I was always a nervous child: nervous to raise my hand in class or even to wear a new sweater. I replayed small moments in my mind, thinking, “What if I said that too loud?” or, “Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my hair this way.” Fearful of making things awkward, I kept quiet.
Things improved socially in middle school, and I became part of my first-ever friend group. But then the academic pressure started. Grades had to be my priority, my parents said. How else would I get into an exceptional high school? Thoughts like, “I can’t disappoint my parents … my future depends on this,” pushed me to study day and night.
Pressure Inside and Out
One day in 7th grade, I got back a science exam with a big 63% scrawled across it in black ink. Science was never my strong suit, but because I didn’t love it, I hadn’t tried my hardest. I feared the reaction this would get at home.
The next morning I sat at the breakfast table and kept my gaze on the toast as my mother walked into the room. “I saw your science score,” she announced. “What happened? I thought you were confident with all your answers.”
My shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I guess not.”
I told her I would try harder, but silently I wondered: Why did she have to scold me as though I wasn’t already aware of my failure? I felt frustrated with myself and with her. All through that day, tiny voices swirled in my mind. Why can’t you do better? You’re so useless. And also things like: Mom is so annoying—why doesn’t she understand?
I was used to swirling thoughts and overthinking everything, but once I got home and ran to my room, I knew something was different. My heart rate increased with every breath and it felt like my chest would explode. I felt so guilty for thinking all those things about my mom; what if something horrible happened to her because of me? Vivid images of what could happen pooled in my mind and everything was spinning.
Eventually the panic passed and I breathed normally again. But from that day, mental images of something terrible happening to my mom came and went as they pleased. Whenever they returned I tapped on wood, as if that action would repel them. It worked, but only for a little while; then the process would repeat. It felt childish to believe in “jinxing,” so I kept the whole cycle secret. Guilt gnawed at me constantly.
A Compelling Question
For the next two years,I focused on schoolwork. It felt like a welcome distraction from the invasive thoughts, and getting good grades made my parents happy, which calmed me. The high school admissions process was draining and time-consuming, but eventually I ended up at a school that my parents and I were all satisfied with.
In 9th grade at my annual physical, the doctor surprised me by asking, among other routine questions, whether I’d ever wanted to see a therapist. I thought therapy was for problems worse than mine, but the doctor said, “Starting high school can be tough, and I can imagine you have lots on your plate. It may help to talk to someone about it all.” I realized she had a point. A big school full of new people was challenging, and my overthinking was getting worse—not to mention the continued stress from my parents’ frequent reminders that my future depended on whatever I did or didn’t do now.
My dad took down some information. On the walk home, I plucked up the courage to ask if he thought I was weird for needing therapy. I didn’t want to come across as weak or overly sensitive. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help,” my dad said warmly. His response eased my concerns.
When I play my instrument, my thoughts stop running circles and everything is still.
It took a few tries to find the right therapist, but eventually I felt comfortable building a relationship with a stranger. In therapy I learned that those times I felt as if I couldn’t breathe were called panic attacks, and the thoughts that refused to leave my mind were a symptom of OCD, or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My constant need to feel clean, or to have things be odd-numbered, were symptoms too. I learned that panic attacks and OCD often go together, even though they are separate.
At first I felt relieved, like “I finally know what’s wrong with me!” I’d heard of OCD before and knew it was a challenge many people deal with. But realizing how common it was made me doubt whether it could be cured.
My Weekly List
I committed to therapy as my best hope for “fixing” the problem, and actually looked forward to it each week. Being able to speak freely about anything I desired was exciting. I also felt nervous that there would be awkward silences at my sessions, or that the therapist would bring up topics I didn’t feel like discussing. So I started to keep a written list of things I could speak about—like the time it took me half an hour to get into bed, because I had to say the names of each person I knew in my prayer, or when I started to spiral because I might have given off the wrong first impression. I wrote down good things, too, like when I made a new friend.
One week, everything I wrote centered on my parents. From Sunday through Tuesday I felt constant pressure to study for an algebra exam, and even after I took it my mom kept asking about it. She praised me when I got a 90, but then she started talking about college: “Maybe it’s time to consider what you want to major in … Will you stay in state, or travel farther? … You need to start thinking, because it’s right around the corner.”
