When Paint Became Scary: My Journey through OCD

May 9

May 9 When Paint Became Scary: My Journey through OCD

Lots of people have phobias. Spiders, snakes, public speaking, even clowns. Those are all understandable fears, right? But fear doesn’t always make sense, and it can sneak up on you at times when you are exhausted and overwhelmed. Even now, 15 years later, the fear that overtook me seems ridiculous, but as a new mom struggling with postpartum depression, I was not operating in the rational. What was this fear that robbed me of my joy, my peace, my sanity? It’s so absurd, it’s hard to put on paper. PAINT. There, I said it. I was afraid of PAINT.

What does that even mean? How can someone be afraid of paint? Well, let me just say that becoming a mother was not the easiest transition I’ve ever gone through, and it took a heavy toll on my mental health. Living in Washington at the time, I left a job on Capitol Hill that I liked and co-workers that I loved. I’d been part of a close-knit Bible study group at work, and I was the first to venture forth into motherhood. I knew I wanted to stay home, but I had no idea how much I would struggle with a loss of identity.

My delivery was unexpectedly traumatic, and when my daughter was finally released from intensive care, I felt out of my depth. Like many new mothers, I realized I knew nothing about taking care of a newborn, especially one who had so recently been unwell. But the worst part? She didn’t sleep — EVER. If one more well-meaning older woman said, “Honey, you need to sleep when the baby sleeps,” someone was going to get hurt. She didn’t sleep at night, and she didn’t sleep during the day, not for more than ten minutes at a stretch. I seriously don’t know how she survived, because I barely did.

And to top it all off, she had difficulty nursing and couldn’t tolerate formula; my entire life revolved around nursing, checking my daughter’s weight after each feeding, pumping and cleaning the pump. Over and over again, that’s all I did. And one day, soon after my husband returned to work, I’d had enough. While attempting to clean the pump for what seemed like the bazillionth time, I collapsed on the kitchen floor and started sobbing. I’m a cow. I’m nothing but a cow. How had the self-confident young Congressional aide I’d recently been suddenly vanished? I didn’t know who I was, and so I kept sobbing. It felt like I sobbed for months. My husband supported me as much as he could, be he was also overwhelmed and sleep-deprived. While he was at work, I was horribly alone. There were no other stay-at-home moms in our neighborhood. My friends were all working, and our church was a 35-minute drive away. Occasionally, my husband would drive me to our pastor’s house, where his sympathetic, saintly wife would watch our daughter while I slept comfortably in their guest suite. Those days felt like heaven. But even then, I experienced shame at my inability to function like a normal human being.

As time passed, my daughter’s sleeping and eating habits began to improve. I also received counseling that provided a lifeline, but the trauma I experienced during delivery and everything that followed had changed me. Although I had returned to being reasonably functional, I was not myself. It was at this stage, when my daughter was close to 10-months-old, that fear hit me like a tsunami, seemingly out of nowhere.

We lived in a charming early-19th century townhouse, which was not the safest place for a child who was learning to walk. The floors were uneven, the ancient windows were set low, and the stairs were treacherous. We’d begun looking for a new home but hadn’t yet found the right one. I kept a close eye on our daughter’s cruising and did the best I could to keep her safe.

My husband was out of town for work one week that summer, and I tried to stay busy. We went for long walks to the park, read books, took drives, and listened to the same Veggie Tales CD until I wanted to throw it out the window. At some point during that week, I consulted a well-known childcare book for advice. I have no idea what I was looking up, but when I opened the book I saw a section about the dangers of lead paint. LEAD PAINT. Those two little words took up residence in my brain and refused to leave. I thought about the window sills and old floors in our home. I thought about my daughter putting everything in her mouth. Suddenly, as if I’d been hit by a mysterious lightning bolt, I was convinced my daughter had lead poisoning – and it was all my fault.

In a state of abject panic, I phoned our pediatrician’s office. I tried to calmly explain that I feared my daughter had been exposed to lead paint. The case I made to the nurse was less than convincing, so she suggested I wait until her one-year check-up. But I would not be deterred. I needed answers, and I wasn’t going to wait another two months. I pressed, undoubtedly sounding more than a little unhinged, and managed to schedule an appointment for a blood test the following day. I believed that a satisfactory test would alleviate all my fears, and I could go back to life as normal. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Descending into OCD robbed me of everything that was me, as well as all the peace and joy God wanted to give me. ”

Of course, the test showed no significant presence of lead, but my mind had already created its own reality. I told myself that it was just a matter of time before she ingested enough lead to cause brain damage. And since I wasn’t going to let that happen, I had to be Super Mom. My new mission was to keep my daughter safe from anything that could potentially cause lead poisoning. That meant incessantly scrubbing every surface of our home. It meant not letting my daughter touch anything that might have been contaminated, which in my mind was just about everything. I became obsessed. Literally.

People often joke about being OCD, thinking that it means you straighten pictures on walls or love to reorganize your closet. The reality is much different. Descending into OCD robbed me of everything that was me, as well as all the peace and joy God wanted to give me. Every thought of every day became fixated on keeping my child away from harm. I knew this was no way to live. I knew this was not what God wanted for me or my daughter, but I felt powerless. I could appear to carry on a normal conversation and do normal mom things, but the fear never left my mind. It lurked on the edges of everything I did. While enjoying a playdate outside our home – Don’t touch that toy! You don’t know where it was made. While riding a carousel at the park – Don’t put your hand in your mouth! These ponies are old. Keeping my daughter safe was my responsibility, and I was unable to trust God with the assignment.

I wish I could say I suddenly came to my senses and snapped out of it, but it was a long process with many ups and downs. A year later, with the birth of our son, I experienced more setbacks and a whole slew of physical issues including chronic pain. At times, God seemed very far away, but this feeling of abandonment is what pushed me to seek Him in ways I never otherwise would have done. I can’t say that I have some formula. I didn’t suddenly find that daily 5 a.m. Bible study is my thing. That probably won’t ever happen. But I did discover that God is gentle and patient. Little by little, as I cried out to Jesus, I experienced more of His loving-kindness. He would meet me in the words of a song or a ray of light shining on me through my kitchen window. He would stop me in my tracks with a verse of scripture that seemed to have been written just for me.

The truth of the matter is this: His perfect love really does cast out fear (1 John 4:18). There is now no doubt in my mind that “God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” (1 Timothy 1:7) It was the experience of His tender love that ultimately led me to trust in His goodness and allow Him to be the one in control of my heart and my mind. It wasn’t going to work any other way.

My children are in their late teens and early twenties now, and we have travelled with them on numerous occasions to developing countries where there are much greater health concerns than lead paint. One country where we frequently do mission work still struggles with endemic bubonic plague. And yet, I experience joy as God leads our family there year after year. These days, His peace goes with me, and I marvel at the work He has done, first in my heart and then in my mind. I am comfortable with who I am and grateful for the path He has set before me. His love is indeed steadfast. We are never beyond His reach, and there is always hope – even for someone afraid of paint.