Erin Y.

Photography by Andres Troncoso.

If you’re reading this, there’s no perfect fix, and that’s okay.

In “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams, a supercomputer is asked to define the meaning of life and spits out a single number: 42. Fun fact: 42 is the ASCII code for an asterisk (*)-- a symbol that suggests exceptions and infinite possibilities, taking on any meaning you want it to.

Coincidentally, F42 is also the ICD-10 code for obsessive-compulsive disorder, a condition that has had its claws in me since elementary school. I remember spending forever on homework and tests because I’d have to write, erase, and re-write my name 20 different times in 10 different ways before it felt “right.” If I hit my right hand on the edge of a desk, I’d have to hit my left hand too so that they’d be even– but I’d inevitably hit my left hand a bit too hard, and have to hit my right hand again… but I didn’t hit it hard enough, so I’d hit my right hand again, again, and again until my fingers were sore and red. But no one could see me do this– I’d have to wait for chances to sneakily perform these repetitions when I was sure no one was watching. I was embarrassed by what I was going through but convinced that if I didn’t yield to my compulsions, my entire family would die in a terrible accident.

How exactly does whether my hands are “evened out” or whether my name is written in perfect script affect the chances of my family encountering harm? I couldn’t tell you– in fact, it feels crazy even to type this out. OCD is a disorder rooted in secrets and shame– not only are you saddled with these terrible mental images, but you must perform compulsions in a futile effort to keep negative thoughts at bay. As the cherry on top, you know how irrational your thought processes are but you feel too ashamed to seek help. And that’s why in middle school I’d spend hours a day washing my hands, then puzzling out how to close the bathroom door without contaminating them further. In bed, I’d lie awake for half the night listening to every bump and creak in my house. If I hadn’t closed the bathroom door well enough, maybe I’d cause an intruder to break in and murder all of my loved ones.

All this time, I had no idea these behaviors were abnormal– they were distressing, but that was just the cost I had to pay for peace of mind. This constant exhaustion suddenly became all too clear for me when, thrust into the stressful experience that is being a freshman Yellow Jacket, I fell into a depressive episode. I’d struggled with feeling isolated and hopeless in small spurts in the past, but never to this extent. I was sleeping for 14 hours a day, skipping meals, and struggling with my hygiene. After a few months of feeling absolutely zombified, I forced myself to call CARE– if a professional could diagnose me, I’d (A) finally know what was wrong with me and (B) be done with this nonsense forever.

Obviously, therapy doesn’t work that way. I spent the better part of a year ghosting one therapist after another and incurring no-call-no-show fees from Stamps Psych. I felt like a failure– I’d become so inexplicably screwed up that not even multiple counselors armed with every edition of the DSM could fix me. Where were the satisfying, neatly-wrapped answers for why I am the way I am? After my third crash-out in a year, I was crying to my psychiatrist over Zoom when she fixed me with a knowing gaze and said, “You’re depressed, but it sounds like you have OCD as well.”

OCD is wrongfully characterized as the “clean disease,” a buzzword used to diss uptight, neat-freak characters in movies and TV. I definitely didn’t think I had OCD– in fact, in the throes of depression, I was pretty messy. Month-old laundry littered my room, I hadn’t washed my hair in two weeks, and there were so many ramen bowls and empty water bottles on my desk that it looked like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. I guess I’d heed my psych’s suggestion to start on Prozac– maybe an SSRI would help. If I were to start medication, though, my psych warned, I’d need to follow through with therapy– this time with a professional specializing in exposure and response prevention.

Back to CARE I went! And this time, it stuck. At our first session, my therapist asked me what my goals were. This wasn’t a question I’d really thought of an answer to– this whole time, I’d really only just wanted to get better so I could be stable and move on with my life. All I wanted was a sort of “magic hand” to come down from the sky and wave my problems away. When I said this, my therapist laughed and said, “I can’t show you a giant hand, but I can teach you how to react rather than respond to the thoughts in your head.” I thought this was stupid at first– not only was I dealing with headaches and nausea from starting medication, but I also had to change my entire way of thinking? I begrudgingly filled out cognitive distortion worksheets, outlined my fear hierarchy… and actually did start to feel better. My therapist was right– there will never be a catch-all solution to mental health struggles. While we can’t control which weights we are born shouldering, we can control whether or not we let them rule our lives.

I wish I could say that was the end– it would be great to finish my letter with a perfectly-packaged ending like “When I opened myself up to therapy, that was the key– I’m happy now!” There’s nothing my disorder loves more than solid solutions and rigid truths, but that would be antithetical to everything I’ve just told you: There is no perfect way to fight your battles. Continuing with therapy and medications are promises I have to hold myself to every day; I doubt I’ll ever encounter that one-step fix I used to want so desperately. However, I can say confidently that I am happier than I used to be, which is a blessing.*

So, if you’re reading this– and you’ve tried to get better so many times, failed so many times, and feel that nothing will ever fix you– don’t believe yourself. Keep going and find what works for you– it’ll be worth it.

Erin Yoon. (she/her), Georgia Tech

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