Those are the words I often heard from friends, family, and co-workers. To them, it appeared that I was on top of the world. However, those outside observers had no idea of the hell that I was living on the inside.

If I didn’t plan or organize, then the obsessive thoughts would consume me. If I “cheated” on my diet or took a day off from the gym, then I assumed I was a complete failure, or some sort of horrible disease was imminent. The anxiety of breaking routine became paralyzing.

Dating back to my early teens, I remember an overwhelming obsession with perfection, control, routine, and order. I exhibited repetitive behaviors around every day activities like using a remote control, flipping a light switch, or even saying certain numbers. If I didn’t adhere to the loud demands of my brain, I feared something horrible would happen. 

But I never told anybody. I feared they’d think I was just weird. Heck, I saw myself as weird so I just tried to ignore these things and press on. I never thought it could be OCD because that was that “hand-washing” thing that only happened to weird people. Yup, the stigma had me right where it wanted me.