My experience of OCD started when I was eight years old. I had a particular fear of wetting myself. Always paranoid that I needed the toilet, I embarked on a new routine of going on the hour, every hour. On long car journeys, I would beg my parents to stop every half hour so I could find a public bathroom. 

A few years passed by and my obsession with my bladder control subsided to a new one: my sexuality. Aged around 14, I became fixated on whether I was gay or not. The questions of identity are all mixed up with the average normal teen anxiety, so I felt this to be a normal motion of adolescence. What was strange was my way of thinking about it. I felt dread, with a compulsive need to painstakingly analyse every single thought that passed me by. 

There was no logical reason for my fear; this was the hold of my condition. It is not the subject you are obsessed with that is the problem, it is the way you think about it. I know now that I could live a healthy, fulfilling, happy life with any partner, man or woman. What was crushing my mind was the absolute need to confirm what my sexuality was. Of course, most people are never really sure, but my mind would not rest until I knew. There was a mysterious angst surrounding it, not being able to work out quite why I was so scared and why it even mattered. 

It was not until I attended university that I felt I had to confront the reality of my sex life. Before, I had just assumed that things would work out; I would organically meet a boyfriend or girlfriend and those questions would be answered. Yet as I started passing the ages of 20, 21, 22, I could no longer ignore the fact that I hadn’t had as much as a romantic dalliance. 

OCD is a master at telling you it is not actually OCD, that your exhausting self-doubt is real and therefore you should be a slave to it. Only on reflection, I can finally see what was happening. I couldn’t start flirting or even consider pursuing someone because I didn’t know who I was. Every encounter with someone I fancied was plagued by doubts: you don’t actually like them, you’re only pretending, you’re in denial, they would never be interested in you anyway, you’re wasting your time. 

Although it seems obvious now, it wasn’t until I’d left university and I was having a conversation with a friend. She suggested that the reason I wasn’t having any luck with my love life was probably because of this anxiety. “Really? Do you think that could be the case?” “Er, duh!” she replied. (This friend is one of my biggest lifelines when it has come to dealing with my OCD; she is a huge advocate for the cause and has an amazing podcast with her sister unpacking the different experiences of the condition called On Repeat.)

It is always a big step to finally confront the fact you are dealing with a mental health condition and need to seek help. My condition – and I can imagine this is a common experience – had convinced me that these intrusive thoughts were real, and I was therefore not in need of medical support. OCD tells you that you deserve to be putting yourself through this mental torture and should not waste NHS time and resources. But at this time, I was 24 years old and exhausted. 

My mum accompanied me to a GP appointment where I explained what had been happening. Thankfully he understood immediately and referred me to a course of cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and prescribed the medication Sertraline. It felt like a small light was starting to appear on the horizon.  

I discovered that what I was struggling with had a name: sexual orientation OCD, also known as SO-OCD. My therapist, who helped me with this diagnosis, was excellent and I gained so much from our sessions. My medication has also played a pivotal role in giving my brain the space it needs to see life clearly and put things into perspective. 

However, there hasn’t been a fairy tale ending. Dating in my 30s can still be an ordeal. If I fancy someone, I have compulsions to analyse my feelings and confirm if they are genuine. It becomes so hard to relax and sink into a connection with someone as my internal anxiety seeps out and I put up barriers around exploring anything. 

I’ve lived with SO-OCD for around 17 years, and what I’ve learned is that it ebbs and flows. 

I finally felt some kind of peace when I realised it’s something I have to manage rather than cure. For some people, OCD turns up in their lives, an unexpected and unwanted visitor, but then it begins to subside. For me, I might always have to live with the illness. That doesn’t mean I can’t be happy, form meaningful relationships and have wonderful experiences. 

I have dark periods – sometimes days, sometimes weeks – where I don’t see a way out of this internalised prison. I become enclosed into a routine of doubt, convincing myself that romantic love is just not for me, that I will always be this way.

However, I sit here now having practised what I learned in therapy and I’ve grown in confidence. It has not been an upward trajectory, but it feels like I could get there. I want to tell anyone who has also experienced this darkness that no matter how hopeless you feel right now, you will get through it and it will be OK again. There is always light.

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.

Images: courtesy of Sophia Sheppard