Somewhere around third grade, I sat crisscross on the checkered multi-colored rug in my basement Sunday school room. The teachers were about to take offering, but first, one of them sat on the kid-sized bench in front of us and explained what we were donating the money to. She explained that the money was going to an organization that helped abused children. “Some kids don’t have nice mommy’s and daddy’s,” she said. Sitting there on that rug, listening to her explain to my peers what an abused child was, I thought, “Little do they know, I am one of those kids.” (Yes, I actually used the phrase “little do they know.” I guess I was always destined to be an English major). In my adult years, I have felt resentment that I was spoken to about abuse as a child, but I was never once asked if I felt safe and loved at home, but now I realize that if I had been asked, I don’t know what I would have said. I’m sure I would have downplayed it or excused my dad’s behavior in some way. I knew t...
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I sat on the pink and blue speckled carpet of my older sister’s room. She and I sat in there together. I was about five at the time, and I loved hanging out with my sister. She is five years older than me, and as a kid, she was always so good at coming up with games that would send my young imagination running. We’d run around in dress up costumes, carrying our American Girl Dolls in and out of the playhouse in the backyard. Though at this particular time, we weren’t playing. Like so many other evenings, we were cowering in her room. Tears stung our tan little cheeks as we listened to our dad scream at our mom somewhere upstairs. I sat, curled up on the floor fearing that the fight would make its way downstairs, hating it, hating him. “The day I turn eighteen, I’m moving out of here,” my sister said to me, with indignance in her voice. I agreed. That concept would stick with me a long time, the dream of one day being able to break free from my dad’s roaring tem...
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My latest out of the box behavior has been bleaching the tub every time I take a shower or bath. (I say latest because my area of obsession, and the behaviors that go with it, shift now and then). I go through a lot of bleach… like a lot. I usually spray the tub with bleach cleaner, then I’ll stand in the tub and spray my feet with the bleach cleaner because (gasp) they touched the floor, so they’re germy, then I’ll dump plain bleach in the tub and swoosh it around, and I have to make sure the bleach soaks for at least a minute. After all that, I can rinse out the bleach and actually get to the bathing part of my bath. This is the routine I go through just about daily, and if at any point I were to step out of the tub or drop something “dirty” in it, I’d have to reclean whatever got contaminated. Yes, I know that is bad for my skin, but that doesn’t feel nearly as terrifying as living with filth on me. The worst part is, I love baths, but that’s the thing about anxiety, it can tak...
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Abusive dad, divorced at twenty-three, and crippling OCD tendencies? Umm, this is not what I ordered… Can I get a refund? I guess I’ll start with getting the technical stuff out of the way. I have been told by therapists that I have extreme anxiety and OCD tendencies. I am not diagnosed with full blown OCD, and I want to make that clear because I definitely don’t want to disrespect people who have OCD Okay, here goes nothing… Yes, I had an abusive dad, I got divorced at twenty-three, and my OCD tendencies make it hard to function in everyday life, but “hard” doesn’t mean “impossible,” so I don’t let it stop me. Well… okay, credit where credit’s due, God, doesn’t let it stop me. Now, the obvious question, is there a connection between the abuse, divorce, and anxiety…? Hmm, yes! But we’ll dive into all of that when we get there. First, I have to go way back. I apologize if the timeline gets messy at all. I’m pulling up memories from childhood, and, as we ...