“I was yelling at Mr. Meanie! He just WON’T! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! I can’t do anything right anymore!”
The above came from my tearful, sobbing seven year old son. He had thrown his playthings and rushed to his room growling like a cornered tiger. To an outsider it might have looked like a temper tantrum, but tantrums are intentional and controlled. In that moment my son was helpless, trapped by his own mind and desperately screaming for help. This is the face of OCD.
My son is bright and beautiful. He can build anything he can imagine with Legos. He knows more than I ever realized existed about dinosaurs. He loves Godzilla and could probably provide sound effects for the movies with his imitation skills. He has a gift for finding the lonely and offering love. He adores his little sister and, though they fight like cats and dogs, will demolish anyone else who dares to offend her.
One tiny part of that beautiful little brain malformed. A section of neurological wiring has a short. Thoughts that feel like his but are not, unbidden and unwelcome feelings, and unwilled behaviors originate in that shorted out, alien knot. Chemical help can mute them to a whisper. Therapy can provide strategies for working around the shirt in the wiring. Nothing will ever make them go away. His whole life will be a battle with Mr. Meanie, the alien inside.
For now, we turn off the lights and snuggle on the bed, his head on my chest and his hand clutching my arm. Worship music plays from my phone, his choice, soft and soothing in its reminder of a love that bears his pain. He doesn’t fully understand it yet, but he can feel it, and his tension fades. We have quieted Mr. Meanie. For now.
The Word Worker 