

Angry

You’ve become angry at The Voice, at your brain. Some days, you’re angry at the world. You don’t want these thoughts, you don’t! But they come.

Your future starts to seem bleaker than it once was. You don’t know who you have to blame for this madness, but you want to blame somebody, need to blame somebody.

Deep in your heart, you know there’s nobody to blame.

But that doesn’t stop you from trying.

Depressed

You start wondering what the point of you is, what the point is of trying to get out of bed. You start to lose motivation to do things. When The Voice starts talking to you, you just get tired. You’ve long accepted the fact that you’re crazy, that you’re insane. You think that if you tell anybody about what you have to do, what you need to do, they’ll lock you up. Your grades start slipping, but you can’t find a way to care.
Some days, you want to die, wish you were dead. You don’t know what stops you from following through with your plan.

Frustrated

You’re frustrated, and about ready to give up, to throw in the towel, to go through with your plan. As you open the Internet, exhausted from a long night of listening to The Voice, which you have to do, something catches your eye.

It’s an article about OCD. You’ve heard the initials somewhere long ago, and attributed it to hand washing. You have an uncle with OCD, and you remember a family reunion he spent cooped up in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands until they bled. It was the only time you saw him cry.

You click on the link, and scan the text, not really interested until something makes you stop.

It’s a description of your thoughts, almost word for word. It’s almost everything The Voice has told you, written down. And there’s a name for your actions, too. Compulsions.

You make an appointment with your doctor, feeling a little bit better. You’re not crazy.

Hopeful

At your doctor’s office, she refers you to a psychiatrist, who diagnoses you with OCD. “A textbook case”, she calls it, and you want to cry with relief. You’re also diagnosed with depression, which you learn often goes along with OCD. It’s not surprising. These are things you can treat. You want to get better, and for the first time in years, there’s a little bit of light. You can do this.

Happy
A few months later, your medication has kicked in, and the therapy is moving along. You smile more,and The Voice still talks to you, but you know they’re just thoughts, and you don’t have to give them power. It’s the first time since you were a little kid you’re honestly and truly happy with your life, and it feels great.

Calm

A year later, you’re seeing your therapist once every week. The treatment is hard, but you know it’s the only way to get better. You have more good days than bad, and you’re working to make people more aware of OCD. You never thought you’d feel this way, this calm.