Martin Kittsteiner, a German toymaker, has created a line of stuffed toys that each have their own disease and symptoms, “and comes with a medical history, referral letter and treatment plan.” He hopes the toys will help families with children suffering from mental illnesses.
This is Kroko, who suffers from paranoid psychosis:
Go to his website to see the others, including a severely depressed turtle.
I wish Kittsteiner had a cuddly obsessive-compulsive toy. What do you think it should be?
My past roommate Becky said she has been reading my blog and is so happy to see that I’m doing better. She told me, “When we were living together, you were really deep into it.” It’s true. The years that I lived with Becky and Tricia (or rather, Biz and Trix) were some of the darkest, most OCD-saturated years of my life. I am so grateful that God gave those two to me to take care of me in those days when I could not take care of myself.
“Have you had supper?” Tricia would ask.
“Not yet,” I’d respond. Then I’d begin to consider the whole enterprise. It exhausted me to ponder opening a loaf of bread, untwisting the twist-tie, pulling out two slices of bread, locating a clean knife, finding a jar of peanut butter, and—it collapsed me—spreading the peanut butter over the bread. That didn’t even take into account finding a paper plate to put the sandwich on, or cleaning up afterward. I’d go sit on the couch, my heart racing, a heaviness in my chest.
“Want to make mac and cheese?” she’d ask, browsing through the cupboard’s offerings.
I breathed in and then exhaled deeply. Macaroni and cheese was so involved—butter and a saucepan and boiling water, milk and cheese mix, and so many dirty dishes.
“Jav?” (Their nickname for me.)
“I don’t think I’m gonna eat anything,” I peeped from the living room, hoping she would let it go. I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax. You’re not going to make anything, I told myself. You don’t have to do anything. Just rest.
“Are you okay?” she asked, poking her head around the corner and seeing me collapsed on the couch.
“Yes,” I said in a voice that screamed, “Not at all.”
She walked over to where I was lying and stood, towering above me, with a frown on her face. “What is wrong now?”
“Supper overwhelms me,” I said quietly. “I’ll be okay.”
She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’ll take care of supper.”
“I’ll be okay,” I repeated.
“You have to eat!”
This became something of a routine. When Tricia and Becky had evening plans, I either didn’t eat, or I tore open a granola bar—something simple. I lost about ten or fifteen pounds at this time, but I hardly noticed. But it was an arduous time; I was very dependent and needy, but I was very well cared for.
Thank you, Bizzers and Trix.
me, bec, tricia
After we watched the Blue Like Jazz screening, my former writing professor Judy and I went to the St. Clair Broiler for some late-night breakfast and conversation.
A few things you should know about Judy: she is brilliant, a gifted writer and teacher, and she loves Jesus very much and connects with him in lovely and unique ways like Taizé and lectio divina.
One thing she said to me over pancakes and French toast was this: “Some people hold their brokenness at arm’s length. Some people embrace their brokenness. And some people celebrate their brokenness.”
That’s what I want to do– celebrate my brokenness. I am not ashamed of my obsessive-compulsive disorder. The Lord’s power is perfected in my weakness. His grace is sufficient.
“Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me” (2 Corinthians 12:9b).
How about you?
It’s just hypothetical. An art concept.
A rollercoaster that sends 24 people up a 500-meter rise and fall and then through seven consecutive loops, each smaller than the last, which racks up so much G-force that the person can’t sustain it and dies “with elegance and euphoria.”
I heard about it last summer, and I felt sick– a strange kind of sick. A revulsion and a fear for our future, but also this bizarre fascination that has made me look it up many times over the nine months.
You can read all about it on Julijonas Urbonas’s website. Let me know if it fills you with the same strange wonder and horror and disgust as it does me.
I have always been drawn to oddities, to things that are broken or are sick– because I am myself. A broken, sick oddity, but covered in the blood of Christ.
There were days when my OCD would tear my worldview out from under me. Things that I had thought were solid things to stand on (GOD-IS-GOOD, I-AM-SAVED, IT’S-OK-TO-MEET-NEW-PEOPLE, HUMANS-ARE-REALLY-HUMANS, etc.) turned into vapor beneath me, and there I was, seeming to free-fall forever.
A real, only slightly altered conversation with a former roommate:
Fanny Fakename (frustrated): I can’t believe this! I can’t believe this!
Jackie: What? What happened?
Fanny (in anguish): I just found out that my tennis retreat is the same weekend as this political rally I wanted to attend!
Jackie: Oh.
Fanny: The same weekend! This is terrible. What am I going to do? This is the worst thing that has EVER happened to me!
Jackie: thinking harm thoughts even though that is not her regular type of OCD 😉
One thing that OCD has engendered in me is perspective.
Right now, I am trying to lose weight, and it’s been a tough battle for me, but tonight I was praying aloud in my shower and what slipped out of my mouth was, “Thank you, God, that this is not an OCD thing. I can handle this. OCD was the very worst thing.”
Perspective. Love it.
What is the very worst thing that has ever happened to you? What it OCD-related? Have you been envious of friends and family when their very worst thing seemed tamer than yours?
Scrupulosity: OCD centered around religious themes.
The story of my life.
The obsession: for many years, my head would repeat blasphemous things over and over, sometimes triggered by certain sounds and sometimes by non-specific phrases about hell, demons, souls, the devil.
The compulsion: I began to repeat one particular phrase– “Father God, I love You”– over and over in my head as a way to stem the other thoughts.
It became very difficult to handle everything that was going on: these blasphemous thoughts would crowd me– I mean, really crowd me (the image I have is of these thoughts bumping and grinding on me like dirty brutes at a dance club), and I’d be warding them off by repeating this repetitive prayer over and over (and over and over and over). And on the outside, it didn’t look like anything.
