I once was a perfect girl. My life was spotless. I knew what I was doing. I knew where I was going. My life was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Except for the fact that nothing was.

Beneath my gigantic smile was a burrowing frown that never seemed to fade away. Underlying the happy, go-lucky prosody of my voice was an unremitting, melodic melody of pain. Lying on top of my power-women pose was a heap of bricks, weighing me down into the deep, dark depths of the Earth.

I was wearing a mask: I was playing the role of the “perfect” girl but deep down I was hurting.

All throughout my life I’ve had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but as is the case with most mental illnesses, my OCD only became disabling when I was in high school.

I have harm OCD, which is an irrational fear of hurting people. I want to specify this because, oftentimes, people assume that individuals with OCD are germaphobes or obsessed with being neat. This is entirely untrue. OCD spans an extensive range of topics, germs and neatness accounting for only a portion of them.

My harm OCD became especially apparent after a student in my high school committed suicide. After this tragic event, my OCD only grew stronger. Intrusive thoughts would pervade my mind nonstop, every hour, every minute. Just when one thought finally made its exit, another one would promptly enter, as if hundreds of intrusive thoughts were waiting in line to get a taste of my mind.

However, as each thought invaded my mind, I swallowed the pain, the anxiety, the hurt, the guilt, and the uncertainty. I mean, what other choice did I have? I was the perfect girl, which meant I couldn’t let my mental problems interfere with my perfect track record. I was going to be admitted into a top college, graduate with a 4.0 GPA, and win the highest award given by my school. So, to make all of this come true, I had to pull out the grand old sweeper and sweep those thoughts underneath the rug.

However, once I got to college, the rug proved to be too small for the cascade of thoughts being stored under it. The intrusive thoughts began eating away at the once durable cotton stitches that held this rug together. The thoughts fed off the fringes, turning these once elegant bundles of string into a war zone of terror.

As the rug became increasingly feeble, it was more and more difficult to manage my intrusive thoughts. Being a freshman in college aggravated these difficulties, as I was trying to manage this major transition in my life while trying to shove my intrusive thoughts under a deteriorating rug.

There came a point when the rug couldn’t serve its function anymore, so, out of desperation and sheer anxiety, I began dedicating a preposterous amount of time to constructing a new rug. This time, the rug would be stronger and more durable. In between classes and meeting friends, I would rush back to my dorm to weave this rug. It was frustrating at points, as I was dedicating so much mental and physical energy to it, energy that I should have been directing towards self-care. However, once the rug was constructed, I felt like a weight was lifted from my shoulder or at least that’s what I told myself. Now, my intrusive thoughts could be contained.

This rug lasted me until Spring of freshman year, which is when one particular intrusive thought unexpectedly arrived, knocking at my door.

It was early in the night, and I was on a Zoom call. One person made a comment that triggered me. Seeing this as an ideal opportunity to make a mess, an intrusive thought that was already vacationing in my mind violently attached onto this comment, sucking all the energy from it and subsequently becoming the strongest it has ever been.

It was monstrous. It traveled through my blood to reach my chest, gut, and feet. As it disseminated through my body, it destroyed everything and anything in its path. Vitamin C–gone. Serotonin–gone. Gaba–gone.

I tried and tried to shove this towering thought underneath my new rug, but it was impossible. This thought could not be contained, and I was profoundly terrified. What was I going to do if I couldn’t contain this thought? What was going to happen? Is this how my life was going to be? I was afraid the answer would be yes.

Desperate to escape this tunnel of anxiety, I called my parents. I didn’t know what else to do.

A few days later, I pulled out of the term and went back home.

I was finally officially diagnosed with OCD. It was somewhat liberating to attach a clinical name to those petrifying internal feelings, but those feelings were still happily nested in my brain, continuing to cause me pain.

Shortly after my diagnosis, I went to a therapist and a psychiatrist for the first time. I began seeing a therapist twice a week. At these sessions, my therapist would ask me to bring my rug along with me. He asked me about the gaping hole in the middle of it, why I created the rug and was so attached to it, and what would happen if I didn’t have my rug anymore. When he asked me this last question, I must admit I was petrified. A life without my rug? Where would all my thoughts go?

I was frustrated at my therapist for even suggesting such an atrocity, but I soon realized that the rug was holding me back. Instead of allowing the intrusive thoughts to leave, I vehemently kept them, storing them under my rug for safe keeping. This proved to take a toll on me.

So, I began working with my therapist to deconstruct this rug. To untie every knot, to clip off the fringes, and to ultimately discard every string of yarn that was used to create it.

This was a profoundly scary process. Sometimes it would result in crying for hours underneath the covers or pounding my fists into the bed or even secretly reconstructing the rug when no one was looking.

However, as the days progressed, I felt stronger and stronger. The rug was soon becoming a distant memory. I no longer needed this rug to feel safe and stable.

Eventually, what was left of my rug was a few pieces of yarn and a couple of knots here and there.

Today, I am still carrying those remnants with me. It’s a journey that may not have a clear ending, but all I know right now is that I am happy. Happiness is possible.

Take in those words: happiness is possible.

I surely didn’t think so in the Spring or when I was crying rivers underneath my covers. I didn’t think happiness was even a possibility. I was preparing myself to live a miserable, anxious life. But, through work, effort, and incredible help, I was able to experience happiness after a long time. Of course, I have my ups and downs, as is the nature of mental illness, but I am experiencing bright and radiant emotions I never thought possible.

I share this because I want you to know that no matter how you are feeling at this moment, things will get better. It definitely doesn’t feel that way right now, I know. Trust me, I’ve been there, those unremitting dark holes are suffocating. But happiness is out there and it’s waiting for you. You will feel better. You will find a way out of this dark hole. You will laugh. You will smile and you will feel happy again.

What you are feeling right now is not your life.

~Adithi Jayaraman ‘24