I’m 56 years old, married for 39 years, with 2 adult kids, 2 grandkids, a full time job, born with multiple mental disorders, take crazy meds, see my shrink monthly, sober problem drinker, have been working since the age of 15, when I dropped out high school… And honestly… I’m fucking tired.
Yesterday, my Harm OCD hit hard. We were at a family backyard gathering, and my three-year-old grandson was inside playing with older kids. The violent intrusive thoughts surged, screaming that I couldn’t trust the environment, making the anxiety impossible to ignore.
Instead of enjoying the cookout outside, I spent the entire time planted inside, eyes locked on him, trapped in hyper-vigilance. Crazy meds keep the baseline steady, but an OCD attack demands total surveillance. People see a grandfather watching a toddler; the mind inside is fighting a war to keep everyone safe.
“An OCD attack makes you a prisoner in your own mind, guarding what you love most from an invisible war.”
Every day, millions of people wake up, put on their armor, and show up for everyone else. We work, we provide, we manage households, and we take care of family. On paper, life looks good. But underneath that sturdy exterior, a heavy, silent pressure can build up until it turns into a constant, exhausting hum.
The hardest part isn’t just the fatigue—it’s the invisible grief for the paths you didn’t take, the passions that got buried under responsibility, and the moments when inspiration hits at midnight when your tank is completely empty.
And when you finally reach your breaking point? When you try to be honest and tell the people closest to you how much you are carrying? Too often, it gets brushed off as a “bad mood.” You are told to express yourself, but only if your truth is neat, quiet, and convenient. When it gets messy, you’re suddenly the bad guy.
It is completely valid to feel angry when your autonomy is squeezed out of your schedule. It is normal to want to step off the hamster wheel, vanish for a second, and just be left alone in the silence.
You aren’t a bad person for feeling burnt out. You’re just a human being who has been holding everything together for so long that you forgot what it feels like to breathe.
Good morning and happy Thursday to all my fellow crazies. It’s a beautiful day with clear blue skies as I settle in at the salt mines and get ready to take my crazy meds and start a new day. One thing I’ve learned on this journey is that taking care of yourself comes first. When you stay on top of your mental health and do what you need to do, you’re in a much better position to help and support others. One day at a time.
Woke up today and my Harm OCD is already clocking in for a double shift. Trying to negotiate with my Bipolar 2 before my feet even hit the floor. 56 years of this and I still haven’t figured out how to fire either of them. Here’s to another day of surviving the mess.
Sorry for the silence. My depression teamed up for a fun game of “Who the fuck am I and what is my purpose?” Spoiler: Still don’t know. But I’m still breathing, still a grandpa, and still crazy.
Some mornings I wake up already at war with my own mind—violent intrusive thoughts, violent intrusive images and don’t forget the 100 miles per hour racing thoughts, no peace. And still, I get dressed and show up to work. Not because it’s easy, but because I’m still here.
If these thoughts ever feel like you might act on them or you feel unsafe, please call/text 988 right away.