OCD: Illness, Not Idolatry
We laid the twins down for their nap and I took my toddler to his room for quiet time. After some deliberation, he chose a toy to play with and I slipped back out to the living room.
My friend was over for the day to help with the kids while my husband worked. As I climbed over the living room gate, she was sweeping the floors.
Something stuck in my throat. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.
She smiled and continued sweeping. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”
My limbs felt fidgety as I watched her crane the broom under the furniture. “But the kids are all resting, so you should rest too.”
She laughed. “It’s fine, Lara. I’m happy to do it. Just sit and relax.”
I smiled and murmured a thank you as I sat down on the couch. I drew my legs underneath myself and watched her dirt pile collect together. I wanted to relax, but the fidgety angst rumbled in my body.
She’s sweeping the living room floor. But it’s Wednesday—bedroom day. Living room day was yesterday.
Shortly after our first child, I spread my cleaning routine over Monday to Friday. I assigned certain rooms to each day: Mondays for the kitchen, Tuesday for the living room, and so on. It felt more doable than cramming all the chores into one day. Along with this schedule, I made a rule for myself in the name of conserving energy: if part of the list for each day didn’t get finished, it wouldn’t carry over to the next.
I like organizing and compartmentalizing, so this all made sense to me, and even made me feel a little giddy. It felt good to set boundaries for myself. But with time, the boundary became an obsession as OCD conquered yet another piece of territory in my mind.
My OCD wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was twenty-four years old and a mom to three under three, but it’s tyranny ruled my growing up years. I was terrified of chemicals and would wash my hands obsessively after coming in contact with them. I checked every nook and cranny of my bathroom for murderers before going to bed. As I laid in bed, thought after thought shot into my head, “Curse the Holy Spirit!” despite how much I resisted it.
As I grew older, I outgrew some obsessions but developed new ones. Daily exercising and clean eating became not just a healthy habit, but a necessary ritual—missing a workout or eating dessert could incite a panic attack. As a mother, intrusive, violent thoughts flew at me like a barrage of arrows about my newborn babies.
My faith is the heartbeat of my life, so I sought answers from Christians. “Just set your mind on things above!” “You need to break the idols in your life,” “Be courageous and do not fear,” and, “Take every thought captive,” they said. As hard as I tried to apply those Bible passages to my situation, it seemed that nothing worked. When the thoughts still assailed and the panic still rose, I questioned my salvation. Why wasn’t God changing me by his Word? How could someone as sinful and idolatrous as me be loved by God?
When I finally received psychiatric help at the age of 23, and after a year of undoing the false beliefs entangled in my faith, I was diagnosed.
I want to look at my life in two neat categories: disobedience and obedience. Sick definitely wasn’t a viable option. I labeled my broken thinking as idolatrous, sinful, and a lack of faith. But in doing so, I avoided getting the help I desperately needed. I believed a prayer and Bible memorization would fix me. There is encouragement and peace found in the words of Scripture, and it’s one of God’s primary ways for sanctifying us. But the root of my issue needed medical help, not a Christian cliché or Bible verse. What I faced each day wasn’t a matter of idolatry but my broken brain misfiring.
As believers, we need to be careful that we don’t distill all our struggles (or the struggles of others) into matters of sin or obedience. Yes, we should always share the encouragement of the gospel for those in dark places, but let’s also remind them of God’s common grace in the medical field. Let’s take care to not label sickness as sin.
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