Most people believe that living with hearing loss is my greatest burden, but like a monster under the bed, it's the things that I can't see that I am the most afraid of. Obsessive-compulsive disorder, or better known as OCD, is my hidden monster. I was diagnosed when I was thirteen, and I regard that as one of the worst times of my life. People often misunderstand what it means to live with OCD, using media stereotypes to define and determine how they view it, but the reality of living with OCD is inexplicable to an observer.

People see OCD as living as a “neat freak” or someone who's a “germaphobe”. The reality of OCD is much more complicated. OCD is a darkness that, if not fought, drapes over my entire world. Along with this dark net, I have had to overcome hearing loss since and I've had it from birth. This is often the struggle that people associate me with and label as the weight on my shoulders. I have many people who want to understand and support me in adapting to the challenges of my hearing loss because it is more visible and comprehensible, but that is not what I struggle with. What I struggle with the most is beneath the surface and much more complicated and confusing to most.

To understand OCD, it is important to explain how it has unfolded and been incorporated into my life over the past six years. I used to merely consider myself a superstitious person. I believed that some of the things I was doing were just because I was a football player and all football players were superstitious. Though quickly my “superstition” turned to a ritual, which grew quickly into a compulsion.

It did not take long for OCD to take over my life. I felt that if I didn't do certain motions or keep certain things in place, my life would crumble. The problem with living with OCD is that, no matter how unrealistic those feelings are, I truly believe that if I do not cater to them, I will lose everything I love; it's like living on the edge of losing everything constantly. It began as my own internal rituals and superstitions, but evolved into physical motions that were visible to everyone.

There was a time when people would ask me, “What are you doing?”: or, 'Is there something wrong with you? Do you have a tick?” I would just quietly shrug, as I had no answer. I was embarrassed and ashamed of who I was and what I did, but I kept thinking, Is not being embarrassed and ashamed worth losing everything I love?

It took me a while to finally admit to someone what was going on. It was a cold, rainy night on the way home from a workout when, finally, as I burst into tears, I explained to my dad the reality of my situation. I thought this would have negative consequences and implications, but to my surprise, my dad answered back with an exact explanation of what I was going through. He understood. He explained that he also has OCD. This was shocking to me as it was the first time I considered that someone else could be feeling what I was feeling.

More importantly, though, I learned that one is never alone. In America, we are granted the opportunity to be and say whatever we want, without judgment. So reaching out and saying something is always the answer. As I have, I have gained a community. There will be someone else there who understands and wants to help. You are never alone. We are never alone.

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