OCD and Processing Sexual Assault

It's OCD Awareness week 2018, and I wanted to write a post that would help bring to light a lesser-known impact of OCD.  

Given the recent discussions of sexual assault and violence against women, I thought it would make sense to share my small story and discuss how OCD can impact these already difficult experiences.  Whatever your political affiliation, I think we can all agree that any instance of sexual assault is a tragedy.

When I was in high school, I slept over at a friend's house one night- let's call her Tiffany.  That morning, I woke up to the feeling of someone's hand on my chest.

Groggy, only half-awake and disoriented from sleep, I opened my eyes to see Tiffany's brother standing over me.  He retracted his hand from under my shirt and backed away.  I watched confused and didn't scream or move...  I just fell back asleep.

When fully woke up later, the whole situation seemed so bizarre that I thought maybe it was a dream... but it felt so REAL.  

That is when the OCD part of me started to creep in with self-doubt.  My OCD started making me question the memory.  Did I REALLY feel something?  Was I SURE?  Wouldn't someone in that situation scream or grab the person's arm or shout? Was it possible it was just a particularly vivid dream?  

OCD craves definitive proof, and I had none.  

I told nobody - not even my mother, who I told everything.  I was not 100% positive.  My OCD had always given me an irrational, magnified fear of lying, and I didn't KNOW what the truth was.  

I also didn't want to lose Tiffany as a friend because she was really important to me.  I didn't want my mom to start a war.  I didn't want to be called a liar, and I really didn't want to be one: even today, I consider false accusations particularly heinous. 

I only knew two things for sure: I wasn't physically hurt and I wasn't traumatized. 

I came to a decision to just let it go.  Since I couldn't prove it happened, I figured I would be better off assuming it didn't.  I didn't treat Tiffany any differently afterward, and I carried on as if it was a dream.

I never even gave it that much thought until years later when he was arrested for a crime that validated my experience.  The day I learned was this weird relief.  I finally told my mom about what had happened. It made sense now, and I felt a very real sense of vindication.

But then the OCD guilt started to creep in.  What if I should have said something earlier?  Had something similar happened to any other girls? Had something worse happened to any of them? Had he gotten to anyone else because I didn't speak up?  

Please know that I do not assert dramatic victimhood: I consider myself very lucky that this incident was a relatively minor thing, and I do not feel like my experience is in the same category as most sexual assault cases.  Still, it has given me some perspective on how weird it is to process these kinds of incidents.  

Reading accounts from survivors of much more intense violations, I find that even people without anxiety disorders experience similar feelings to the ones my OCD amplified, from self-doubt to guilt.  I have also seen how weird it is to look back on it now.  All I have are the faintest glimpses of memory - mainly the sense of confusion and the strange unexpected feeling of someone's hand.  

I don't remember what Tiffany and I did that night or if anyone else was there.  I don't remember what I was wearing. I don't even remember exactly how old I was.  

Over a decade later, none of these details seem to matter.  I am fortunate that it was such a relatively insignificant moment in an otherwise extremely fortunate childhood.  

That being said, I know one question will always haunt me, "Why didn't you scream?"

The Midas Touch

My hubby recently had to get an oil change and it reminded me of this amazing situation that occurred right before our wedding. Amid all the wedding planning chaos, I didn't get to write about it then, but it is definitely worth sharing.

Wedding planning is stressful, and when you are trying to process the gravity of the step you're about to take, balance the emotions associated it, work three different jobs with three different schedules, and go about necessary errands... it isn't always easy to stay calm, cool and collected.

Healing cars and hearts.

Different needs tend to collide at once, and I found myself with a car that needed a check-up and very little time to do it.  After much stressing over scheduling, by some miracle I found a time to setup to check in at our local Midas.

And then I learned that I wasn't going to be able to make the appointment.

This was the moment I cracked.  Between stress and anxiety and a jam packed schedule, I had reached my overwhelm limit and started crying: drunk-sorority-girl-at-a-frat-party-who-just-got-dumped level crying.

So, naturally, I decided it was fine in this state to call and cancel my appointment with Midas.

I picked up my cell phone and dialed, letting the man at the end of the line know that I was extremely sorry, but I couldn't bring in my car today because something had come up.  It is unclear how much of this message really got across clearly because crying Laura is an incomprehensible hot mess.

I will never forget the way he reacted.

He let me know that it was no problem.  Then, with genuine concern in his voice, he asked me if everything was okay.  He said that I sounded really upset and if I needed to talk, I could feel free to stop by Midas and he would be happy to talk about whatever it was.

I reassured him that I would be fine, and as I hung up I already felt somewhat better from finding this unlikely ally.  

As women, we are generally taught that other women will be our strongest emotional support.  Whether we like it or not, in America women are raised to express emotions and empathy while we rear men for independence.   As a culture, men are taught to hold back their feelings: "Boys don't cry."  With this mindset, it is common to see men who have no idea how to react to a woman in tears and are very off-put by intense emotional displays. 

But, in that moment, here was this man...and this wasn't even just an average man.  This was a man's man: the kind who works on cars for a living.  And yet, here he was, recognizing suffering in a stranger and trying to offer some sort of comfort, not wanting to let me off of the phone until he felt sure that I was okay.

It was unexpected in the most refreshing way to see someone who was that traditionally masculine who still had developed emotional sensitivity.  It would be great if our culture moved more in this direction, not only for the sake of supporting women but also for the mental health of our men, who should feel free to explore their emotions and communicate about feelings without judgement or ridicule.

When I told my fiancé (now husband) the story, we both had to laugh that I had become so hysterical that even the man at Midas was like, "Someone needs to help this person."  However, I hope that someday we live in a world where this is the norm, where both men and women can recognize strangers in crisis and try to do their little bit to help.  A world where mental health stigma has been replaced with understanding and empathy.  That would certainly be a triumph.

Meanwhile, I will remain a customer of Midas for life.