When Anxiety Met OCD

A journey into one neurodivergent world (Buckle up)

Neurodivergent.

The word has a certain appeal to it. It conjures images of tiny neurons standing up in defiance of a programmed regime.

Except that defiance sets you apart from the status quo, making it difficult for others to understand the thought processes driving your actions. Your army of neurons makes sense to YOU. But no one knows what the hell you’re doing. And hearing “neurodivergent” creates confusion in people who don’t understand the term.

(Not to mention the added fun of psychologists coining “neurotypical” to muddy the waters. Everyone needs a label.)

The concept behind neurodivergence is that some people respond to the world differently.

Think of it this way: You hand one person a cardboard tube and another a kaleidoscope. Now ask them to look at an apple on a pedestal. They’ll focus on the same spot - but what will each describe?

Yeah — not even comparable. Neither’s wrong. They’re working with the tools they have. But have them report to an outside observer, and that individual will wonder what the hell’s going on.

So what is it like in the brain of a neurodivergent? (You know you’re curious.)

Let’s take a quick trip.

You’re going to see how an anxiety spiral forms, propagates, and grows out of control — aided by delightful OCD tendencies.

You’re in for So. Much. Fun.

Take this moment to secure your safety harness. Keep hands and legs inside the car at all times (you don’t want to risk losing a limb during a sudden spin).

Don’t interact with any of the voices. Seriously, don’t. (I say this for your safety.)

And no food or drinks on the ride. You’ll end up spilling something. Then I’ll have to stop and clean it up. And lecture you on not following the rules. Then feel bad for yelling at you. And get depressed. (Which is a whole different neurodivergent discussion.)

See? The fun’s starting already.

Setting the Scene

The super-exciting part of neurodivergence is living with your anxiety spirals All. The. Time. (You’ve seen Pixar’s Inside Out, right? Fear works at DEFCON 1 in our brains.) But choosing a random event for this experiment that a neurotypical can’t identify doesn’t make sense.

For instance, you won’t comprehend a meltdown over someone moving a pen on my desk. (Suffice it to say the fate of the Universe hangs on the precise angle of that pen to the computer monitor)

But walking you through the thought process leading from finding a beetle on the floor to slicing my hand open on the dryer vent hose?

That’ll work. (It sounds far-fetched, but we’ll get there, I promise.)

More importantly, encountering a bug is “routine.” Wherever you live, whatever your age, however you identify, it happens. Tiny insects show up at random moments. And biology recognizes plenty of neurotypical responses to spotting an unwanted insectoid invader in your kitchen:

• Screaming
• Squishing (or enlisting someone else to do the squishing)
• Relocating (either said bug or yourself)
• Ignoring

MY response? Yeah, it doesn’t show up on the list.

So let’s get started.

Neurodivergent Anxiety: Engaged

I’m not a fan of beetles, but they don’t send me running for the hills. (Arachnids are a different story — which is why I went with the insect.) However, finding a bug inside my house triggers a switch in my brain no one else seems to have. Namely, that my home is five minutes away from insect infestation.

That bug is clearly on a recon mission. Every flick of the antennae transmits signals to the colony that it has found the Mother Land.

Destroying the beetle solves the problem in my husband’s mind. But for my spiral? It’s only the tip of the iceberg.

Remember, the beetle had an unknown amount of time to contact the Beetle Colony (which is always of horror movie proportions). And SOMETHING attracted the insect inside in the first place.

At this point, all rational thought shuts down to allow complete anxiety control.

• What if there’s another beetle somewhere in the house?
• Is it because I decided not to sweep this morning? (Guilt and anxiety are the BEST combinations, by the way)
• Should I check all of the weather stripping on the doors?
• When did we last clean out the refrigerator? (No, I can’t explain the logic of this one.)

My nerves start prickling. Anything that brushes against my skin feels like a crawling insect. Without checking, I know my blood pressure’s climbing. Everything out of the corner of my eye twitches and moves. (The muscle under my right eye IS spasming)

Remember that five-minute window?

Yeah, time’s up.

Enter OCD

The only way to soothe the panic building in my mind is to clean. Correction: the only way to soothe the panic in my mind is to CLEAN.

We’re talking a deep clean of the entire kitchen. The scrubbing rational people undertake following a murder. (I’m only guessing; I don’t have practical experience)

Cabinets get emptied. (What if there’s a grain of salt or crumb of granola on a shelf?)

The stove gets scrubbed within an inch of its stupid white enamel life. (I may or may not have rubbed some of the coating off in places.)

Trust a broom to get every speck of dust on the floor? That way lies madness. I crawl around on the floor with a hand broom to ensure I get every corner.

But an OCD brain won’t let you stop with one room. Oh, no. What if that beetle came through the living room? Or the den? Or traversed the entire house from a bedroom window?

Time to break out the vacuum, dust cloths, and wood polish. Because the more I clean, the more I HAVE to clean. The spiral keeps going.

I can’t stop with the desk. Everything on the desk needs a cleaning, too. What if the beetle touched a pen? Or a scrap of paper? The scent trail would remain. (I’m aware that’s not a beetle thing — somewhere in the back of my mind)

Could an insect get into the house through the HVAC system? Time to pull up the vent covers and shove the vacuum nozzle down each one.

See where we’re heading?

You’ve got it: The dryer vent hose connects outside. And my brain says an insect could climb up the hose, into the dryer, and squeeze out through the door. This leads to shoving the dryer from the wall, wrestling the clamp from the hose, and cleaning traces of lint.

Have you ever tried to replace a dryer vent hose? In a narrow space? After three hours of mindless cleaning?

I don’t recommend it.

My husband stepped in when he heard me yelp. Turns out those hoses have sharp edges. (Who knew?)

Living With a Neurodivergent

That was the last time my husband indulged one of my “beetle spirals.”

As I sat in tears over the fact I needed to clean the blood from the freshly-mopped floor, he felt helpless. (Not to mention frustrated over my insistence on needing to scrub the INSIDE of the dryer) He admitted he should have interfered sooner.

But he didn’t understand how my mind worked. At the time, he was still learning to live with my neurodivergence.

It’s been a rough road. For both of us.

“We did not die today! I call that an unqualified success!” ~Fear, Inside Out

I can’t tell him when a spiral’s starting. And I don’t know how to stop them.

But he’s learned to watch for my “tells.” Spotting signs anxiety has taken my body hostage:

• Twisting my fingers
• Plucking eyelashes
• Chewing my lower lip
• Shredding my nails

He puts his hands on mine to interrupt the spiral. No need to say anything; physical contact provides the grounding I need in that whirlpool of panic.

And when he catches me going on a crazy cleaning spell? I get escorted to the couch and put in a time-out. (Never thought I’d see those outside of childhood.) I’m allowed to pout and protest, but he takes away my cleaning products.

Then we discuss why I feel the need to strip layers of paint from the walls. (Logic and OCD don’t mix.)

His quiet acceptance has given me space to breathe. While continuing to be my neurodivergent self — safely. (He knows not to touch that pen on my desk — for the good of the Universe.)

Even if he still doesn’t understand how my brain works.

Look, Listen, Feel

If you have someone neurodivergent in your life, that’s all they’re asking of you. You don’t need to walk in their shoes, read the books, or do the research. (Frankly, it’s boring) But take the time to watch, listen to the words they say, and reach out when they’re experiencing their worst moments.

Sit with them.

It’s all the understanding they’re looking for.

Hopefully, that’s the takeaway you get from this ride.

Now, clean up any crumbs you left behind.

My thanks to Ellie Jacobson at Flint and Steel for inspiring this with a Freewriting Friday prompt: