A Letter to All Mothers Suffering with Emetophobia or OCD
I just want to take her to get ice cream. She’s six – she’s a great kid, and I want to do something special – just the two of us.
But my OCD makes everything an epic battle.
My chest starts to constrict before we arrive. I want to act normal for her. We find a parking spot and walk hand-in-hand toward the shop. I reach my bare hand toward the door. I’m not using my shirtsleeve this time. Act normal.
A familiar voice angry-whispers inside my head: Don’t do that! What if we get sick?
We enter the shop, and I clock the number of people inside.
My OCD: There are too many people here. Several of them are sick with something. Something bad is going to come from this. We should leave now. We have ice cream at home.
My daughter’s voice interrupts the conversation in my head. She is asking me something, but I can barely concentrate on what she is saying. It’s like I’m underwater; I hear her, but I can barely make out the words she is saying.
Someone coughs in the line right behind us.
I swear I feel the cough on the back of my neck. My insides tumble. OCD tells me, “It’s time to leave. We are going to get sick. It’s going to be all your fault.”
“We’ve got to move to the back of the line, kiddo.” She doesn’t even question it; she knows this dance, and she accepts our move to the back of the line without complaint. She’s willing to move to the back of the line, if it means that I might be able to hold it together long enough for us to sit at a table in the store, instead of taking our ice cream in the car, as we often do. My heart aches.
I use a hand wipe to clean my hands, because I opened the door without my shirtsleeve.
Has she touched anything yet? Can I wait to wipe her hands?
Act normal. Act normal.
My OCD: It’s your job to protect her. What are you doing? Clean her hands. What if she touched something when you weren’t looking? Don’t let her get sick.”
Someone sneezes in the corner of the store. I instinctively reach for the respiratory masks I have in my bag, but quickly remember that we are acting normal today. I’m worried she is beginning to acquire my habits, and I don’t want her to suffer like me.
We finally get to the front of the line. I flinch as she reaches up to put her hands on the glass case, stretching up onto the tips of her toes to see the flavors inside. Her bottom lip briefly touches the glass, and I suck in my breath (I hear OCD moaning inside of my head).
Act normal. Don’t say anything to her; let her be carefree in this moment. She steps back, realizing what she has done, and looks up at me with wide eyes. I try to appear calm, manufacturing a wide and reassuring smile, “It’s okay, love.”
We place our orders. Cotton candy for her; mint chocolate chip for me.
I scan the store to see where it’s safe to sit down. What table provides a safe distance from others? Who is coughing or has a runny nose? Is anyone not eating their ice cream (possible stomach ache)? Who looks unwell?
My attention snaps back and I feel the familiar brick in my chest as the server reaches into the large bucket of haphazardly placed (and handled) plastic spoons on the counter and adds one to both of our scoops. As we move toward the register, I feel weights in my shoes. I know what’s coming:
The sprinkles. The gummy bears. The marshmallows. The toffee bits.
All of the accoutrements, on display, all day, every day. Open to eager and quick little hands. Open to each uncovered cough and sneeze.
Act normal. Act normal.
I can feel her eyes staring up at me, wondering if I will allow the beloved toppings. My OCD: Don’t be a fool. Toppings are a hard no. Be a responsible parent. It’s your job to keep her safe, and Toppings. Are. Not. Safe.
I just want to take her to get ice cream. She’s six – she’s a great kid, and I want to do something special – just the two of us.
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Friend, is this you? Are your guts twisted reading this? If so, I want to tell you something very important:
You can beat this.
And you can beat this much faster than you think.
How do I know? Because I am in the business of helping moms grab back at lives that feel lost to emetophobia and OCD. And I’m really good at it.
I know that you have tried everything. Backward and forward. Up, down, and sideways. Anything to beat this monster in your head. And I know that feeling hopeful about change and true recovery feels reckless after everything you’ve tried.
Like most of my clients, you have probably been in therapy for years (or decades), and you’ve cycled through many therapists, hoping each time that you’d finally found the one who could help you get your life back on track. And each time it didn’t work, you became more convinced that this must be a battle that you can’t win.
It takes an average of 14-17 years for people with OCD to receive an accurate diagnosis and begin appropriate treatment. Once specialized treatment (Exposure and Response Prevention, the “Gold Standard” for emetophobia and OCD) begins, improvements can be seen in weeks. Clients often experience significant changes within the first 8 to 16 weeks of treatment.
You can recover from emetophobia.
You can recover from OCD.
You just need a very specific approach — Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP) — and a therapist trained and experienced in ERP (that’s me!).
If you are ready to work, I am ready to support, guide, and hold you accountable to stepping back into your full, rich, and meaningful life. With toppings. All of them:
Sprinkles.
Gummy Bears.
Mashmallows.
Toffee bits.
Are you ready?
LET’S GO!
Email or call today to inquire about becoming a new client: Sara@bepsychotherapy.com; 443-470-3124.
I’m Dr. Sara Nett, a licensed psychologist specializing in:
Emetophobia in motherhood
Postpartum anxiety and contamination OCD
I offer evidence-based, compassionate therapy (with humor and curse words) to help you feel better, faster.
🌐 www.bepsychotherapy.com
📧 [sara@bepsychotherapy.com]
📍 Offering in-person therapy in Baltimore, MD and telehealth to nearly all states and US territories (member of PSYPACT)