Sunrise

a metaphor for healing

The pain came on gradually at first, a gentle pressure pulsing below my left eye in the afternoons. Is it an allergy, a cold, a reaction to a medication? 

Days, weeks, ticked on and the pain magnified across the bridge of my nose, up to my forehead, always pulsing, pounding, aching. Fog filled my thickening thoughts, and, oh the fatigue. I taught class like a zombie, relying on past lessons and my already built out assignments in Canvas. I came home to sleep while the kids watched show after show. My husband grabbed groceries, prepped meals, took the kids to the park, to 7/11, to SeaWorld to let me sleep. 

Every morning, I awoke in the dark to the stabbing pain, still radiating from that one spot in the sinus cavity below my left eye. 

My doctor prescribed Flonase and a sinus rinse, and said I needed to follow this regimen for two months before she could refer me to the ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor).

This was in early October. 

My mom texted over and over, “How are you feeling today?”

To my countless replies. 

“The same.”

“Still hurting.”

Unable to exercise like I normally would–a strength workout with weights or a Peloton cycling ride in our upstairs loft (high intensity activities designed to deliver mood boosting endorphins)–I turned to walking. 

I live near a hiking trail overlooking man-made lakes and gentle rolling mountains that I don’t typically pay much attention to. 

The first morning I walked around 8am and gray clouds dotted the sky like moody sponge paint. As I huffed air in and out of my lungs, I gave thanks for the ability to walk, to breathe, to notice clouds and crunch of gravel underfoot instead of sinus pain. 

My next walk I serendipitously timed with the sunrise. Ribbons of glowing orange and pink appeared behind the hills at 6:40am. 

I took 15 photos with my iPhone that did not even begin to capture the full picture of beauty. Instead of writing morning pages, I walked out my morning prayers, clearing the cobwebs one step at a time. 

November hit and I was still walking. The sky was different every morning, a private display of artistry and hope. 

I started texting myself a list of the good while I walked: 

1. Ribbons of glowing orange and pink behind the hills at 6:40am

14. Water glistening on the lake

27. A bunny hopping across the trail

The list made its way to a notebook and into my daily rhythms: 

      141. Giggles and snuggles with the kids

      143. Connecting with students after class

      276. Energy for a sunset picnic

Despite the constant pain and crawling into bed by 2pm most days, I was okay. More than okay even. 

Weeks went by before I even realized I’d inadvertently broken OCD’s “rule” that I must workout and write first thing in the morning, before the kids wake up, before the day gets away from me, before a morning walk that doesn’t break a sweat. 

I let myself off the hook with writing and, surprisingly, I was not overcome with guilt or self-loathing. I dropped the kids from gymnastics for December and didn’t second guess the decision. 

The shoulds quieted. OCD relented.

I remember my first OCD therapist asking me, “What would you do if OCD wasn’t in the picture?” 

I gawked at his impossible question. I could not imagine such a world, such a mind. 

For over two years, I have worked so hard to challenge OCD. Knowledge of the OCD cycle brought hope, but not immediate change. With every decision, I used to feel torn in 17 directions, plagued by a constant dread that I was failing. I knew it was the lies of OCD, but they still felt so true. I was still flooded with waves of anxiety hundreds of times each day in a new recovery cycle: feel triggered, identify the experience as OCD, come up with a non-engagement response, sit with discomfort, come back to the moment. 

And I would get back to the moment. I made small and steady strides. But the moment was fractured. Over and over and over again. 

I thought the quiet was brain fog, a result of my mystery sickness.

On December 1st, I finally saw the ENT. 

“You are sick! You have infection everywhere!” He told me. 

367. Validation and a plan

I started three different medications. The first day I felt much worse. On day two of the meds, I awoke with no pulsing pain in my face. I cried tears of relief from my cozy blanket cocoon. 

Then I laced up my walking shoes and followed the sunrise. 

Did you know the weather app can track the sunrise down to the minute? Again and again, I’d step outside my front door into the dark, only tiny strands of light peeking out from behind the hills and houses. I wondered when, exactly, you demarcate dawn from day. 

Weeks into my morning walks, I checked my phone for the sunrise time. I was surprised to find two times listed: FIRST LIGHT and SUNRISE. 

This matched my musings and gave a name for those 15 to 20 minutes of inky dark giving way to color and light. 

First light.

My OCD diagnosis was first light. A tiny flame illuminating my distressing reality. A ray of light in the darkness of isolation and compulsions. 

In the moments before sunrise, each stripe of color is magnified. Here on this Substack, I’ve tried to highlight my progress, give shape and texture to the particular ways my life is lightening in recovery. 

Now in mid-December, my infection is gone and OCD is still quiet. 

Instead of a thousand redirections, I might get a sinking feeling two or three times a day. What if I made the wrong choice? What if I’m actually the most irresponsible person to ever exist? 

Maybe, I shrug and move on quickly.

That means for 17 hours a day, I am just living my life thinking my thoughts, Aly’s thoughts. I can make a choice and act on it without second guessing or spiraling down in a tailspin. I can change plans. I can pivot. 

My brain is quiet with demands, yet awake to possibility. 

“What would you do if OCD wasn’t in the picture?” 

Turns out, without OCD, I am…

A sunrise chaser. 

A gratitude lister. 

A confident decision maker. 

I lace up my walking shoes in breathless anticipation. I delight in the crunch of gravel below my shoes. I tuck my freezing thumb into my balled, swaying fists. I round the corner and gasp at the thistles backlit with the glow of golden sun, a new perspective illuminating the beauty that was always there.

I put one foot in front of the other and walk in the light of day. 

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Meet me in the comments! 

What metaphorical phase do you find yourself in: darkness, first light, sunrise? Another time of day? I’d love to hear both what’s hard and what’s helping in your life right now.

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Disclaimer:

I know the holidays are hard and mental health is complicated and I’ve felt the knife slice of jealousy (and the internal protest of “that could never happen to me!”) when I read stories of other people’s freedom and recovery. But those stories also gave me hope. And I want to give you hope today. 

Keep in mind I am not a doctor or therapist and I’m not giving any kind of medical or therapeutic advice, but here is a list of things that made a big difference in OCD recovery for me: 

• Accurate OCD education and understanding of the OCD cycle, including identifying all of my obsessions and compulsions

• Support/connection with other people who have OCD (going to the in-person IODCF conference in July and leading a discussion group at the online conference in October, monthly check-ins with a group of creatives who also happen to have OCD)

• Specialized OCD therapy –six months of targeted and titrated Exposure Response Prevention with a therapist who specializes in the treatment of OCD (I feel VERY grateful that I made it off the waitlist with the ONE OCD specialist in my insurance network–and I’m in a big network/city, so I know not everyone has access to this kind of affordable and specialized care

• Consistently using my tools (not perfectly)

• Accepting the discomfort/unease/anxiety as a sign that I’m beating OCD and not a sign of failure

• Going on birth control–I know this one is controversial, but my mental health has always been very connected to my hormones/cycle. I have struggled for years to balance my hormones naturally with supplements, diet, exercise, and acupuncture. I was at the point of overwhelm and feeling like I could implement all my tools most of the month with moderate success but the TWO weeks before my period (not just 2-3 days) my OCD was raging. There is a condition called premenstrual exacerbation (where mental health symptoms get much worse leading up to your period) and that explanation matches my experience. I would even call the time leading up to my period as my “poison” weeks. I have mixed feelings about being on birth control long term, but for now it has eased my symptoms and allowed me to make so much more progress with my cognitive  behavioral tools (which is what I hear a lot from people who take SSRIs–that the meds don’t cure the OCD, but help them get to a stable enough place to make progress.)