To give your neuroses a name

The space-making act of labeling

I first learned I might have OCD from my hairdresser.

Pretending not to notice the effects of my skin picking was difficult, but not impossible. My go-to strategy was to sit in her chair, fill any sliver of silence with chatter, and hope she wouldn’t say anything as the evidence fell from my head onto the jet black (always black) styling cape. One day, with courage born from the sacred bond between a woman and her hair lady, I decided to own it.

“I’m sorry if my head’s a mess,” I said nonchalantly, avoiding her gaze. “It’s not dandruff. I just have a habit of picking at my scalp.”

“It’s OK,” said Chelsea. “I see it all the time. It’s an OCD thing.”

Three words, “It’s OK” and “OCD,” and my mind was at ease. I exhaled, cradled in the soft landing of language. I didn’t know if what she said was true—if it was OCD or just a nervous tick—but it didn’t matter. She had witnessed a source of deep insecurity and shame, and then moved right along as if it were as normal as split ends.

I wish I could say I used Chelsea’s armchair diagnosis as a starting point to recovery, successfully curbing my nasty habit, but I still pick at my head. I do it when I’m stressed, upset, avoiding, obsessing, and overly caffeinated. I pick consciously and unconsciously, in private and among a select few who I’m convinced don’t notice.

Curiously, I didn’t tell my husband about this experience until a few weeks ago, roughly 7 years after it happened. He’s seen me pick, but never really said anything about it. Now he does. “Are you picking at your head?” he’ll ask tenderly, reaching for my hand. “Yeah, I’m just…I don’t know,” I’ll say. The shame is still there, but the container in which it is held has grown larger with two sets of eyes on it.

Next to my shame is space.

The mind is a sky. Fallbrook, CA, June 22, 2024.

I’ve since learned that while physical compulsions are a symptom of OCD, it’s more likely that I have dermatillomania, defined by “a strong sense of anxiety or stress that’s only alleviated by picking at something.” Anxiety is the key word that holds my attention. Because the reason I pick at my scalp until it scabs over is the same reason why, two weeks ago, I’d convinced myself that everyone secretly hates me.

I was texting a friend when I suddenly had an uncomfortable surge of self doubt. I second guessed my words, carefully deleting, rewriting, and deleting again. Despite the utterly benign topic at hand, everything I was thinking, feeling, and writing felt wrong.

Why was it so hard to communicate? What was going on? Instead of noticing my mental and emotional landscape or walking away from my phone HEAVEN FORBID, I turned on myself like a rabid animal.

God, you’re so annoying. You’re too much. You’re such a try hard.

Because the brain looks for confirmation in all places at all times, I took every delay, every word of their reply, as proof. Yep, said my Dipshit Brain. You’re definitely the most insufferable person on the planet.

I wish it had stopped there, but anxiety insisted I ruminate. I trudged through the swamp all morning, recounting every cringeworthy thing I had said or done in their presence until I reached the conclusion that she, along with everyone else, doesn’t actually like me, she tolerates me. It wasn’t until that evening, when I turned to the trusted Google search that I found a name for it. Several actually. My search inquiry: “Why do I feel like everyone hates me?” pointed to social anxiety and OCD.* Tears welled up in my eyes as I scrolled through the results in bed.

I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. This was a thing.

From the safety of A Good Day, I see the absurdity clearly. First of all, to believe anyone is even thinking of me at any given moment, is wildly egotistical. But everyone? At once? Friends who meet weekly to reaffirm their disdain for me? If only I were so important to have a quorum of haters!

At my core, I don’t believe everyone hates me any more than I believe that skin picking is a good way to regulate my emotions. But anxiety is a master manipulator. I’ve learned that one way to peel her fingers from my neck is to look anxiety dead in the eyes and call her a liar. Every time I do, I move closer to self liberation. I put her terrible ideas into the box of other shameful things and witness a tiny miracle. Because what happens is that instead of overflowing with all my unwanted thoughts, feelings, and actions, the container grows larger to accommodate them with room to spare.

There is space where there wasn’t before.

I did not want to write about this for obvious reasons: embarrassment, even more shame, etc. But as the idea sat on the back burner of my mind, a foundation was laid out before me. In workshopping a message for my yoga students, I found the missing link.

