I Thought God Was Going to Kill Me
I Thought God Was Going to Kill Me
on the importance of OCD awareness
"One-time God told me not to get on a plane, so I didn't. The plane crashed and everyone on board died." These words from a minister who was sharing in a women's group I was attending confirmed my fears—that big things, like my life, hung in the balance of my obedience to God.
Tears flowed as I sunk to my closet floor, scared and frustrated. "God," I whispered, "I'm not sure what you want me to wear." Outlandish thoughts such as these haunted me constantly. But growing up in the evangelical church, I had heard countless teachings about God wanting to lead me. I had heard people say that they asked God about little things like what to wear, and that these small acts of discerning God's leading had changed their life. The belief that my future depended on tiny, mundane decisions caused my thoughts to be in a constant spiral. Eventually, I came to believe that not only was my future dependent on obeying God in every decision, but that my immediate safety was dependent on it. My days were as fragile, as insecure as my thoughts.
Driving to work, I would beg God to keep me safe from any car accidents. I've been in three. Those three times, I concluded I had not said my usual prayer enough times. I would beg God to tell me if I should take the highway or the back roads to my destination. I would sit in my car until the clock showed that it was the "right" minute to leave—the minute that God ordained. Any time ending in the number seven was usually safe. If I missed any of these messages about directions or timing or the amount of prayers to offer, I'd end up dead. My intentions didn't count for anything, nor did my effort.
Attending church became hell. Imagined pictures of individuals with AK-47s, and my family’s bloody, bullet hole ridden bodies were all I could focus on. I scanned the crowd over and over for suspicious persons, profiling church-goers who only wanted to worship. I was unable to see people, I only saw threats. Threats were everywhere—at church, on the road, at the grocery store, in parking lots, on my phone, at coffee shops. But the true threat was the god that my fear had created. His intervention for me depended solely on my actions. He didn't care if I missed what he was telling me—he had tried. He would let me die for my lack, for my humanity.
Reading Scripture was paralyzing. This was particularly difficult as I studied Biblical Theology in college. Guilt consumed me as I compared myself with the most tedious aspects of Scripture. Sure, I was exhausting myself with efforts of serving at my local church, loving those in my life, and practicing generosity, but there was still a myriad of Scriptures I wasn't actively implementing in my life. My lack of adherence to every passage of Scripture followed me like chains around my ankles.
I don't blame the people who told the stories of the small moments God had influenced in their lives. It is not their fault that my brain makes everything prescriptive. I heard their stories and filtered them into standards against which to measure myself. Why didn't God speak to me about my clothes? About my friends? About my Instagram posts? Where were my efforts lacking? In terms of trying harder, I felt powerless. I was killing myself, in the most literal terms, trying to listen to God, to stay alive.
My experience is not a solitary one. This condition is a diagnosis called scrupulosity or moral and religious OCD. While I have found that there are certainly messages promoted by the Church that lend themselves to this type of thinking, it has much more to do with the hearer than the speaker. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, in whatever form it takes, attaches itself to what you most value, lending this illness an excruciating potency.
OCD is a challenge to recover from—especially when it comes to OCD around a matter like faith. The only scientifically bolstered treatment for OCD is exposure therapy. Instead of trying to console your fears or talk yourself out of them with logic, you face them. You say, "Okay, the worst is probably going to happen if I don't pray three times, so be it." Then you don't say three prayers and do your best to continue on. You do this over and over and over until your brain learns that bad things won't happen.
An unexpected difficulty I encountered when trying to crawl out of the hole of scrupulosity is that many of my compulsions were viewed by the people around me as actions of faithfulness, of devotion. As I tried to resist the urges to pray or repent or compulsively attend church, I noticed that people close to me began to ask questions and even express concern. “Why aren’t you attending church as much as usual? Are you reading Scripture? How’s your relationship with God?” I found their questions challenging to wrestle with as I was asking myself the same things. There was also an immense amount of guilt that I had to work through as I tried to distance myself from the thoughts and ideas that were killing me.
Now a couple years into recovery, I realize that when we talk about scrupulosity or moral OCD, we are not talking about God. We are not talking about faith (or a lack thereof). Though scrupulosity intertwines its fingers with our faith and can have very real consequences to our faith, it is something wholly separate. The god of OCD is cruel and cold, spiteful and intimidating. It is very different from the God of true faith who is the Source of grace, love, compassion, and understanding.
OCD never goes away, it only grows quieter as other voices—the authentic, rational, healthy voices—grow louder. Ultimately, though, it is up to us to decide which voice to listen to.
If you struggle with OCD or Scrupulosity, see the list of resources below—
Scrupulosity Specific Resource
https://graceaboundinginocd.com/resources/
Thank you for spending a few minutes with me today! It means so much to me.
Catherine