Peanuts and Perspiration
August 31st 2016
About the author: Katy battled with OCD and an eating disorder for most of her life. She became reclusive for four years before eventually getting treatment. Now, she writes books and articles that share her story of recovery in the hope she can help others going through the same thing. She’s also training to be a dog specialist and plans to one day own her own rescue centre.
I hated sweating.
Nobody likes to sweat. It’s not a fun thing to do. It leaves you feeling kind of gross and sticky, plus it usually doesn’t smell great. But I was obsessed with it.
In my mind sweat was enemy number one. It was the most disgusting of all bodily functions and the one that had to be avoided at all costs. It might sound like quite a small thing but you’d be amazed how much this seemingly innocent paranoia impacted my entire day.
Hot drinks had to be drunk by an open window even in the dead of winter. I’d sneak round the house turning off radiators so the house was like a freezer. In summer, I’d wake early and open all the doors and windows to let cool air in before shutting them all and closing the curtains to keep the house an acceptable temperature. Any activities that could result in sweating such as vacuuming, dog walks and cooking all had to be done before my shower. If, heaven forbid, something did cause me to sweat during the day, I’d have to shower again, regardless of how many times I’d already washed that day.
No matter what happened around me, my body was remaining a sweat free zone.
Or so I thought.
My therapist explained that every time I carried out my routines I was making the problem worse but I already knew that. I knew that every time I had an extra shower or crept down stairs at 2am to check the heating was switched off, I was reinforcing the message that sweat was evil and that something bad would happen if I didn’t wash it away. I knew my fear was irrational because I wasn’t scared of anyone else’s sweat, just mine.
I tried doing behavioural exercises, I sat with my feelings and told myself that my sweaty body was not disgusting. It was normal. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Every time I’d cave and have the most thorough shower known to man.
‘Sometimes I wish I could break all my limbs.’ I said to my mum one day. ‘Then I wouldn’t be able to carry out any of my rituals.’
It might sound extreme but I genuinely believed broken bones were the only thing stronger than my obsessive thoughts.
Next time, I’ll be more careful what I wish for because barely a week later I was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors yelling out various instructions and stabbing sharp things into my leg. Later I’d discover that I’d gone into anaphalactic shock, evidently I was allergic to peanuts. It was terrifying on so many levels. I had a boulder in my throat that meant I couldn’t breathe, I’d projectile vomited at least six times and my muscles had all gone into spasm but despite all this, there was one thought going through my head.
Sweat.
I was sweating and not just a little bit. I was sweating in the hair stuck to your head, clothes turning see through kind of way.
‘She’s burning up.’ One of the nurses said.
All I could think was how embarrassing this was. The thought was going round and round in my head. But then, for the first time it was replaced by another one.
I don’t want to die.
Then I blacked out.
When I came round and was able to breathe again I sat in my hospital bed and looked at my skin.
Huh, I thought, the sweat dried. Not just that, but my clothes had dried too and, weirdly, I didn’t smell. It was like I’d never sweated at all.
What was equally weird was none of the nurses were looking at me like I was some disgusting freak of nature. Part of me had genuinely expected them to look at me and say, God, look at how much that monster is sweating. It would be kinder to just let this one go.
But they didn’t. Instead they surrounded my bed, put their hands on my arm and asked how I was. They smiled and made jokes and didn’t think any less of me even though I’d sweated enough to fill a small paddling pool. My worst fear had been realised but the world didn’t end and neither did my life.
In that moment when I was a sweaty beast and unable to do anything about it, I wasn’t thinking about having a shower, in fact all obsessive thoughts disappeared from my head and all I could think about was how much I wanted to live.
When I got home I felt so grateful to be alive (and so exhausted) that I fell asleep without even glancing at the thermostat. For the first time in years I’d glimpsed a life without OCD and I wanted it so badly.
It wasn’t a magical cure and I still have to work hard at stopping the old rituals that linger around my fear of sweat but it broke the cycle I’d got stuck in. My desire to survive had shown me that I was strong, I had fight in me and I started to believe that I could beat OCD.
I just wish it hadn’t taken nearly dying to make me see how much I wanted to come alive.
