By Adolfo Flores-Quilcate
I view having OCD like living inside a glass box while holding the keys to the door, looking out at the world. Everyone around you can come and go inside their own box. Most people have the choice to leave whenever they want. With OCD, it feels like you do not.
One of the main ways it works is rumination: rewinding an old cassette tape over and over with no clear end. I have spent too much time trapped in that box, playing the same tape. The scariest part is how many adults live this way without realizing it. OCD affects roughly 1 in 40 adults in the U.S., yet a lot of people have no idea they are behind that glass.
The most frustrating part is being judged by people who do not understand what it is actually like. They can see you rewinding the tape and call you crazy. The sad part is, so can I. I can see out of the box just fine. I can see the key. I can even put the key in the lock. But OCD holds me back from turning it. I can remember times when I could open the door. I can see my family looking at me from the other side, concerned.
In a sense, having OCD is like being in purgatory without committing any sins, just for existing. It is unfair, and I used to constantly ask, why me? It was unfair enough being the shortest male on my dad’s side. Why did I have to measure myself 45 times a day and keep over 300 lists on my phone of the height I wanted to be? It was unfair enough getting physical headaches and dizziness. Why did I have 150 panic attacks over it and stay in bed all day? It was bad enough when my ex-girlfriend broke up with me. Why did I loop the breakup 500 times a day for ten months? OCD does not care if you are sick or happy. It latches onto anything that catches your attention.
My diagnosis came as a massive surprise in April of this year. At first I told myself I was not sick. That denial eventually gave way to a bigger realization: the diagnosis was a blessing in disguise. My whole life I thought something was wrong with me, that I was defective. Then it clicked. That was not me. That was my OCD. All those days measuring myself and writing lists — that was my OCD. Checking my oxygen levels every 20 minutes during panic attacks over a headache — that was my OCD. Checking her social media and ruminating for hours on what could have been — that was my OCD.
My relationship with OCD is a lot like a long marriage between two people who do not really get along anymore. The arguments are endless and usually petty: ruminating all day on why I did not study harder, or believing that if I drink out of a certain cup my family will die. Most of the time I would rather just think about the cold beer after my shift or watching the game than keep listening to the nagging.
When I walked into therapy on February 22, 2026, the tape was still running on overdrive. Like a lot of people, I was stubborn about getting help. Four months in, three times a week, my therapist helped me see what I was doing to myself. I was like a guy standing under a coconut tree, shaking it until a coconut fell and hit me in the head, then complaining about the headache and going right back to shake the tree again.
I started treating intrusive thoughts like an unwanted knock on the door. Sometimes a knock is good: Aunt Peppy with a pie, a friend wanting to swim, the girl next door. Intrusive thoughts are more like the annoying neighbor complaining about noise, or kids ding-dong-ditching. We cannot control who knocks. We can control who we answer and who we let inside. Now when a thought shows up — “My ex has replaced me” — I label it for what it is: an intrusive thought, a fear of replacement. Then I move on. Leaning into the fear or accepting “maybe, maybe not” became useful tools.
Working on OCD is the hardest thing I have ever done. I have lost 65 pounds and gone to community college with 57-year-old accountants while my friends partied. ERP is no joke. I still remember some of the worst exposures: my therapist describing a detailed scenario of my ex getting a massage from another guy, or making me write my own obituary because I was terrified of getting a colonoscopy. Doing exposures sucks. It can ruin your weekend. But it sucks more to stay trapped in the glass box while the world passes you by.
I am only 19, and this is just the beginning. My goal is to start an OCD awareness club at my university and one day speak to people who feel like there is no hope. If you are struggling, take the first step: therapy, a support group, anything. It takes time and a lot of exposure, but healing is possible.
You are not alone. You are not your OCD. You are uniquely yourself, and you hold the key to that glass box. Do not let your OCD rule you. Rule your OCD.
Adolfo Flores-Quilcate is a 20-year-old college student at FIU who hopes to become an OCD advocate and create an OCD awareness and mental health club at FIU this upcoming semester. He was diagnosed early 2026 and is hopeful for the future of OCD awareness.
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