It was my eighth shower of the day,

and I still couldn't convince myself
I was clean enough.

In my head, I counted,
"1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4,"

over and over.

I cried hard but quietly

because no one
was supposed to see this.

I was terrified of germs
burrowing into my skin,

making the way to my liver,
which I was certain would fail -

my other organs soon to follow.

And the images just looped
in my brain as I counted,

"1, 2, 3, 4."

I just wanted to be clean,
and I couldn't stop.

The water was getting cold,

and my fingers pressed open
my purple loofah without my permission,

and I couldn't stop.

I slammed the loofah to the floor,
and this thud gives me away,

and my husband opens the bathroom door.

"Baby are you okay?"

"No," I said, "I can't get out."

I never thought I would have to share
a moment like that with anyone.

I was so ashamed of myself,

mostly because I was caught
more than anything.

And that's the thing about having OCD;

it's a disease that demands perfection.

I never told anyone

how much control of myself
I was really losing.

I kept these stories to myself

because telling them would
just have proven how imperfect I was:

Julia Britz, the crazy OCD redhead -

not exactly the look
I was really going for.

But it didn't start out
as a full-fledged OCD.

When I was a little girl,

it was clear to me other kids
trusted the world around us,

but I knew it was a threat.

Every year, life got scarier,
and I decided there was no way

they weren't feeling
the same big panic that I was,

and that was really confusing.

Maybe it wasn't that they felt safe;

it had to be they're just
better at hiding it.

So I learned to smile when I was sad
and to speak fast and loudly

to distract people from noticing
how anxious I really was.

Ironically, accelerated speech
comes off as a bit neurotic,

so sort of a lateral move.

(Laughter)

But I was skilled at hiding,

and for years, my family had no idea
of the secret world that I lived in.

They assumed I was just indecisive

because it took me two hours
to pick out a candy bar.

I needed constant reassurance,

which seemed like
the insecurity of a worrywart,

and I apologized excessively
and confessed my shameful thoughts,

creating the reputation
that I was this hypersensitive soul.

I sank further into the quicksand.

As a teenager,

I started checking and rechecking
every closet and cupboard in my house

for serial killers.

I lied about long bathroom lines

so I could wash my hands
as much as I had to,

often until they bled.

And to the world,
it looked like my life was perfect,

but I was suffering in a box alone,

confused and severely ashamed -

ashamed of whatever it was
that made me crazy.

I wanted to destroy it so, so badly.

Then one summer night, I lost control.

In the kitchen,

I leaned over the sink
to fill a glass of water,

and I rinsed the dust out
a few times like I always did,

but then I caught
a glimpse in this mirror,

which triggered an obsession

that I might conjure a ghost
if I messed up with this glass.

So I kept rewashing hundreds of times.

And normally, with minor obsessions,
I get through with some compulsing,

and done.

But this time was -

it was just different,

and I knew it was ridiculous,

but I was stuck.

And I had no idea
when I'd be able to stop,

or if I'd be able to stop.

And you might be thinking,

"Why can't you just stop?"

It's not a bad question

because it seems like
since we know it's irrational,

we should be able
to get this logical grip on it.

But OCD cannot be outsmarted.

In a normal brain,

when an intrusive thought
pops into the mind,

a person might feel
some anxiety or discomfort,

but they can move past it pretty quick.

People with OCD,

they don't have this capability.

The problem is this thought loop
that just keeps looping.

It's not poor parenting
or a lack of good coping skills;

it's not anyone's fault.

So I realized I needed help.

So I did what we all do
in case something's wrong.

I consulted Google.

(Laughter)

And I was surprised to learn
that I actually wasn't crazy.

I had a recognized mental disorder.

The DSM knew who I was,
and this is really exciting.

So, there wasn't much online at this time,

so I decided to put
my neurotic mind to good use,

and in 2009, I created my blog.

I was going to research everything
and try everything,

I was going to hit it like a broken TV
till it worked or till it died.

I planned to write about all of it,

and the OCD community
was going to have this online resource.

The stuff I read was fascinating to me.

For example, psilocybin,
or magic mushrooms,

they actually relieved
many of my symptoms a few weeks.

It's funny to think something
supposed to trip you out

actually brought me closer to reality.

And as my blog evolved,

I discovered other people
out there like me,

and they emailed me their stories,
stuff they'd never told anyone.

And they asked me to share mine,

but I was good at hiding,

and you get used to it,

and the idea of not hiding,

it strangely feels like a betrayal.

So I stopped moving,
but I was still sinking.

In college, my mental health
rapidly deteriorated.

I needed help getting dressed;

I could not stand being touched;

and I believed my food was poisoned,
so I could hardly eat.

