When people think of OCD, they usually think of cleaning. Neatly folded laundry, sparkling sinks, alphabetised spice racks. My first experience was more… apocalyptic. Missiles, bombs, and the very real sense that the fate of my family rested entirely on me.

Mine wasn’t about germs or dirt — though those would show up in later years. This was magical thinking OCD — a very particular, world-ending kind of obsession.

I never really fitted in as a child, but I was endlessly fascinated by the world. I could spend hours watching the stars, quietly wondering how everything worked and what was out there. My brain was always busy — curious, observant, and, as it turned out, slightly hijacked by something I didn’t yet have a name for.

One evening, after watching the news about missiles and bombing, I knew — with absolute certainty — that me and my family were going to die. Not in a vague, philosophical way. In a very practical, imminent way. The details were fuzzy, but the outcome was non‑negotiable.

But my brain had a solution. There was a way I could keep my family safe — a ritual I had to perform perfectly. It was complicated and exhausting, but in my mind, it was the only thing that would prevent disaster.

The ritual was simple in concept but impossible to get exactly right: I had to say the same prayer thirty times, in the exact same order, with every word just so. No mistakes, no distractions, no interruptions. If I slipped up, even slightly, the whole thing would fail and I’d have to start again from the beginning.

Sometimes, even when I thought I’d done it correctly, my brain wasn’t convinced:

Hmm.
Are you sure you didn’t rush that one?
Did you really mean it?
I don’t know… better do it again. Just to be safe.

It was distressing and relentless. Sleep felt reckless. The fate of my entire family rested on a seven-year-old’s ability to remember a thirty-step prayer perfectly — and of course, my brain was determined to check me again and again.

By the age of seven, I was already personally responsible for preventing multiple imaginary catastrophes.

This is my first memory of OCD, and it feels like where it all began. Living it was exhausting and lonely. Nobody knew what was happening except me.

When you’ve only ever lived in your own brain, you think that what’s happening there is normal. You assume everyone else must be thinking the same way you are — I didn’t realise other people might not be having the same thoughts, the same panic.

None of my family were religious. This wasn’t something I was taught or encouraged — it came entirely from my own frightened, imaginative brain trying to keep the people I loved safe.

This particular obsession stayed with me for years. Eventually it faded, but not because my brain suddenly became quiet. It was simply replaced with something else.

Looking back now, I can see why my brain behaved that way. The news triggered anxiety, which sparked intrusive thoughts — vivid, scary “what ifs” that wouldn’t leave my head. The prayers were my compulsion, the thing I did to try to make the danger go away. OCD is relentless like that — a loop of fear and action that only temporarily soothes the panic, until the next thought arrives.