Trigger warning: depression, eating disorders, OCD
By Vaneza Paredes
As a child, I loved eating hot dogs. Only, I was extremely meticulous about my hot dog-eating ritual. See, the hot dog had to be boiled to perfection—not cooked on the grill. It had to be cut up into tiny slices, which I did myself using my green plastic knife and fork. Then I needed a side of ketchup, only it couldn’t touch the hot dog, as I liked to be in control of how much ketchup would be carefully smothered over each hot dog slice. And once everything was perfectly set, my napkin carefully folded once over my lap, my fork set at just the right angle, the cup of juice on my left-hand side, then I was ready to finally eat my hot dog in peace. Little did I know, that these were the very beginning stages of my obsessive-compulsive disorder revealing itself at the young age of five.
For most of my life, I had no idea that so many small quirks of mine were actually OCD compulsions, or things you feel compelled to do. Didn’t everyone have to fix all the shampoo bottles to have their labels facing forward before they could take a shower? Didn’t everyone double-check to make sure their front door was locked or the lights in their bedroom were turned off seven times before they left the house? Didn’t everyone make their bed before leaving their house, because if they didn’t it would bother them all day? Surely they did! It took nearly 20 years before a therapist pointed out that perhaps these small tasks I felt I had to do were actually symptoms of OCD.
After graduating high school, I was set on my way with a full scholarship to a college up North. Thrilled to start anew and find out who I truly was, I was ready to go weeks in advance with my new dorm accessories and a brand new wardrobe. Only, at school, I found myself crippled with homesickness and an intense and overwhelming depression. I missed my friends, my home, and my family. Despite my efforts to make new friends, force myself out on Friday nights, take on two jobs that I genuinely enjoyed, and seek out a therapist at the therapy center on campus, nothing I did could fill the gaping hole I felt in my chest. Getting through each hour of the day was my goal, and I tried my hardest to convince myself that I would be okay. This was my first introduction to another mental illness: depression.
That same year, as I battled depression, I tried to seek relief through exercise. Unfortunately, my half-hour workout sessions rapidly became one-hour sessions. Then two hours. And instead of five days a week, it became seven days a week. And when that wasn’t enough to make me feel better, I began to restrict my food intake. I restricted so much that I quickly began to lose weight. Each time my jeans felt looser, or my collarbone stuck out a little bit more, I congratulated myself. I had fallen victim to yet another mental illness: anorexia nervosa. And as my anorexia slowly spiraled out of control, I finally sought help and entered a rehabilitation center near my house. I moved back home, took a semester off from school, and for the very first time in my life, found out who I really was.
It was during my time at the rehab center that I discovered I am extremely prone to addiction problems and mental illnesses. Knowing that, I was able to learn how to cope with my mental illnesses—in a healthy way. I learned that journaling can truly go a very long way in terms of recovery and self-healing. I learned that visualizing and meditation are excellent ways to help calm my anxious brain. I have learned the importance of eating, and keeping my body healthy. It took a while, and I am still learning and practicing my techniques every day, but I am determined to not let my mental health destroy me like it almost did.
In November of this past year, my father passed away unexpectedly. Once again I found myself ready to restrict, utterly depressed, and meticulously re-doing and perfecting my homework assignments (another type of OCD compulsion). I finally went to a psychiatrist and confessed my intrusive thoughts, and the behaviors I felt I needed to do to get through the day. She prescribed me an antidepressant, and I am grateful that I was able to get the help I truly needed for so long. Taking medication doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t make me a failure. It makes me strong for taking control of my mental health, and doing what is best for me.
I am not ashamed of my mental illnesses. They do not define who I am. My weight is not an indication of my worth. My compulsions will not control my life. And when I feel depressed, I turn to writing and I find my inner peace and happiness. I know who I am now: I am a young woman who is in charge of her mental health for the very first time.