I first developed symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder as a teenager, though I wasn’t initially aware of what was happening. The terrifying obsessive thoughts centred around death were horrendous, but after confiding in my GP, and learning that I wasn’t going to die but was in fact suffering with a mental health condition that could be treated, an enormous amount of my anxiety began to ease.

I was prescribed the antidepressant sertraline and I felt well enough to head off to university. I made friends, started to build an exciting new life and filled my time with lectures, seminars and essays (as well as plenty of late-nights, cigarettes and bottles of pinot grigio).

For years – most of my twenties, in fact – OCD faded to a background hum. If I was particularly stressed, it might occasionally pop up, but mostly it left me alone. Then last year a flare-up catapulted me into such a severe state of panic and anxiety that I felt as though I had become a shadow of my former self.

I had become used to my own version of OCD, which focused on a fear of harming someone I loved, but overnight it shapeshifted into something else and gave me an entirely new fear and obsession to cope with. OCD tends to fall into a theme or form such as being focused on contamination, harm, religion, or sexual, relationship or existential issues. In the space of no time at all, mine switched, and it felt as if everything I had known about myself changed entirely. Suddenly, my intrusive thoughts were angled around my own mental health – I constantly questioned if I was losing my mind, if I had depression, and whether I could cope. I became terrified of myself: what I might be capable of, and whether I would be strong enough to hold on. I wondered whether life would ever feel the same again.

I found it difficult to eat and sleep. Panic attacks became a daily reality. My hands often shook, and I cried more than I had in years. Sometimes I found myself unable to speak with terrifying thoughts racing through my mind at the speed of light. I tried so hard to carry on as normal, but it became harder with each passing moment. That’s one of the cruellest aspects of suffering with a mental health condition: your pain is too often a private one.

Obsessive compulsive disorder is often still ridiculed and stereotyped. I’ve lost count of the times someone has told me they’re “so OCD” because they like things neat and tidy. OCD is not a funny, quirky part of my personality and, for the million or so of us who live with it in the UK, I cannot emphasise enough how frightening, cruel and isolating it can be.

Now, over a year on, I have learned so much about myself and about OCD’s tricks. I am coping better than I ever thought I would be able to. I feel as if I’m coming out of the other side of this experience. As well as seeking professional help, I’ve learned some useful tools that I can turn to when OCD and anxiety get loud.

Firstly, I had a consultation with my GP. Together, we decided to increase the dosage of my antidepressant. My GP also said I should undergo some therapy, then apologised, saying it wouldn’t be worth referring me as the wait would be such a long one. I knew I couldn’t wait, so I decided to use some savings and began seeing a psychotherapist once a week. I was sceptical about therapy, having had some once before to little effect. 

I was able to find a therapist specialised in treating anxiety and OCD. One of my first tasks was to write down three joys from each day. When I was asked to do this, my heart sank. How on earth is this supposed to help me? I thought. Reluctantly, I began to jot down my moments of joy. My therapist had said to me that “the smaller the joy, the better.” So, I clung on to the smallest things I had experienced: my sister’s partner kissing her on the forehead, my dog falling asleep in my lap, a friend sending me a card in the post, finding a forgotten bar of my favourite chocolate at the bottom of my handbag, a bath ran for me after a long day.

After a few weeks of doing this exercise, my notebook filled up with pages of little joys from each day. I had convinced myself that now OCD had reared its head again, my life would likely be now one totally devoid of any joy. I would not be able to recover this time, this would be it.

OCD and anxiety thrive on black-and-white rigid thinking. Writing down these joyful moments started to gently remind me that, of course, life carries on. We can be experiencing immense, profound pain or heartache, but the beauty of life is still unfolding all around us. We’re rarely solely one thing. Life can be brutal at times, but it always has the capacity to be beautiful, too. For each day that felt exhausting and unsurvivable, I started to believe that there would be one right around the corner where it wouldn’t feel so hard. As I began to trust in this, and in myself more, I started to feel less terrified and more capable. Life began to feel easier. 

My therapist told me about a technique called cognitive defusion in which I would learn to detach myself from obsessive thoughts. The reason why my OCD had got so out of control was because I’d become completely absorbed in its content. Learning to take a step back, knowing that these thoughts aren’t necessarily true, accepting their presence and allowing them to float by began to take the sting out of them.

I also found it helpful to think of OCD as a little monster on my shoulder that was constantly vying for my attention and focus. As anxious thoughts fired at me, instead of giving ‘the monster’ what it needed through engagement and performing mental and physical compulsions, I started to try and ignore it instead. Although, at first, the thoughts became louder, instead of my engaging with it my therapist asked me to instead visualise the monster getting angrier as it was starved of attention. Eventually, it gets tired.

Of course, this all takes practice, and some days were, and continue to be, easier than others. If I find myself engaging with an obsessive thought or doing a compulsion, I try to remember that this doesn’t mean that I’ve undone my progress. After all, recovery is not a straight line but a jagged up-and-down one.

Finally, I’ve found a new kind of peace in practicing acceptance and being kind to myself. Instead of fighting with it, I can accept that, for me, anxiety may often be present in my life. However, I don’t need to accept it as the truth; because it is an irrational thing that will always try to predict the worst-case scenario or outcome.

It has also been about drowning out OCD’s negativity by building up a kind of deep, inner trust and faith in myself. Knowing that I can cope, and that I am a capable, good person. That those angry, frightening, obsessive thoughts might be there sometimes, but they aren’t me.

Instead, underneath the anxiety, I am someone who finds the most happiness in making someone I love really laugh, in the bruised purple of a sunset, in the excited wag of my sweet dog’s stubby little tail. It is the everyday tiny miracles that I love best: my four-month-old niece’s gummy smile, a long voice note from my best friend that starts with “Babe, you’ll never guess what…”, the perfect cup of tea, the supermarket peonies that sit just right on my desk. There is still so much to be grateful for, even in, but maybe especially during, times of crisis and fear. It is life’s way of reminding us to hold on.

If I could tell others one thing, it would be this: OCD might be a small part of your story, but it isn’t who you are. You are everything else.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.