Men vs Therapy

by Alex Murphy

Mental Health Services available to the AU community can be found here. The National Mental Health Crisis Lifeline is 9-8-8

Society has made me this way. Shit, it has made us all this way. Men do not talk about their feelings. They just simply don’t. We never cry until we laugh. We never laugh until we cry. We never seek help when we are alone. We never consult one another. We never feel like it is okay to say that something is wrong. We want nothing more than to run away from the problem until it comes back to bite us in the ass. Some call us strong, I call us stubborn. Some call us stupid, I call us ashamed.

All my life I have been coming to terms with my anxiety induced tendencies. Obsessive compulsive disorder has ruled over me as if it were a parasite leaching onto me. Every intrusive thought haunts me. Did I lock the door behind me? Did I straighten my clothes that hang within my closet inside that locked door? Did I dust the bathroom floor off enough to remove the curly hair or shoe prints? Did I wash the dishes to my satisfaction? Did I shut the door of the refrigerator too hard to knock down that damn mustard bottle again? Did I set the temperature too warm or too cold that my posters, jerseys, and wall art will be lying on the ground the next time I step in? Did I make my bed, so that the sheets do not show from underneath the blankets and comforter, and does the comforter have any wrinkles in it? Did I fold the clothes within my drawers, so that they may not wrinkle, and if they did wrinkle, are the wrinkles going to be perfectly aligned in a vertical position? Did I wipe away the crumbs into my hand from the kitchen table or do some now lie on the floor that is forever coated with previous tenants’ filth and blatant disregard to cleanliness? Did I fluff the pillows on the couch, so that I may return and just simply not use them because I believe that I am in a museum of some sort? Shit, as I am writing this, I am concerned over the order in which I list these obsessions and compulsions, so that it may coincide with the order in which I walk into the door of my apartment.

I sugar-coat the reality of this illness. I have called it a gift, an advantage - a lens that allows me to have a particular eye for perfection and comfort in control. I am ill. That is what I tell people after they witness me squatting down to precisely straighten my rug on the floor or when I tie my shoes for the fourth time to have two perfectly symmetrical loops and dangling strings lying beside.

I never have understood how the time-eating and unhealthy habitual patterns came to fruition, but I do know that these tendencies have gone through ebbs and flows of severity. I recount the beginning of the pandemic, where I first began noticing the increasing levels of severity. Each day in quarantine, I began fixating my energy towards something that was rather insignificant that I thought required attention. It started with the medals in my room, then the clothes in my drawers and closet, the products within the refrigerator, the tools in the garage, even the bathroom and toiletries. I was obsessed with this novel concept that I could control the controllable elements. I think back now to my superstitions that I developed when racing competitively in high school. I remember days where I would be up all night before races, just double checking anything and everything in the house, before departing for the racecourse. I must have thought that great performances correlated with properly folded clothes and straightened items on my bookshelf. I remember this is when I became fascinated by the idea of lists. Everything had a list. It made me feel in control. It made me feel less overwhelmed with all the things that consumed my headspace. It made it all seem calm. It gave me the same satisfaction as all the other nervous ticks and unusual activity.

My father used to yell at me whenever he saw me straightening things throughout the house. He used to say that he would have liked to use a spray bottle, similarly to what they use for kittens who are learning to behave properly in a new home. I used to get into shouting matches with my parents because I did not like the way they placed items throughout the house. I claimed that they were messy. I did not like being out of control in this space where I recharged. It seemed cluttered to me. It left me unsettled when I went to bed some nights. My girlfriend has grown impatient with me. I am often late to arrive at her house for family dinners because of a distraction. We are usually in a hurry because I need to perfect something that may seem insignificant to literally everyone else in the world. I get frustrated with her when she rushes me. I get hit with this wave of nausea when I cannot satisfy a compulsion. I give her credit for being rather patient with me, so I know it has gotten bad when she gets angry with me. She has recommended I seek help from someone who I can talk to. I always tell her that I do not need it when I can always talk to her. She tells me that she is not qualified and that I need a professional. I tell her that doctors are worthless and only want my money. The conversation ends.

I swore to myself that I got better after my first year of college. Everyone jokingly wished a messy roommate upon me (or at least I hope they were joking). They always said it would be good for me. This problem I have does not go unnoticed. Everyone I know on a personal level is aware that I am ill. I went off for my first year of school to only be graced with what everyone wished upon me. I struggled to coexist with someone who had conflicting habits of cleanliness. I woke up every morning more and more anxious with the clutter that lay beside me. Long story short, it was a difficult year. It affected my racing, my decision-making, and my personal relationships. The combination of a mentally ill male with OCD mixed with the average male college student was not ideal, but I persevered and thought to myself that it was a remedy in my recovery. It forced me out of my comfort zone. It made me accept the fact that a fifteen-by-nine square-foot room was no longer a utopia.

After all of this, my obsessive-compulsive disorder worsened, as I moved out of freshman housing this year and purchased a studio apartment. I have returned to my perfectionist complex. I am now alone and growing more obsessed with the small imperfections in my controllable space. I have a hard day of class and practice just to return home and habitually clean or excessively organize. It has become a new normal. I do not operate with the intent of using this apartment functionally, but I instead strive to operate to avoid displacement and clutter. To this day, I remain undiagnosed even though there is clearly a problem, and I stubbornly ignore the reality of an illness that has shaped my life. To all my friends and loved ones, I am sorry. I am sorry that I continually disregard your recommendations, that I continually hurt you emotionally, and that I worry you because of my unhealthy state. I just have learned to accept this because I refuse to give in, because of a system that made me avoid crying for help and told me to toughen up because I need to be a good example for the little boys out there. I am who I am. 

I am a product of society. As much as I dislike being this way, I will always be resentful in seeking help through therapy. Men’s health is too often pushed aside. I do not by any means want to make this about me, but I am speaking for all the others out there who are struggling with something vastly greater in severity and importance. We are taught to shun away the idea of therapy or reach out for help because of the negative stigma. There are people out there who have spent their whole lives attempting to solve man’s greatest internal conflicts, and it is simply going to waste because we are too thick-skulled. I know it is rather hypocritical of me to insist that you seek out help; however, I promise you that I have acknowledged the problem, and will join those who are struggling too. I have begun finding ways to cope with my mental illness through journaling, running competitively, and surrounding myself with people who will support and love me. I know far too many men who are hurting. Take care of yourself, so you may take care of those around you. Do not be a victim of socialization. Do not continue to be ignorant and dismissive. Embrace the facts, and seek guidance.