How OCD took over my life, and what I did to get it back, part 2
It was a last-ditch effort, but a columnist finally found the treatment she needed
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Last in a series. Read part one.
After years of living inside the bubble of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), I finally made the decision to seek treatment.
I knew I needed help, but finding that help became an uphill battle. I applied to numerous treatment facilities, but I was turned away time and time again because my case was considered “too complex.” My case involved both severe OCD and blindness, and many programs weren’t designed to help me. Being turned away from these prestigious treatment facilities that specialized in OCD made me feel hopeless, and I started thinking that I’d never overcome my situation.
However, I do not give up easily. I continued spending hours researching treatment options, trying to find a program that might be willing to help me. One late night while searching the web, a place called the Neurobehavioral Institute (NBI) popped up. Reaching out to them felt like a last-ditch effort, my last hope.
When NBI was willing to take a chance on me, I felt excited, nervous, and hopeful all at once. For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe there was still a way forward. Finally, someone was willing to take on my case. That alone felt huge. NBI did more than say yes; it gave me a chance to live again.
Leaning into anxiety
I packed my bags and headed to Florida, where I’d spend about six months working toward recovery. For the first six weeks, I stayed at a nearby hotel and participated in the intensive outpatient program. Even though residential treatment was what I needed, I couldn’t move into their ranch until I became proficient in using my white cane for safety reasons.
This was a huge hurdle for me. Using my cane meant accepting that I had a disability, and at that point, acceptance still felt terrifying. Unlike other programs, NBI understood the complexity of OCD and rare disease and worked with me instead of turning me away.
At first, I wasn’t even willing to look at my cane because to me, it was not only dirty, but it also represented blindness. At the time, I felt embarrassed to use it. Accepting my cane meant accepting that I was blind, and that was something I had spent years trying to avoid.
This is where exposure therapy truly began. It consisted of weeks of facing anxiety head-on and learning to sit with discomfort instead of running from it. Every exposure was a small step toward accepting my disability and taking my life back from OCD — one exposure at a time.
Once I became proficient with my cane, I was finally allowed to move into the ranch and begin residential treatment. I walked through the doors of the ranch like a ghost, my personality completely taken over by constant fear as OCD controlled nearly every aspect of my life.
The OCD bubble bursts
During treatment, my relationship with my cane slowly began to change. At first, it felt contaminated and terrifying. When I was deep into therapy, my cane got the nickname “sh*t stick.” I nicknamed it that because it felt dirty and contaminated, but giving it a nickname was oddly part of me beginning to embrace it.
What once felt dirty, terrifying, and embarrassing began to feel less like an enemy and more like something that was helping me move through the world safely.
I faced so many fears in treatment. I had to resist compulsions and learn that the discomfort wouldn’t last forever.
Some of the hardest exposures for me centered on contamination. Before treatment, I couldn’t even be in the same room while raw meat or chicken was being prepared. I was terrified of raw eggs, took up to eight showers a day, and relied heavily on Lysol, Febreze, and hand sanitizer. During treatment, I slowly began facing those fears by handling raw protein, cracking eggs, cutting back on showers, and resisting the urge to clean. Each exposure taught me that I could feel anxious without giving in to OCD.
I worked tirelessly for six months, conquering many fears along the way. The battle was long and hard-fought but worth it.
Over time, the cane I once hated became my best friend — a helping hand that gave me freedom, safety, and independence.
As my relationship with my cane changed, so did my relationship with OCD. I was slowly taking back my life, and as the OCD bubble began to burst, my personality started to shine again, too.
Little by little, the real Kathryn started coming back, with the sass, the laughter, the smiles, and the confidence.
Treatment didn’t make life perfect, and my OCD isn’t completely gone. I will always live with it, but treatment taught me skills that help me face fear after fear and take control back. I’ve overcome so many things I once thought I never could.
Today, OCD no longer controls my life. I am in control now.
Note: Rare Obesity News is strictly a news and information website about these disorders. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or another qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Rare Obesity News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to rare obesity disorders.
