Since being (sort of) diagnosed with OCD I feel as though I’ve become hyper aware of it’s symptoms and traits. Whilst I think this is good; hopefully I can learn to control and overcome some of my tics, I can’t help but feel the diagnosis has heightened my emotions even more.
As I mentioned before my medication dosage has now been doubled and in all honesty I think it’s making me feel pretty bad. I feel like I have more mental energy, which means that I can hold conversations and get on with my work, but I still feel depressed. I still don’t want to get out of bed in the morning, I’m still not enjoying my food, I still haven’t felt genuinely happy in months.
I’ve been picking at myself constantly – at my scalp, my skin, my lips – basically anything I can get my hands on. My mum tells me off, and it’s not that I’m not aware I’m doing it, but I just. can’t. stop. I pick and scratch until I make myself sore, until my face is one pink blotch and my lip is split and bleeding. And in the back of my mind, I know this constant abuse of myself is because of the OCD. The problem is, knowing the cause doesn’t seem to lessen the effect.
I had a few days in the Peak District at the weekend with my boyfriend and it was lovely to be away from the city, enveloped in fresh air and rolling fields, and more than anything it was so great to spend some quality time together. And yet two days after our return, I feel back to square one again. My obsessive picking is at an all time high, I’m waking up anxious and desperate for my medication to kick in and for the day to be over so that I can curl up in bed alone and not face the world.
Confirmation does not mean a cure.