There are many interventions for anxiety disorders that, like mine, cause rumination and compulsions. But if you strip away all the DSM terminology for a moment, what arises is a need to better manage the mind. One way I do this is through what I just described as a retrospective analysis. I have the big, scary thought/feeling/brain takeover, it passes, and then I’m like, “Wow, that shit was crazy and not at all true!” Another way is through mindful meditation, specifically the practice of noting and labeling. And this is pretty much the same thing, only it occurs in the present moment.

This is how I presented it to my class. I invite you to try it sometime as well.

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Find a comfortable seat and begin to ground down, feeling the support of the Earth beneath you. Let your hands rest gently in your lap or on your knees, palms up. Now, close your eyes or soften your gaze and start to turn toward your breath, simply noticing your inhales and exhales. As you breathe, try to notice when your mind starts to wander. Maybe it already has. That’s OK. When you catch your mind wandering, don’t worry about stopping it. Just see if you can witness what it’s doing. See if you can label a thought a thought and a feeling a feeling. Once you’ve done that, simply return to your breath and start again. Every time you notice a thought, just think, “Huh, a thought!” and move right along. Label it, release it, and return to your breath.

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In returning to this simple practice I picked up from my favorite meditation app years ago, I saw the dots connect. Labeling is how I separate myself from my thinking mind, and how I bring awareness to restless fingers that find their way to my tender head.

By practicing mindful meditation, I’m not training the mind as much as I’m trying to become a neutral observer of my thoughts—a nosy eavesdropper. Unsurprisingly, the busier my mind, the harder it is, and the greater the reward. When I can step outside of myself and look down at my brain, only then can I start to detangle myself from my thoughts and feelings. It’s the right kind of detachment. Because once I can label a thought a thought, I can start to “talk” to my monkey mind.

Wow, you’re really worked up today. You must be stressed.

I can build upon the practice too, moving from self awareness to self love. This separation allows me to hold myself in a higher regard, talking to myself as I would a child or friend.

Of course you’re stressed, sweetheart. You’ve taken on way too much at work.

Or—

I’ve noticed you’re picking at yourself again, love. Are there any emotions you’re avoiding?

To be clear, this is not an advice column. I’m not a therapist, and my message is not that meditation is a panacea for mental health issues. Despite my affinity for the woo-woo, I believe in evidence-based interventions like psychotherapy and Xanax. I’ve needed both.

And—

I am grateful for the language of suffering. To label is to liberate, to snatch our power back by creating separation between the thinker and the thought. To name a thing is to make space, expanding our capacity for compassion and understanding. Sometimes, the words for our wounds can be enough.

*I don’t believe I have OCD. I think it’s my clinically-diagnosed Generalized Anxiety Disorder that, when unmanaged, goes off the rails, resulting in overlapping symptoms. The way I understand it, OCD exists on a spectrum. Alegra Kastens is an OCD specialist whose IG page has taught me so much. Highly recommend giving her a follow to learn more.

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A short list of what I’m into this week.

• I think we can all agree that the algorithm is the worst thing to happen to social media, but sometimes—sometimes it delivers. I don’t know how this dude came across my feed, but I’m so happy he did. Norm reminds me not of a specific emcee, but a simpler time in hip hop, when lyricism and flow were paramount.

• The Greatest is whew! one of Billie’s best. It’s a song about unrequited love, yeah yeah, but her sweet, whispery vocals juxtaposed against a cutting narrative of self betrayal capture the complexity of the heart so beautifully. It makes me want to scream and cry and hug lovestruck 20-something me so hard. If you skip this one, it probably means you’ve never experienced the absolutely clownery of desperation and, honestly, I love that for you.

• Save for a handful of random episodes and one terrible movie, I’ve never actually watched Sex and The City from start to finish. This may or may not relate to my newfound love of handbags (or what

  Stephanie Jucar Cooley
  accurately named as my midlife crisis), but whatever the reason, I am IN IT NOW. I can see why this series was so iconic. The friendship! The fashion! The false promise that one can live a Gucci lifestyle on a writer’s budget! Even the cigarette smoke is chic (though you can’t tell me Carrie’s mane doesn’t smell like the filthiest dive bar you can remember from your 20s).