Hi, this is my dramatic essay for NYU Tisch, yada yada...I wrote about my OCD and Tourette's Syndrome, but I was careful to let them know I AM cured, normal, able to work efficiently, etc. Let me know what you think and if I'm NYU material!
Part 3. Dramatic Essay - Introduce yourself. Describe an unforgettable event in your life and how it changed your perception of yourself or the view of someone close to you. This event can be dramatic and/or comedic. The assignment may be written as a short story in the first person or as an essay. Please do not write about why or what lead you to pursue a degree in film and television production. Ultimately we are looking for evidence of your potential as a visual storyteller.
FORMAT: Up to four typed, double-spaced 8.5" x 11" pages
I threw down my pen, wheeled around at my mother, and fixated my gaze on her. "Mom, could you please stop nagging me? I'm trying to do my homework!" I struggled to get the phrase out before another wave of urges hit me, and I immediately shut my eyes and waved my hands in front of my face. I crumpled back in my chair, growling and twitching, trying to get rid of that tremulous, uncomfortable sensation. Once the tremor had passed, I stared again at my mother. Her face was mixed with pity, gentle compassion, and woe. I tried to regain my stony resolve. "Listen, I'm only bad right now because you're stressing me. Could you leave?" She opened her mouth to talk again, but I had had it; I grabbed my books and stormed up the stairs to my room, but not before a final, involuntary growl ripped from my throat.
Tourette's Syndrome and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder were like the maddening in-laws of the O'Connell family. My parents and sisters watched my tremulous compulsions and uncontrollable movements with pitiful eyes, but they could not help but be driven mad with the exasperating obstinacy and endless racket created by my twin diseases. As I would arrive home from school each day, the clamor of noisy growling and incessant muttering would fill the house. My sisters and brother were told to clamp their ears shut and move along; I was getting enough help from my therapist without them nagging me to be quiet. I agreed; there was nothing more I hated than nagging. I donned what I thought was a front of confidence and self-assurance in the face of my annoyed family members, but in reality, all I was being was stubborn.
The truth is, my parents' suspicions were true; I was secretly miserable. I was forced to carry my diseases at all times; the two were like giant burdens, eternally perched on my back, weighing me down with the weight of the world. As I would walk the halls of my high school or sit in the silence of a classroom, I tried to stifle the urge to make a noise, an urge created by ever-present anxiety. Often times, I would slip. My classmates would glance at me, then at each other. There was lots of uncomfortable shifting. I tried to bury my head into whatever class work I could, ignoring the awkward atmosphere I created wherever I went.
Halfway through freshman year, my OCD compulsions grew so wearisome that my parents were left no choice but to home school me. At this point, I had nearly lost hope of ever being cured, and I struggled to even be homeschooled. I would sit at the kitchen table, my father hovering over with the intent of teaching me my planned curriculum. Books and papers were strewn everywhere, largely unused, as I sat with my face in my arms, snarling, howling, and muttering unintelligible phrases. My dad exhaled with frustration, grumbling, "Come on, Tina. Snap out of it, we have to work!" His voice registered in my head, but I only turned to face him after a few more seconds, when the urge had passed. "I'm trying my best here, it's hard toï" another wave of growling and twitching, "ïconcentrate!" My life dragged on in that manner I had finally ground out enough home teaching to pass the year. At that point, I cared little about school; I felt utterly helpless, and my psyche seemed so far out of my own control that it seemed no amount of fighting could ever help me reclaim it.
One warm, summery day, mother approached me. As I sat surfing the internet on the computer in our basement, occasionally growling and involuntarily shouting a meaningless phrase, she poked her head out from behind the wall to the upstairs. "Hey, growly one, guess what? You know that therapist we met at the OCF conference? The world-renowned one we saw give a panel?" I shrugged, nodding. I suppose I did remember him, but therapy with my current psychologist had not gone well, and I was quickly losing faith in therapy altogether. "Well, we got you an appointment with him! You're going to have therapy with him!" My reaction: "Awesome." But the word meant nothing. Nothing was so awesome as the anxiety I felt, the everyday struggle in my head, and no therapist would be able help me free my mind. Or so I thought at the time.
When we drove to meet this world-renowned therapist, in all honesty, I was a bundle of nerves. Questions and anxiety raced through my head. What if I was too far gone? What if my OCD was too severe? What if even he couldn't fix me? But almost all of those fears evaporated once we stepped into his homely, comfortable little office.
Charles Mansueto looked like anything but the doctors I had seen up until that point. He was grey-haired and amiable, the most friendly and peaceable man I have witnessed. He took us into his office and introduced himself, recounting his history and work with OCD. He talked not only to my mom, but to me, always smiling and keeping eye contact, treating me as an equal. He shocked me when he turned to my mother, smiled, and asked with the utmost courtesy, "Mrs. O'Connell, would you mind if Cristina and I chatted alone for a while?" My mother beamed. She immediately left us alone. He faced me with gentle, curious eyes, folding his hands in his lap. He asked me to explain my side of the story. I told him the entire tale, from the very beginning to my current state. It wasn't hard; I had had to tell the same story to countless doctors, psychologists and physicians. It is ingrained in my head, and I doubt it will ever disappear.
When I was finished, he simply stared at me. He opened his mouth and said something I still remember to this day, something, like my own personal story, I am unlikely to ever forget. He said, "Cristina, I know you have been through so much. You don't deserve to suffer anymore. I want to help you, but first you have to help yourself. You have to help me help you. Are you willing to do that?" I drank in his words, contemplating what he meant until I understood. I responded, "Yeah. I think so." He smiled. From then on, I took his hand and together we began to fight my illnesses.
He restored the hope I had lost in myself. He helped me to discover the strength I possessed, one that was buried deep down. He pushed me towards my own demons, and aided me in battling them, but never took up a sword himself. He was ruthless and gentle; caring and unforgiving. He acted as my friend and companion, and also a hard-handed personal trainer. Each time we would face the troubling thoughts and urges that forced me to perform my compulsions, he would push me towards the edge, but let me decide how far I would go. Often times, I would fight back, trying to twitch subtly or growl under my breath. However, nothing got passed him; he would constantly notice and confront me. But he was always understanding of my pain.
OCD therapy involves sitting with your anxiety instead of fighting it, starting with the thoughts that trouble you the least, and working your way up the scale of until the most disconcerting thoughts no longer cause you any grief. With Charlie, I worked for a full two years. It was a roller coaster of unease, apprehension, success and failure, victory and defeat. I inched closer and closer to the edge of letting go, of finally slaying and forever ridding myself of my roaring Tourette's and OCD. When I reached the peak of my therapy, he looked me in the eyes and told me this: "Cristina, now that you've done this, you can do anything. You are a winner." I held his hand and willingly jumped from my comfort zone, off the edge. I delved into the most terrifying thoughts I had tried to shut away for so long. There was an overwhelming urge to compulse, to make it feel better, but not a single sound escaped my throat. He beamed with pride, and I smiled at him. We both knew I had done it.
My diseases once brought me to my knees. Like a two-headed dragon, they had ripped and tore at my life, rendering me weak and helpless until I felt like all hope was lost. But with the helping hands of my family and my therapist, I found the strength to lift myself up and continue the fight until my demons were slain. I never knew I had what it took to get back up until I had fallen down. My image of myself will forever be changed; I know since I was able to be-rid myself of this intricate, insistent personal affliction, I have the self-discipline and patience to accomplish anything. I conquered my disease with all the personal vitality and strength I came to know I possessed.
