The day I stared down OCD

The water started boiling.

For almost a year I had avoided cooking Archie’s raw chicken. A task Jord had quietly taken over because she could see what it was costing me mentally every night - to sit and fear that somehow I was going to give my daughter salmonella poisoning. That somehow, some microscopic, trace amount that splashed out was going to somehow make its way into her mouth or onto her food either from the kitchen bench, or by her plate touching the same spot and then her putting her hands in her mouth, just like two year olds do.

I would sit, each night after having cooked the chicken and washed my hands more than twenty times still not wanting to touch anything in the house. I feared everything that I then touched was contaminated. I felt physically sick from worry. My mind wouldn’t settle. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t even be an effective parent. I was a burden on my wife. I was like an extra kid she needed to care for. It became easier for her to take over the cooking of the chicken than to have to worry about my spiral that it would set off.

I had been nervous about this moment for a week now. I had a planned ERP session with my psychologist Emily, who came to my house to walk me through the exposure. Not to take the anxiety away, but to be on hand if I needed something that my own mind couldn’t give me.

As the water boiled I felt like a man standing at the top of the platform, waiting for his turn to bungee jump. My hands shook with nervousness and my heart raced. I was petrified of that paralysing fear and incapacity that I suffered from in the past. I feared feeling like a failure again. And I feared above all else, if I didn’t wash my hands a thousand times after I would somehow make Willow gravely sick. But I had this unshakable focus, no matter how hard this was I was throwing myself in the deep end and going to tackle this exposure head on.

Once the water had boiled I removed the pot lid. I cut the plastic film off the top of the packet of chicken. I read the weight on the packet 1.85kg. Price $18.48 total.

As I picked up each chicken breast and dropped them into the pot I was careful not to drip any chicken slime anywhere on the bench or stove top. As the first breast touched the water I watched a single drop of water splash out of the pot and onto the stove surrounds. I ignored it. It’s a drop of water I told myself. Continue. As I finished placing the last breast into the pot I walked the pack over and placed it into the rubbish bag.

To the world, the hard part was over. To me, it was just beginning.

I walked to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Feeling the warm water on my hands was refreshing, but I knew it wasn’t going to be enough. As I pressed the soap, Emily said to me, “I’ll tell you when I would stop washing”. It wasn’t a directive but it felt like a challenge. She knew me. She knew I wouldn’t back down. So once I heard her say that’s all I would do I rinsed the soap off and dried my hands.

As I left the bathroom I felt vulnerable. I felt like I was walking back out into the lions den. Into the world I was trying to avoid. I held my hands like a statue, I didn’t want to touch anything. That fear of contaminating everything was heightened more than ever. Not only had I faced the fear, I had resisted the excessive washing that my mind begged me to do, following the handling of the chicken. My hands trembled and my heart raced. My mind was panicked but I remained calm on the surface.

Then, like it was fate, the second I sat down on my chair Willow walked up to me and put her arms out to hug me. It was the moment the universe asked me quietly, what are you made of Matthew? What kind of father do you want to be? Someone who Willow would be proud of, who stands up to fear and says you won’t beat me. Or will you shy away and cower from it?

In that second I put my hands out and picked her up. I gave her a cuddle and a kiss. I told her I loved her. It was my way of saying to the OCD you won’t define who I am as a father.

After I sat with that feeling for a while, touching all my everyday items - my phone, my water bottle, giving Archie a pat, Willow handing me her toys - I needed to take the next step. The bins. Another thing Jord had quietly taken over from me.

The fear of germs, the feeling of never being clean after taking them out. It was time to face it too. I got up from my chair and walked over to the bin. I removed the bin liner from the bin, tied the handles together and grabbed the bag containing the used chicken pack from just minutes earlier. I walked down to the bins outside the building and placed the bags in there. As I pushed the bag into the already overflowing bins my arm touched the side of the bin. I froze for a second. Now feeling like my arm needed to be decontaminated. But I caught myself. This is OCD talking again. Move on. So I did.

When I came back upstairs I put a new bin liner in and went to the bathroom to wash my hands, ensuring I soaped my arm where it hit the bin also. Just like before Emily told me, “I’ll tell you when I’d stop”. This time I anticipated how quick it was coming based off last time, so I was ready. I shut off the tap and dried my hands.

I walked back out of the bathroom. This time feeling a little taller. A little prouder and little more stoic. Small things to the world. Enormous things to me.

We sat and we spoke about it. As we debriefed the days exposures I spoke about my fear, that at some point later today I’ll get that urge. That urge to wash my hands, wipe my phone and water bottle down, clean the surfaces I’d touched, shower and change my clothes. But I told Emily I could handle the discomfort. That it was survivable.

As the day went on it came and went in waves. The feel of discomfort hit me at times. The urge to wash and wipe was present but I told myself, you are fine. Willow is fine. This is the moment of growth. While ever I resist these urges my mind gets stronger and OCD loses its power over me.

The biggest thing I came back to time and time again was my why. For me, my why is showing Willow that her dad is strong. I refuse to live a life where she sees me scared and dictated to by fear and OCD. I want her to be proud of me and I want to show her when she is old enough to understand that she is strong enough to overcome anything.

I also try to take the power out of OCD by telling it whenever the waves of anxiety come that this is OCD talking, it has no power over me. It can Fuck off.

It’s interesting - when Emily was with me I felt “fine” like I could handle it. After she left and the day went on my anxiety ebbed and flowed. I had a lot of what if’s. What if I splashed a bit of chicken juice and didn’t clean it up? Later on that night, we prepared Willow’s dinner in the same spot, in the same kitchen. She was fine.

OCD had power over me for a long time. I know what it’s like to live, being controlled by the way it made me feel. The danger that it makes feel so real, as if one slip up could be catastrophic and the responsibility of preventing that slip up paralysed me. It was a weight I carried every day. But now. Day by day, exposure by exposure I am slowly taking back control. I am not perfect and some days are harder than others. But I am making inroads towards freeing myself from the clutches of OCD that months ago I could only dream of.

If you’re walking through it right now, hang in there. It feels impossible when your brain is screaming that danger is everywhere. I know because I have been there too. But I’ve learnt that discomfort is not danger. Fear is not fact. And every time you resist the compulsion, even for one more minute, you are teaching OCD that it is not in charge anymore.

This is OCD talking.

It has no power over you.

---

 Matthew Wright is a Firefighter, bereaved father, mental health advocate, speaker and author of the upcoming memoir ‘A Father's Love’. He shares his story to ensure no father navigating loss and grief has to do so in silence. Follow along at @_afatherslove on Instagram.