Reassurance Seeking 11/24:
From the journal November 2024:
Something I don’t often share with the world is the reality of my struggle—not just with anxiety and depression, but with a particularly relentless form of it that has nested itself in my life these last three years: obsessive-compulsive disorder. For me, OCD manifests in the form of intrusive thoughts, those oppressive specters that loom large and unyielding, demanding my attention at the most inopportune times. Lately, I’ve been fighting these thoughts with a fervor that leaves me exhausted, and all too recently, I allowed myself to be swept away—taking a ride down to hell and back again, again and again. It feels worse this time, and I can’t quite pinpoint why. Is it the shifting landscape of my medication, the sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger for nourishment, or the absence of a creative spark? What frightens me most is the relentless hammering of the thought that I am not enough—a belief that echoes in the hollows of my mind.
There’s a particular behavior of mine that arises in these moments of anxiety, a habit I’ve come to know as reassurance seeking. When the anxiety stirs, it triggers a cascade of intrusive thoughts, many of which are tangled in fears of abandonment. This cycle is a cruel echo of past traumas, the remnants of relationships that scarred me deeply, leaving me to ruminate endlessly on my worst fears. I often craft elaborate scenarios that play out these fears with an unsettling realism, as if rehearsing for a tragedy that is yet to unfold. It’s a misguided attempt to prepare for pain—because I have been blindsided before, and those experiences taught me that trust can be a fragile illusion. Yet, when the intrusive thoughts spiral, they jumble my understanding, and if I don’t catch them before they morph into full-blown rumination, I risk believing in the very fabrications of my mind.
However, I’ve learned that seeking reassurance is a double-edged sword. Each time I indulge in that craving for comfort, I inadvertently fuel the cycle, igniting an obsession that leaves me feeling incapable of making even the simplest decisions without that external validation. The cognitive behavioral therapy I’ve undergone, particularly exposure and response therapy, has introduced me to this harsh reality: I must confront my triggers, endure the discomfort, and resist the urge to seek reassurance. It’s a grueling process, one that reveals the stark parallels between OCD and addiction; the craving for that compulsion may feel all-consuming, but it does pass. I just have to ride the waves, employing the tools I’ve learned to help me weather the storm.
Yet, life is unpredictable, and sometimes unexpected triggers emerge—like the existential dread that comes with living in a world where rights feel precarious. This new layer of anxiety has opened floodgates within me, unlocking a level of reassurance seeking I didn’t know I had. I share this not for sympathy, nor for pity, but because vulnerability is part of my artistic journey. If I am to be an artist who invites honesty to the table, I must also be willing to expose the parts of me that feel raw and unpolished.
I understand that revealing my struggles may induce discomfort in others, and the fear of judgment looms large. But it’s essential for me not to hide who I am. This is not the entirety of my being; it is simply a fragment—one that has taken center stage for now. I recognize that some may view my behavior as strange, and I offer this explanation not as an excuse but as context, a way to foster understanding for those who may not grasp the intricacies of what others endure. By speaking out, I hope not only to illuminate my own path but also to let someone else know they are not alone in their struggles. In the end, we are all navigating our complexities, and perhaps, in sharing our stories, we can find solace in the connections we forge.