I pushed everyone further away.

And there was nowhere left to go.

I was stuck.

I just kept telling myself

if I could just get rid of this one thing,
then my life would be perfect.

But as my favorite singer
Andrew McMahon wrote,

sometimes perfection can be perfect hell.

I finally caved
and decided to get therapy.

I remember being first diagnosed.

It was 3 years, 10 months, 4 days,
2 hours, 36 minutes and 16 seconds ago.

(Laughter)

My therapist asked me,
"How do you get out of quicksand?"

(Sighs)

Great. Therapy riddles ...

So, we all know you aren't
supposed to struggle,

but I'm thinking,

"If I don't fight, then how do I win?"

He says, "You arch your back and float.

You become a neighbor to it,

and you learn to live with it,
not against it."

Clearly, if he's not kidding,
he's crazier than me.

(Laughter)

And honestly, what he said,

it just seemed really impossible
and totally unfair,

but eventually I surrendered.

I learned that living with your darkness
is not about returning to your past;

it's not about befriending your enemies;

it's about accepting

that even though your shadow
accompanies you everywhere,

you don't have to let it drive you.

Accepting OCD as part of my identity

meant I could potentially find a way
to learn to live with it.

And the more I did,

the more I got used to seeing it
as this cockroach living in my walls.

So, nearly a year of therapy later,

my OCD, it's okay,
it's somewhat manageable.

But then I stumbled across
this holistic practitioner

that I can only call my hero.

She transformed my life in a way
no one expected or thought possible,

because for years, doctors told me
that I shouldn't hope for a cure,

that my OCD was too severe.

The best that I could aim for,
realistically, was management.

But Jane believed
not only could I be healthy,

but happy someday.

And that was something
I wasn't thinking about.

She prescribed supplements to adjust
the chemical imbalances in my brain,

and she restricted my diet, heavily.

Giving up sugar and gluten? Hard.

(Laughter)

Yes, there are those days

where I consider tackling the woman
outside of Starbucks for a pumpkin scone,

(Laughter)

but if giving up certain things,

if nutritional changes were what I needed
to recover my sanity,

then who wouldn't do that?

I watched my symptoms
disappear almost overnight.

Obsessions stopped showing up,
so I didn't feel this need to compulse.

Everything just calmed down, and it was -

it was quiet.

And I remember the first time
that I washed my hands just once,

and I was checking myself, like,
"Wait, do I need to do this again?"

And I didn't.

I was fine ...

but then I wasn't.

I saw my old life everywhere.

In the same way after you
break up with someone,

you want to rip up their picture,

I wanted to rip up my life and start over
because without OCD, I was lost.

Did I really like organizing
my closet like this, or was it my OCD?

Why did I phrase my sentences how I did?

Did I love my husband?

I wanted all of it gone.

That quiet space in my mind,

it just turned into emptiness,

and I had no idea
what was supposed to go there.

My nights turned
into glorious spells of vodka,

which made it easy
to self-harm by cutting,

and the guilt that resulted

was only alleviated
by narcotic-induced blackouts.

I hated myself

because if I was so lucky
to have this chance,

then why couldn't I just be happy?

Kevin, my therapist, told me to pick.

He said, "Show up or don't.

You can't spiral into self-destruction
and build self-esteem at the same time."

So I kept showing up,
and I continued writing my blog,

and I made a commitment to myself

to stop my harmful behavior,
or at least try.

And for most of my life,
I rejected compassion,

which was how I punished
and protected myself.

I trusted no one because
I couldn't even trust my own brain,

and I believed if anyone
knew the real me,

they couldn't possibly love me.

And I think a lot of us
tell who we are from this place.

So when I finally allowed people
to see me as I was,

not as someone broken,
but with challenges,

I began to experience compassion,

which I will describe as holding
your heart with total kindness.

It's the opposite of beating yourself up.

I now see my demons
as simply a part of my life story

rather than how I define myself,

which is essential
to developing a narrative

that's cohesive, meaningful
and acceptably imperfect.

OCD demands such emotional
convictions of perfection

that are so unobtainable

it only leads to isolation.

I suffered alone
because I thought I had to

and because I thought I could.

But the truth is

it's when we suffer alone
that we truly suffer.

I was so ashamed of myself.

I thought I'd spend my whole life
trapped in that shower,

but I climbed out.

And I'll never be free
of those painful anecdotes,

but I embrace them now

because sharing them enables me
to relate to other human beings.

I see myself in people asking for help,

and it's my imperfect story
that enables me to help them.

So maybe the crazy OCD redhead

isn't such a bad name after all.

(Applause)