This piece has been named an honorable mention of Lena Dunham’s Famesick Writing Contest with Girls Write Now.

Confession is to obsessive-compulsive disorder as an emergency appendectomy is to a hypochondriac’s unrelenting stomachache: it feels like the only solution to a problem whose true cause may never be known.

Of course, OCD is no tummy ache. It may actually be more comparable to appendicitis itself. (Not that I would know, I’ve only had appendicitis a few dozen times. And by that metric alone, I have chronic OCD.) With confession comes relief, albeit briefly, to rescue us from the torment of our own brains. We eagerly await the reassurance that our taboo thoughts are ridiculous, and we are moral, or clean, or not closeted perverts. And that reassurance hits like smoking on airplanes probably did: an addictive headrush, accompanied by a stale odor permeating a stifling space and the ever-present threat of long-term complications.

However, like an appendectomy, confession is not inherently easy or painless; it requires vulnerability. Raised Catholic, I first interpreted confession as something that unfolds privately, within the confines of a confessional, following a long, fear-of-God-inducing mass. Only an old, strange man donning a cape-like thingy has the power to forgive me, and only in exchange for my chanting of certain words. Amen.

When I developed the religious strain of OCD as a child, I kept it to myself. I repeated the sign of the cross incessantly, unsure whether I was “in a prayer” or not, and worried my intrusive, vulgar thoughts would banish me to the depths of H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

Around puberty, my OCD transformed into something new, as OCD often does. One unsettling appointment with my pediatrician sent me into a spiral: anything and everything could make me sick. Door handles, takeout food, and (hypothetical) kisses all became contaminants destined to infect me with norovirus or food poisoning. Car rides, boat rides, and plane rides became enclosed, nauseating spaces from which there was no escape.

On and off of medication since high school, I eventually found myself 22 years old and unable to eat or drive or (no longer hypothetically) kiss. The only people who truly knew about my OCD were my ex-boyfriend, my mom, and a handful of therapists and psychiatrists. In fits of crisis, I called my mom for reassurance. “Tell me I won’t be sick,” I begged.

But I never told my closest friends. I never had the confidence to express something so intimate — only the shame to avoid the conversation entirely.

At my lowest, in my final attempt to recover, I began an intensive outpatient program for OCD, rooted in exposure and response prevention (ERP). With that, I finally found my therapist.

I was back in the confessional. This time there was no intimidating old man whom I must formally ask to bless me, but a curly-haired millennial with a nose ring and cool pants. I confessed it all to her: my intrusive thoughts, my paranoia, and my ability to convince myself of the improbable. “Throwing up is worse than dying,” I said. After reminding me that things aren’t always all or nothing, one or the other, she typically responded, “That sucks!”

She empathized with me without pitying me, she comforted me without patronizing me, and she encouraged me to overcome without minimizing my fears. There were no prayers that would save me, nor any formal assurance that I would be eternally healthy, but hope prevailed.

Over the course of six months, I practiced ERP and laid the groundwork to come clean to my friend. She had witnessed a number of my panic attacks in college, but she never knew the actual cause. One night, when she was visiting me in New York, I confessed.

She cried. I cried. I was free.

I felt even freer when I casually told a Hinge date, and then even more so when I told another Hinge date (who soon became my boyfriend). With each confession, I felt less shame.

Nonetheless, I still feel embarrassed that something so simple — so human, really — causes me such suffering. If we explored the roots of my OCD theme, we wouldn’t find ourselves in the pediatrician’s office. We would be children again, and we would meet my emetophobic older sister whose happiness was my utmost priority. Every time I threw up as a child, I had to keep it quiet. Vomit meant tears and screams and pain. I’d keep quiet to prevent her agony.

700-something words in, and I finally admitted it. This is my confession, my writing revealing something only a handful of people know about me. I carry contamination OCD, or emetophobia, or whatever you want to call the mystical workings of the brain, with me every day. Someday, maybe, it will be a passive thing I recall to strangers without hesitation. For now, this is the best I can do, and I am proud.

Process

Writing this piece was like going into the confessional one more time, but instead of confessing to an old man in a cape-like thingy, I was imagining my Lord and Savior Lena Dunham. As a reader of her memoirs and a watcher of her shows, I have been inspired by her career as a showrunner and moved by her tragically relatable struggles with OCD.

I am so grateful to Girls Write Now, Lena Dunham, and Penguin Random House for encouraging young people to share honest, vulnerable stories through such a liberating medium as writing. I simply cannot wait to hear the other stories from this contest and see how we all connect in our search for a meaningful life, filled with happiness, in spite of our inevitable yet unique struggles.