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My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder has threatened the tranquility of my mind and soul for as long as I can remember. It creeps into my brain at all times and stretches all aspects of reality, until I am left in an oddly frenetic world. My purely obsessional thoughts have taken residence in the tiny crevices of my head and my compulsive behaviors continue to take me on the most vicious sojourns from what is commonly known as sanity. I never invited this disorder to tumble through my neurons, so its omnipresence seems particularly cruel to me.

OCD has slithered into every aspect of my life: school, relationships, and even my own impression of self. I am scared to drive because what if I run over a pedestrian or get into a life-changing wreck? What if I don't realize that I hit someone and a witness tracks my license plate number and the police pound upon my door with a warrant for my very own arrest? I quiver at the notion of turning in a test without checking it excessively. And those fill in the bubble scantron tests? Forget it! If the circles are not completely filled in, I will be filled with intense anxiety. I am not able to sit close to my boyfriend because I am afraid that I will get pregnant. I scream at my mother if she contaminates my laundry by mixing it with my brother's in the washing machine. If I step on the sharp needles of a tree I fear that I somehow stepped on an imaginary drug needle. Sometimes I have difficulties concentrating in class because I feel compelled to count to thirteen in sets of three over and over again. My disorder has also separated me from my peers as it drags me into what I call a world of "irrational unreality."

My sophomore year in high school was one of the worst years of my life. My OCD gave way to the hopeless thoughts of depression, and I began to trudge through the foliage of utter darkness. It seemed that every minute was spent obsessing about grades and whether or not I would get into college. There was no way on earth that I could ever live up to my expectations. Everyone in my life told me that nobody was perfect or ever could be. I allowed myself to give in to their line of thinking, but then vowed that I would be the closest thing to perfect. So I checked and checked and checked some more. I had to quell those anguishing feelings of anxiety and self-doubt, and ritualizing was the only way I knew how to do so.

My chemistry teacher claimed that I seemed miserable. And I was. This year in high school, which should have been spent at school dances, trips to the mall and dates with my boyfriend, was spent at the offices of myriad psychologists, social workers, and psychiatrists. My life at this time could be represented by a simple vial of medication filled with the fountain of pills that were prescribed to me. When I went to the counselor's office at my school five times a day, it became clear that I had a problem -- I was very sick with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and co-morbid depression.

During what I thought would be the last week of my life, I hoarded every pill I could find -- the pleasant capsules of Luvox, Prozac, Paxil, Zoloft and Klonopin that should have helped me. I woke up one morning and decided that going to school was an especially abhorrent thought. As I sat in bed with thoughts of inadequacy swimming through my consciousness, I decided that I would never be perfect, so why bother? Then, I noticed the pills I had gathered and decided that I should go through with my plans.

Since school had always come first to me, and I was scheduled to make up a lab after school, I dialed my chemistry teacher and told her that I was sick with the flu. After bringing myself a tall glass of tropical juice, I started downing the pills -- about fifteen of them. It was what some psychiatrists would call a "superficial overdose" but for me it was a horrifying representation of my escalating impulsive behaviors.

But suddenly everything seemed wrong. I had made a horrible mistake, and I knew that I didn't really want to die the second after I took the last pill. Then I called for help and the rest is history. My mom took me to a treatment center for a partial hospitalization program, and each night at home I realized that life on the outside was truly a gift. Being in the hospital was like a wake-up call, and it was then that I finally began to make progress. I was given new medication, coping skills, and I learned to build a new and enhanced attitude. But would it last? Each day of my life is still a struggle to quiet the OCD that nags at my mind. Medication and therapy have helped me tremendously, but I know that OCD will always nestle itself between realism and irrationality.

I truly believe that I am a new woman, though. Although the disorder is always ready to invade, I am learning how to deal with it. I have people in my life that care about me, and I know to ask for help any time that I am sad or struggling. If I could gather all the people who suffer from this excruciating disorder, I would tell them to hang in there and always remember that there is hope and help in this vast world of ours. While there is much pain, there is so much potential for greatness -- within ourselves and the human race.