In fourth grade, my teacher told me I had spelled New Mexico wrong on a project I had spent hours laboring over, shading my colored pencils perfectly. It was just a joke, but my face burned crimson, and I was moments away from tears.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I take the joke? It took me 18 years before I realized that my problem—the internal unrest that made me tap tables thirty times, retrace my steps, or form my dreaded nighttime routines—had a name. Obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD.
We’ve all heard it or said it ourselves: “Sorry I’m OCD,” or “My OCD is acting up” or simply “I have OCD” coming from the mouths of someone who does not actually have OCD. People do this with a lot of mental illnesses, but how does making a mental health issue a joke affect those who have that illness? The short answer: it can lead to a lot of misconceptions.
The origin of my false definition
For eighteen years, my image of someone who had OCD was a person who excessively washes their hands, organizes their closet, or needs every Lego block in a perfect, straight line. I will admit to the handwashing, but I was never the diligent child who picked up their room or cared for everything to appear orderly, so I never thought I could have OCD.
Let’s look at a quick definition of OCD.
According to the Mayo Clinic,
“Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) features a pattern of unwanted thoughts and fears known as obsessions. These obsessions lead you to do repetitive behaviors, also called compulsions. These obsessions and compulsions get in the way of daily activities and cause a lot of distress.”
I don’t see anything about cleaning or germs in that definition.
I know from my countless sociology classes that a lot of our knowledge comes from socialization, defined as a learning process that helps people know how to behave in society. The five agents of socialization are families, early education, peer groups, the workplace, religion, government, and media.
Let’s look at an example from family.
One of the first times I heard the term OCD was after dinner at Skip Jacks (if you’re from New England, you know). My family and I were standing outside the restaurant, waiting for my dad to get the car. It is well known in my family that my sister likes to clean, and I remember someone joking with her about it and saying, “Oh it’s just her OCD.” I asked what that meant and I was told it meant “Obsessive Cleaning Disorder.” Several years later, I learned it actually meant “obsessive-compulsive disorder,” but by that time my definition was already formed around cleaning.
Making it funny makes it embarrassing.
Not only was my definition false, but a lot of time I saw OCD used for comedic relief. In my mind, having OCD was embarrassing because people who had it got laughed at.
Here’s an example from the media.
If you’ve ever seen The Big Bang Theory, you know that Sheldon Cooper has OCD, a trait that other characters in the show exploit for comedic relief. For example, in one episode, Penny, Sheldon’s neighbor opens the door before Sheldon can do his patented “Penny [knock], Penny [knock], Penny [knock].” The actor makes a constipated face and the laugh track cues; Penny is smirking and laughing to herself.
Now we have a somewhat accurate of an OCD behavior that isn’t just washing your hands, but it’s supposed to be funny.
Let’s look back at my innocent fourth-grade teacher. One of my friends still brings that story up today, saying that she thought it was so cruel given my obvious stress and embarrassment. I don’t know about all of you, but I don’t enjoy being embarrassed.
In my opinion, there’s nothing embarrassing about having OCD. I do think the occasional joke is funny, but how can we joke about it without making the whole illness a subject of embarrassment? This is where I defer to those who actually have OCD—if you have it, I think it’s funnier when you joke about it than others. I also find joking about myself has helped me come to terms with the issues I face. If Sheldon was making a joke about himself, then I might be more inclined to laugh. Laughing at is just not as funny as laughing with.
People don’t tend to share their “embarrassing” qualities.
Those who are embarrassed about their OCD, tend to hide their issues. If socialization teaches us how to behave in society, embarrassment taught me how to not behave.
Once I was older and aware of my OCD, I had conversations with some of my friends, explaining that I was going to therapy and what I had been struggling with for so long. One of my friends resonated with what I was saying and brought it up to me again, comparing the feelings she had with my own. I wasn’t the only one.
This has happened with some of my other friends since then. I don’t want to get into their details because those are their stories, but this illustrates my point—there are misconceptions and embarrassing connotations associated with OCD that cause people to avoid diagnosis.
Some final thoughts.
My understanding of OCD was an outward-facing one—the germs on surfaces or the mess in a bedroom. However, the reality of my experience, and many others, is an ongoing internal battle. You’ve probably heard it before, but here it is again: you don’t know what’s going on in other people’s lives. Misinformation and misplaced comedy can form negative associations with OCD, especially with those who might suspect they have it.
Let’s try to stick to the facts. If you have OCD, talk about it. Nothing has gotten me further in my treatment than sharing my experiences and hearing that other people feel the same way. Talking about it normalizes it, helps define it, and brings a voice to the internal drum of thoughts. Let’s try to reach a better definition of OCD for the common population.
Julia DeLuca 