How a Trip to the ER Ended With My OCD Diagnosis

a sign on the side of a building: Red and white emergency room entrance signWeeks pass. I feel like I am always crying. I have no idea how my body can produce so many tears, but there are many. My body is on fire with every breath and the thoughts racing through my mind are sharp and scratchy like a needle skipping on a record. Repeat. Repeat. So much fear.

I admit to my husband this has gone far enough and I ask to go to the hospital. I have been to the hospital before. I know to expect to be there for hours. I bring a book. My phone. I get dropped off early in the morning. Shouldn’t be so busy now. Through the rotating doors and across the hall into the triage area.

I take a seat. I am waved into the room. I speak quietly and answer the questions as best I can, but try to avoid sounding as insane as I feel. I don’t give everything away. Vitals taken, I move on to registration and follow a yellow line taped on the floor to another waiting room.

The waiting room is small. Like an oversized closet someone has jammed yellow plastic seats into. There is a TV just outside the room on the wall and if you tilt your head just right, you can see CP24. So thankful that it is there. I love the news. Love the comfort of another voice taking over the thoughts in my head. With every crime, I can breathe easier knowing at least I didn’t have something to do with it.

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