Those who were closest to me (dear friends and roommates and family members) knew that I was going through hell, but they couldn’t see the battle that was taking place. They only knew of it when I told them (or on nights when I broke down sobbing in fear of eternal damnation … thanks for speaking truth to me those nights, Desiree!).
It is hard to describe exactly what it feels like to feel as though you’re wearing a sentence of hell on your shoulders. Here’s a shot:
Condemnation (or supposed condemnation) is like being in a tank of water with only inches of air at the top. You have to lean your head back to put your lips to the air, and the whole while you must keep treading water. There is no opportunity for distraction. It consumes every moment of your life.
Anyone reading this understand me?
If so, please read this sermon. I think it might help. My heart aches for you, but there is hope. Lovers of Jesus Christ don’tbelong in hell. Let’s talk.
It exists! It’s thorough! It’s also ridiculous.
Here’s an example:
1. Begin with an assumption: most parents tell their children not to talk to strangers.
2. Therefore, if a young person talks to me, they are being disobedient.
3. If I am causing a child to be disobedient, then I too am sinning.
4. Extrapolation: a parent’s direction does not just wear out; therefore, even teenagers and young adults AND EVEN ADULTS are still under that command not to talk to strangers unless the parent has told them otherwise.
5. Most parents wouldn’t think to say otherwise.
6. Therefore, it is sinful for people I don’t know to talk to me and sinful for me to talk to people I don’t know.
Did you make all those connections with me? But you think it’s silly, right?
Yeah, an obsessive-compulsive can’t dismiss things so easily.
Good luck, Polly Pure-O, at your job tomorrow, at the drive-thru, at the Target register. Say a word and you’ll only feel guilty.
To the OCs who read my blog, walk me through your OCD logic in a comment!
Q: But who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, “Why have you made me like this?” — Romans 9:20 (ESV)
A: Thanks for asking. I’m Jackie Sommers. I guess you could call me a sass-pot. 
Why do we get OCD? Is it a punishment from God? Is it a result of the fall of mankind? Is it completely arbitrary? Bad karma? Simply genetic? Strep throat gone awry?
I believe that my OCD is indeed from God, given to me for three reasons:
1) To drive me to Him. The times that I have known most intensely my desperate need for Christ have been some of my most OCD-riddled seasons of life. When I am given something impossible to handle, then I have to turn to Someone bigger who can take it from my weak hands.
2) So that I would use it to glorify Him. I wrote a novel about an obsessive-compulsive, a book written for the Lord, to use my talents to honor Him. I think it’s a beautiful picture of redemption to see the way God allowed me to turn my history of OCD into a creative and beautiful result.
2) To help others who are suffering. Simply put, I would not be able to sympathize with other sufferers in the same way had I not crawled out of those same trenches. God was with me every step of the way, and I know that it was He who guided me to cognitive-behavioral therapy, of which I am now a strong advocate.
So, what do you think? Is OCD from God– or is it something else? Would love to hear your thoughts!
Solipsism syndrome is a condition where a person believes that everything she is experiencing is a dream, is inside her head. She believes that reality is not real. She believes that others either don’t exist or that their existence can never be proven.
I have been doing a lot of research on SS lately (for a story I am writing, not because I have been feeling this way), and it is fascinating.
In my wildest OCD days, this idea would sometimes come to me in one variation or another. Some days I would wonder if everything I had “experienced” up until that point was actually a very intricate dream– and when I finally woke up, I would only be a toddler.
I would imagine that everyone who truly entertains ideas like these must either be Pure O or an astronaut. But what do I know?
Solipsism syndrome is hard to argue with– the solipsist will always win any debate, because in the end, she can simply dismiss you– since, of course, you don’t really exist. People affected by this obviously become very withdrawn and experience incredible loneliness. Some people probably think of this idea and can easily dismiss it (it doesn’t feel like I’m living a dream, so I’m just not going to worry about it), but obsessive-compulsives don’t work like that. We hold on. We strangle thoughts. Or let them strangle us.
So, blogging community, here are my questions for you:
* Have you ever experienced anything like this? What was it like for you?
* What helped you to feel less alone?
* Care to share some experiences?
Because SS is not recognized as a psychiatric disorder by the American Psychiatric Association, I am relying on human experiences for much of my research!
It took me approximately five years to get on the right medication.
Over the course of the five years, I experienced the following:
* rapid weight gain (30 pounds in one month)
* deep lethargy, during which air felt stale and I had to nap for 2+ hours every day after work
* mind vomit (a phrase I coined, meaning that taking the medication exacerbated my OCD, sending me into frenetic, panicked obsessions)
* a visible tremor
* drymouth, as stanch as if I were eating Saltines and peanut butter
* dizziness and vision loss, usually paired together (One time I had a whole conversation with someone without telling him I couldn’t actually see him … I hope I appeared to be looking him in the eyes. The dizziness/vision loss combo happened so often that I actually got used to it, could continue walking across my apartment without even slowing my step.)
* Jello-legs, so terrible that I had to lean against the stairwell wall as I descended from my second-floor apartment
* excessive sweating
* lactation (you think I’m kidding, but I’m not)
* a spasm of pain in my back that once DROPPED me to the floor like I’d been tackled from behind
* an allergic reaction that nearly killed me (please, PLEASE do not take new meds unless you have Benadryl in your home!)
And then along came Dr. Suck-Won Kim, my sweet, wonderful expert psychiatrist, who got me onto my perfect dosage of Prozac, Effexor XR, and Risperdal.
And want to know what?
It was all worth it.
JACKIE LEA SOMMERS 