The terrifying reality of existential OCD
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve obsessed over the thought that nothing is real. What if I’m actually in a coma and dreaming my entire life? What if I’ve actually gone mad and I’m imagining everything? I look in the mirror, say my name to myself, and wonder if I’m actually a real, mortal person. And then I start to think about what happens when we die, and the thought terrifies me. I am scared of both living and dying, and I’m stuck in a never-ending, philosophical loop.
Existential intrusive thoughts (conveniently) come up the most when I am out in the world. Moments where I’m supposed to experience presence with my friends and loved ones become moments of horror deep inside me. It’s like as soon as I start to enjoy myself, the OCD part of me interrupts my joy and starts to wonder if I am real, if any of these people are actually real and if I really know any of them, and how do I know if I really know them? Do I even know myself?
Sometimes, the existential thoughts become so overwhelming that I start dissociate, and then nothing feels real at all. I’m in my own world, as though I’m dreaming. This terrifies me too, but in a different way that makes me feel entirely out of control in my body. Eventually I’ll snap out of it, but I know it’ll happen again soon. The cycle of existential thoughts and rumination until my entire system collapses is familiar, but exhausting each time, and it’s a silent war that I share with no-one.
This is the plight of existential OCD (also known as philosophical OCD). The first time I remember experiencing this level of existentialism was when I was around 8-years-old, at the peak of my stressful home life. I was sitting in the backseat of my dad’s car, looking out the window as rain poured down the glass, and a voice in my head started telling me, “This could be a dream. What if none of this is real?” I said my name over and over again in my head, trying to reassure myself that this life is real, that I am real, but I spiraled even more about my consciousness until I got out of the car and felt the cool rain on my skin.
Then, for a while, these intrusive thoughts were dormant. I successfully compartmentalized this part of myself and lived my life “normally”. I avoided my traumatic past, telling myself it wasn’t so bad and I’ve moved on. Eventually, though, it all caught up to me, and in my early adulthood my anxiety and obsessions were the worst it had ever been
I’ve spent years trying to understand this part of myself. Why do I obsess over the authenticity of my life? Do other people ruminate over these things as much as I do? And is it as scary for them as it is for me? Was this my way of escaping chronic trauma and stress as a child? Or have I really just lost my mind?
It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that I finally got an OCD and C-PTSD diagnosis. Everything started to make more sense. The looping, the rumination, the existentialism, my possessive and restraining qualities, my strange ways of self-soothing and seeking reassurance, and the derealization that follows aren’t just quirky, anxious traits after all. It’s like I’ve had a nonstop podcast about morality, philosophy, and solipsism playing in my mind for years.
I still struggle with OCD. Many therapists have characterized OCD as something we’re supposed to conquer, but I’ve learned to understand it as a part of myself that wants to feel in control. My OCD is a manifestation of years of chronic stress, volatility, and unpredictability in my childhood. It’s a part of myself that is terrified of living and dying because living felt like dying, and for a long time I could not find a reprieve from this reality. I’ve compartmentalized this part of myself until it demanded my attention, and now I can’t stifle it anymore.
But, that’s okay. My OCD part is not a part that needs to be beat or ignored. She’s just a scared child who my adult self can be present with. When this part shows up in my life, I remind her that living, dying, and the unknown are the things we all have in common; that discomfort is not going to kill us; that the mysteries of this existence is what makes living both absurd and whimsical.
