At first, I rationalized the thoughts as me just being a worrier. Then they became too hard to ignore. I couldn’t stop imagining ghastly things happening to my family, friends, or even strangers. I’d cringe as a passerby approached the curb at the end of the block, sure he’d be run over even though no car was in sight. At night, I’d fall asleep but then wake two or three hours later when my brain served me the horror du jour—say, an intruder running down the hall and murdering my kids. I’d spend the rest of the night trying to think of something, anything, to replace those terrifying images. I’d been afraid to get help. I’d didn’t want to hear that I might be “crazy” for the rest of my life. But when I became so exhausted I couldn’t function at work, I broke down and saw a doctor.
She assured me that I wasn't crazy. Then she explained that what I was enduring had a name—Obssessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)—and she'd helped plenty of other people overcome it. I sobbed with relief. There was so much I didn't know about this condition, and I know I'm not alone. Keep reading to see how your knowledge stacks up.