Since starting therapy I had tried to avoid the subject of my parents. I was still haunted by the terrible panic attack I’d had in 7th grade after thinking even a slightly negative thing about my mother. I did not want to feel that again, but the fact that I was writing these things down for my therapy session suggested maybe I was ready to acknowledge how the pressure affected me.
That week my therapist seemed to notice my discomfort immediately, and asked if there was something I wanted to talk about.
“Well, I have been worried about my grades lately,” I began. “But I don’t think that I’m the reason for my anxious thoughts this week.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents are…” I searched for words that wouldn’t spark panic. “I don’t know, they just have very high expectations, and sometimes it feels impossible that I’ll reach them.” A slight weight lifted off my chest, though my palms were sweating at the confession.
“Have you told them that?”
“No,” I admitted. “I know they want what’s best for me, and that’s why I try.”
“I’m glad you’re finally opening up more to me, but I won’t always be here. When you’re off in college and you’re feeling kind of sad, who will you tell?”
I thought about her question. “I’d talk to my sister,” I finally said.
“That’s a good step in the right direction. Once you start to communicate more, it will be easier to tell your parents how you really feel, and how their words affect you.”
It sounded easier said than done. And, if I was being honest, I didn’t want to talk to others about my feelings. I just wanted to be more social and less anxious. I knew my wish was unrealistic, and that avoiding communicating my feelings would only delay the growth I wanted. I just wasn’t ready, but at least I knew what I needed to do.
Safe From My Mind
As of now, I still haven’t talked to my parents about the pressure they add to my already-anxious psyche. Besides the worry about another panic attack, I don’t want to hurt their feelings, and I know they only want to help me live a successful life. I hope that, eventually, I can speak more freely and help them understand how their words and preoccupations affect me.
In the meantime, therapy still helps. We’ve worked on calming techniques, like breathing before bed, deliberately tensing and relaxing different parts of my body, or reframing my thoughts when something doesn’t go as planned. I still experience panic attacks and OCD episodes, since I can block out stressful thoughts for only so long. I am making progress, even if it’s too slow and subtle for my liking.
Maybe the most significant session I’ve had happened a couple months into sophomore year. I’d been coming home from school completely drained from socializing and trying not to follow my compulsions. It felt like there was no room left to do anything that brought me joy. To-do lists filled pages that collected dust on my desk.
As I told my therapist how I’d been feeling, I wondered if I was being too dramatic. She looked at me with kind eyes. “I want you to do one thing that makes you happy each day,” she said. “It can be something small, like reading a chapter of your book or watching a TV show.”
I started by reading daily for pleasure. When I read, I feel transported into a different universe. This space nudged me to find time for more items on my to-do list. I decided I could practice playing guitar more seriously.
I had begged my parents for a guitar a year earlier, and got one, but I became frustrated quickly by trying to learn. Consumed by schoolwork, I’d abandoned the idea of improving. My therapist’s “assignment” had given me an excuse—no, an opportunity—to put my focus on things other than school.
Practicing kept me busy in the best way possible. It was tricky at first learning the chords and proper techniques, but once I got the hang of it, playing became my favorite thing to do. After a few months, I moved beyond beginner level and learned to play songs that I actually liked, by artists like the Beatles or John Mayer. It felt rewarding and I was proud to be able to say I played decently.
One day, after playing for hours, I noticed that when I played I wasn’t worried or battling my own imagination. It didn’t trigger any compulsions or unwanted thoughts. And I wasn’t doing it to please my parents. The only thing that mattered in those moments was getting better bit by bit.
There is research on the role of music in both triggering and alleviating OCD symptoms. For now, that research is limited and inconclusive. But speaking for myself, I can say music is one of the only places that’s safe from my chaotic mind. When I play my instrument, my thoughts stop running circles and everything is still.
Once I wondered if I would be able to “fix” my issues. While a simple fix might not be possible, with time and patience, I have seen changes. I feel lighter coming home from school, excited to do things that make me happy. I’m sometimes able to redirect my thoughts before they spiral.
Confronting what makes me anxious is still challenging because of the way my OCD presents itself. But speaking to a therapist has let me view other perspectives, explore different ways to cope, and practice those techniques. Even small conversations can carry a great deal of meaning. When I’m feeling anxious, I think back to the conversation with my dad after the doctor’s appointment that changed my life, and remind myself that it is OK to ask for help.
- Arts/Culture
- Mental Health