I poured the steaming brown liquid into my mug. Two spoon fulls of sugar. One splash of creamer. And sixteen stirs. I counted each meticulous rotation in my head precisely, and watched the whirlpool of ingredients fuse. After exactly 16 rounds, I tapped the spoon three times on the edge of the mug to shake off the excess, and finally brought the warm cup to my lips.

Many think people with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder carry around fanny packs full of hand sanitizer, or spend hours color coordinating their sock drawer. In fact, some people think the disorder is an adjective and say, “Oh my God, I’m so OCD,” when two things don’t match and that bothers them. OCD is not a characteristic, it is cancer that multiplies anxiety in lieu of cells. It is hell. And I’ve been battling it since I was twelve years old.

Far too many times have people noticed my academic success and say, “Of course she got an A!” This forces me into a small corner in the depths of my crowded mind. I think about the hours I spent writing out my twenty-paged study guides, in only blue ink, and in question-answer form. I think about how I forced myself to memorize it. And I think about how if those people had a monster in their head forcing them to do the same tasks over and over, they would find results too.

I began seeing a therapist when I was thirteen. One session, she was tapping her pen on the side of her clipboard, and narrowing her eyes at whatever she had just written, took in a deep breath, and said it.

“Let’s talk about the OCD.”

And so I told her.

I told her about the only blue study guides, about the before bed rituals, about how I must check my locker three times before leaving school, about how I run through a marathon of lists in my head everyday, about how I count to three before I get up so I have time to decide what exactly it is I’m going to do. About how I stir the creamer into my coffee in exactly sixteen stirs and no less.

I expected her to rapidly scribble on her clipboard, but instead she just looked at me. And she understood.
My therapist set a white index card on the table behind her.

“I want you to get up, without counting, and grab that index card,” she said.

My heart burned in my chest, and air didn’t seem to fill my lungs the same way. But like ripping a bandiad off of a fresh wound, I ripped myself off of that seat. And I didn’t count. She smiled.

We talked more, and for the first time I wasn’t thinking about what I was going to do after this, or the kind of homework I had waiting for me at home. I was thinking about beating OCD.

She made me a list (which I found ironic, and eerily suiting for my disability,) of goals for me to complete that week. The first sentence of scribbly black pen on the paper was to not count when I stirred my coffee in the morning. I told her I would work on the goals she made for me, and when I got home I taped the messy paper next to my bedroom mirror.

The next morning, I stared into my coffee mug in agony. I plopped in two spoonfuls of sugar, one splash of creamer. Looking away, I estimated where the mug was and plunged my spoon into the brown liquid, spinning it around arbitrarily. I did not count. And for the first time in a long time, I could breathe.

Living the messy life of a high school student is not easy with OCD. However, everyday I find ways to beat the illness that has beat me down for so long. I refrain from making lists, sometimes I write my study guides in pencil, and perhaps the greatest accomplishment: I do not count when I stir my coffee. All of these tiny steps have been giant climbs in the journey of me beating my illness. At one point, I stared into my coffee and believed that it owned me, believed that I would never have control of the nagging anxiety that ravished my mind. But I believe humans can overcome any disorder, and any trial, including mental illness. I am not my disorder, and I can and will beat it. This I believe.