Fight Or Flight: An OCD Recollection

The Road To Diagnosis

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When I was around 11, we lived on a quaint little farm about 30 minutes out of town. We had horses, goats, chickens, cats, and dogs. Three old barns stood on the property and were filled with tools and such. We also have 10 acres of field that my sister and I rode dirt bikes on. The small community we lived in had a population of around 150 people, a church, a fire hall, and a convenience store that acted as a gas station and liquor store. The community was somewhat tight-knit, and everyone seemed to take care of each other. The elementary school I went to had about 80 students with 3 or 4 classrooms, a gymnasium, bathrooms, and a library. Recess consisted of kids running around outside playing "Kick the Can" or "Mission Impossible."

One night at home, I was eating dinner, and I started having chest pain. I did not think anything of it, and I continued to eat my food. After I finished, I went to my room to play some Nintendo or watch TV. While sitting and playing, I had a little thought pop into my head. "What if the chest pain I'm having is a heart attack?" From that thought came panic that I've never experienced before in my life. The type of panic that you never forget is terror. I ran out of my room straight to my parents, asking them about my chest. I continued to complain over and over again, seeking reassurance from them that I was okay. My dad lifted me up, put me on his chest, and hugged me, trying to comfort me, but nothing worked as I was convinced my life was coming to an end.

A nightmare haunted me that night;

I found myself standing alone on a dimly lit train platform, the cold wind sending shivers down my spine. Suddenly, a monstrous, metallic train emerged from the darkness, its wheels screeching against the tracks like a banshee's wail.

The train bore a malevolent presence, adorned with sinister, blood-red eyes that pierced through the night. It sped toward me with relentless force, its deafening horn drowning out my screams. I tried to escape, but my legs felt like lead, rooted to the platform as if bound by an invisible force.

As the train closed in, I saw its windows filled with nightmarish faces, contorted in anguish and despair. I knew that anyone who boarded this train would meet a gruesome fate. Panic coursed through my veins as I desperately sought an escape, but it was futile. The killer train engulfed me in darkness, and with a bone-chilling scream, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, thankful it was only a nightmare.

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Grades four, five, and six were filled with beatings, bullying, and tormenting. Every recess, I always felt like I had to watch my back due to being previously attacked by older students. I was suspended over twenty times due to retaliation and self-defense. The faculty refused and were unwilling to accept the fact that I was under a barrage of attacks daily. It hit another level when other kids would follow me, and I'd come home with fresh bruises and black eyes.

I remember one instance in particular. We were in gym class, playing basketball. The boys took turns playing the court while the girls hung out on the side talking to each other. I was playing against one kid that I had "beef" with for a few years. He had elbowed me in the nose during the game and shoved me a few times, but I just considered it competitive. Again, he elbowed me in the nose, and I slapped the basketball out of his hands and punched him in the face. He fell to the floor, and I picked him up by his collar, hitting him again. The teacher started shouting at us to get to the office. He got up, holding his nose, which was spewing blood, and jogged to the office with me, shouting obscenities towards him. When we arrived, we sat away from each other until the principal took us into his office and called out our parents.