I have a very tight-knit circle of friends, and they started to notice my repetitive themes when we talked on the phone in the morning or when we went out for coffee. Once, I was talking to my friend Ali. I was going on and on, as was my wont, about the end of the world and my abysmal self-worth, and, after listening for a while, she said, “Eve, I think you need to go talk to someone.” Then, later, Jennifer said, “Eve, it might be helpful to go to the doctor.” Kit looked at me with a lot of concern over dinner one night. I went to a clinic to talk to a counselor, but she wasn’t as good at calming me down as my boyfriend was, but that was getting stressful for him, too. Then one night, the thoughts wouldn’t stop, no matter what I did. I went to bed but couldn’t sleep at all. The intrusive thoughts were starting to feel a lot like loud voices that were consuming me entirely. The next morning we called the hospital.

It was totally a relief and totally terrifying at the same time when the psychologist in the mental health department said, “You need to be hospitalized.” I was thinking Yes, please fix me! and also Oh no, this means I’m really crazy! I had enough time to pack a toothbrush, text my friends, grab a book, and eat some fast food. My daughter was happily distracted by a trip to my parent’s house, where there are live chickens, cake baking, cable television, and no bedtime.

The hospital itself provided more relief. Doctors listened to my symptoms and knew immediately what was wrong; it was strangely comforting to know that my BAM! experiences weren’t an anomaly. Everybody experiences mental illness differently, and yet there are marked patterns that contribute to consistent diagnoses. Just like my own OCD didn’t look like what I’d seen in the movies, the hospital didn’t match the picture in my head of the “mental hospital” either. The real thing was much more boring. Some things felt surreal, like doing calisthenics to oldies music on a patio with 15 other adults in pajamas, or participating in “pet therapy” with some visiting labrador retrievers. The food was the worst food I had ever eaten. There were crossword puzzles and coloring books, but not a lot else to do during our downtime. The beds were uncomfortable, and the nurses woke us up really early for “vitals” every morning; most of the time, I wished I was in my own bed in my own home. But, for the first time in many months, I was sleeping. For the first time ever, I was learning about obsessive-compulsive disorder and, even more important, about myself.

Five days later I emerged a more rested, and slightly different, person. I started taking medications prescribed by a psychiatrist for the first time. I had been struggling against negative repetitive thoughts for so long that I didn’t even realize they weren’t normal. It wasn’t until I was relieved of the incessant pounding of crippling ideas that I was able to see them as harmful and irrational. Still, everything wasn’t all fixed immediately. I had to visit a number of therapists until I found the right one for me, and I had to try different medications prescribed by my psychiatrist until we arrived at a combination that works for me. Now I see a psychologist once a week and a psychiatrist every few months. It’s not just the medication and therapy that make my life different. I’m careful about taking care of myself in lots of different ways. I am much more conscientious about getting enough sleep, eating well, and avoiding harmful kinds of stress. All of this means my life is a little (a lot) more boring than it used to be, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything that might jeopardize my mental and physical health.

It can be embarrassing when someone points out that I’ve been talking about the same thing for too long, or I catch myself freaking out about the completion of self-appointed tasks. There is also part of me that feels protective of my obsessive-compulsive disorder. It feels like something that’s been with me for a very long time, and it’s part of who I am, so I don’t like people talking shit about it, you know? There’s a kind of talk therapy called cognitive behavior therapy that has helped countless people with similar issues to mine. CBT is designed to work fast, by getting patients to focus on the things they do that trigger their obsessive and/or compulsive behaviors, rather than spending a long time talking about their pasts or their buried thoughts or feelings. I am happy that people who want or need CBT have access to it, but to me it sounds like chopping off an arm—just trying to erase something that’s been so much a part of me for so long. I don’t want to ever struggle against intrusive BAM! thoughts again, but I am enjoying the slow progress of my recovery. There is a large school of thought that says that with the help of my therapist (and my medications), I am exploring how and why my OCD manifests, and, by shining a light on it, I am able to slowly, gently dissolve it.

It still comes back from time to time, usually when I’m in a super stressful or chaotic situation. A few weeks ago, I was writing a story about a highly emotional topic, and I felt that old urge to order everything, to worry about every little detail, to ruminate. Luckily, I was able to recognize that urge as a dangerous one, and I decided that sleep was more important than my to-do lists, and taking care of myself was more important than “having it all together.” The laundry didn’t get done, the sink filled with dishes, our toilet paper stockpile dwindled. And you know what? After I sent my story off to my editor and returned to my “real life,” I could see that nothing bad had happened. Everyone had stayed fed and happy and safe in my home, we all got to school and work on time, and no one had judged me for any of it. Nobody loves me any more or less based on how “together” I can keep the things around me. Without my nervous breakdown and subsequent hospitalization, I might never have learned that. ♦

Eve Sturges is completing a master’s degree in counseling psychology in Los Angeles, where she lives with her boyfriend and her daughter. Contact her at [email protected] and follow her on Instagram @magpielife or her website.