Forced to Do it...Terrified

Pushing through the OCD spiral in real time without a choice

Wheels touch down in Berlin, Germany. I file off the plane with a bulletproof plan to stave off jet lag, orient to the city, and be mentally and physically ready for the event. My nonprofit is hosting an OCD event with incredible European advocates. Am I nervous? Always. But I’ve got this. I have 48 hours and a structured plan to get in good shape for the big day. Hydrate, sleep, eat well, and sleep more.

Nothing will go wrong.

The morning of the event, sunlight slips through the cracks in the curtains. My alarm didn’t sound but it must be almost time to get up. We’ve got an 8 a.m. deadline to get ready and meet the speakers.

I roll over, grab my phone, and head to wake up my business partner, Duke, in the other room.

My phone lights up.
Wait, it’s 5:05 a.m.?
Why am I awake this early?

Not ideal, considering I couldn’t fall asleep until around 2:00 a.m.
Jet lag wins.

My eyes feel as dry as the desert. My stomach uneasy. And the room shifts slightly as I walk to the bathroom.

I convince myself I just need caffeine.

Two espresso pods go into the Airbnb coffee machine. I ride the wave of productivity from the caffeine rush. See…everything is wonderful.

A couple hours later, Duke walks out right on time.
“Let’s go get coffee, we cannot be late,” he says.

Why not get more coffee? I feel great after the first two cups.

I order another coffee…with two more shots of espresso.

That’s four total.

By the time we return, I’m feeling … off. My stomach churns. I’m jittery. My insides shaking. It’s feeling challenging to catch my breath.

OCD kicks in with one of its favorites: emetophobia.
What if I get sick? What if I throw up in front of everyone? What if I lose control?

The panic strikes like a bolt of lighting.

I’m spiraling in the bathroom. The room is spinning. Every part of me wants to cancel. To lie. To run away. To hide.

Duke knocks gently on the door.
“The Uber is four minutes away. We have to go.”

I open the door to face him. “I can’t, Duke. I can’t go. I can’t breathe. I’m scared, really scared.”
“You don’t have a choice, Chrissie. We’re going, and you’re going to have to figure it out.”

I didn’t know how. But Duke wasn’t budging. So I followed.

In the car, I grip his arm so tightly I’m surprised he doesn’t pull away. “I can’t do this. I’m not okay.”
“It’s too late. You’re doing it,” he says.

We arrive at the square in the middle of Berlin. It’s crowded. Hot. The noise disorients me. The ground feels like it’s giving out beneath me.

“I’m going to be sick,” I tell him.
“Hold my arm. Breathe. We have to go.”

What he meant was: We can’t wait for you to feel better. We go now, as we are, and you have to adapt somehow.

But everything started spinning, I couldn’t catch my breath, my head was so light-headed I thought I was going to faint.

I squat to the ground, starting to hyperventilate while sweat is starting to pour down my back.

Duke leans down and whispers, “It’s going to be hard, but you don’t have a choice, we will all be with you, and you are going to keep moving. Right now.”

And somehow, I did what he said. I grabbed his arm, and just followed his lead.

We met the speakers. I smiled. I sipped water. I rode the waves of nausea and breathlessness.
And, I stayed.

I stayed when I wanted to run as far as possible from here.
I stayed when the panic surged.
I stayed when all I wanted was to curl into a ball and disappear.

I didn’t have a choice. I had to stay.
I had to get on stage.
I had to lead this event, no matter what panic screamed at me. No matter how my brain threatened me. No matter how strong the urges to leave and abandon everything.

And even though it was a room full of people who get it, I still felt shame. I still felt embarrassed. Like I should be beyond this.

But I hung on as tightly as I could.
And eventually, the panic softened.
My feet felt the ground again. My body widened back into itself.

The event was beautiful.
People showed up. They shared. They connected.

And no one ever knew I’d been seconds from bolting.
Even in the photos, I look “normal.”
But I knew. I could see it in my eyes. I could see the distance. I could see the fear.

That’s the thing about these moments: on the outside, they look like nothing.
But on the inside, they’re everything. They become a myopic view of the world as you are surviving, all while you pretend everything couldn’t be better.

I didn’t conquer OCD that day. I just had it.
I didn’t beat the spiral. I just walked through it.
And I did so being shaky, exhausted, and afraid.

And that’s what courage really is. That is what we find deep within ourselves, even when we don’t want to, but we have to. Time after time.
It’s putting on the mask. It’s showing up.
It’s walking through the fire when every part of you wants to run.
And we do it…because we have to.

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Coming soon: Part 2 – The Shame Spiral

What happens after you make it through the panic? After you’ve survived and should feel proud? When the world stops spinning but the shame sets in? The next part dives into what no one talks about: the emotional hangover of OCD and how we internalize it.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of my lived experience dropping Sunday.

If this resonated with you, come join our OCD community. You don’t have to do this alone. We get it.

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