Curing the OCD Mind

By Cal Richard

“Curing the OCD Mind” is unique in that it is written in a fictional format. It offers those suffering with obsessive-compulsive disorder with imperative information that is unknown to most of the public at large.  For instance, OCD individuals are generally told their illness is incurable, which is untrue. Typically, fiction books are written to entertain or to stimulate the imagination. Here, the author’s principal purpose is to provide the reader with truth and to reveal unfounded OCD theories, treatments, and research studies. 

The reader will become immersed in the journey of Bruce Waylon through his fears, failures, and triumphs, as he seeks and finds the only cure to his hideous mental illness. Waylon then devotes his life to informing everyone with OCD and the global mental health community of the cure. The cure is real, not fictional. The content contains forty-eight years of the author’s true-life study of OCD, including the false and misleading information about it that is promoted by the pharmaceutical industry, governmental agencies, mental health clinics, some psychiatrists, and others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Dec 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977271488

Cal Richard

Cal Richard is a US Navy Veteran, having served as a helicopter aircrewman aboard the aircraft carrier USS Intrepid. He is a retired attorney and has teaching and administrative experience at the elementary, middle school, and high school levels. He also taught business law at the college level. For over four decades, Cal has studied obsessive-compulsive disorder and the manner in which it is currently treated. He has met with psychiatrists, other mental health professionals, and OCD victims, and has acquired a comprehensive knowledge of the complexities of the mental disorder. Cal has two adult sons and lives in Arizona with his wife. 

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Curing the OCD Mind

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 Cal Richard

v2.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2023913571

Cover Photo © 2024 www.gettyimages.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the OP logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This book is dedicated to my wife, Sandal, and all OCD sufferers in the world.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

The monster that dwelled within my unconscious mind was hidden from me that brisk September morning in Massachusetts when my mother brought me to my first day of school. It was the year I was taught to write my name, Bruce Waylon. The underlying cause of my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) had occurred years before.

OCD struck me without warning two years after I earned my PhD in psychology. At that time, I was on summer vacation from my work as a school psychologist in the Worcester Public Schools. It was a Saturday. My wife, Cecelia, was away at her mother’s. We had just bought a new home in Lunenburg. The bi-fold closet door in our bedroom needed adjustment. Engaging in do-it-yourself projects furnished me with interesting challenges. The project was near its end. All that needed to be done was to install the two remaining screws on the closet door guide. As I picked up the first screw, a repulsive, intrusive thought flooded my mind. If you install the screw you are holding, your mother will die. The thought felt perverse, but credible. I picked up the other screw. A similar thought followed. If you use this screw, you will die of cancer. Terror and bewilderment took control of my mind. I chose the screw that spared my mother. This event heralded in a continuous flow of tormenting obsessions and compulsions, which left me with fear, doubt, guilt, and shame.

The images were too powerful to disregard. They came with incredible force. Week after week, they terrorized me. I shared all of them with Cecilia. My purpose was to find reassurance. One day, Cecelia said, Have you considered seeking some help?

Like where?

Like going to a psychiatrist.

I’m not crazy, honey.

You talk like you are, she said angrily.

Again, I said, this time slowly, I am not crazy. I just can’t get these damn ideas out of my head.

But if you keep this up, you’ll drive me crazy!

The bizarre thoughts ruled my life. My work was affected, along with my sleep. Eating became difficult. I was compelled to chew in certain ways or some harm would come to me or someone else. My social life ended. I sensed and feared that the illness threatened my marriage, my employment, and possibly my sanity.

The thoughts were always painful, filled with doom and horrifying emotions. They took on a multitude of forms, too numerous to describe. Most of them were connected with types of cancer. Cancer was my biggest fear ever since I first heard the word at the age of six. Adults would whisper about the Big C. The fear of cancer was brought on in a number of ways throughout my life. In the fifth grade, it centered on a wart on the knuckle of the little finger of my left hand. While in gym class in junior high, panic overtook me after falling off the parallel bars. Feeling my chest, everything felt like cancerous lumps. Prior to taking my physical to join the Navy, a bulge in my scrotum caused a torturous doubt. I told no one about it. During my physical, I was told it was an inguinal hernia. These events were unrecognized OCD symptoms.

Though I tried my best not to submit to the force of the obsessional thought, I still engaged in the compulsive act to find relief. I tried hard not to seek reassurance from Cecilia, but couldn’t. So many other thoughts began to emerge: being perfect, harming others, avoiding contamination, and having lascivious sexual and religious images. All were intrusive and irrational. Most of the obsessions demanded a compulsive act. Others caused me to painfully ruminate for hours, days, or weeks. I could go on, but anyone with a genuine case of OCD knows exactly what I’m trying to describe. OCD has to be experienced to truly know its pernicious ways.

Despite my hard-fought attempts to challenge the invasive thoughts, they won each round. Lacking the will—no, the capacity—to carry on, I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist in Concord. Cecelia chose not to accompany me. A feeling of optimism filled me during the thirty-minute drive. Dr. Paul Thomas’ down­town office was on the second floor. After describing my symptoms, the doctor said, Somebody really came down hard on you. For some reason, my father immediately came to mind. Before leaving the office, I was prescribed the tricyclic Tofranil. On the way home, I filled the prescription. My expect­ations were high.

A month passed with no improvement. Tofranil offered only unpleasant side effects. Cecelia was growing more and more frustrated as my condition worsened. At my second appointment, Dr. Thomas recommended that I enter the mental health clinic in Concord. I agreed. After speaking with Cecelia, I called Dr. Thomas to make the arrangements. He said, That won’t take long. Why don’t you plan on going tomorrow? He told me what to take and when to arrive. The next day, Cecelia drove me to Concord.

Upon our arrival, my attention was drawn to the facility’s large acreage, which was lined with oak and maple trees. Rhododendrons highlighted the field of grass. From the surrounding stone walls, a brick walkway led up to a rustic two-story building. The shake shingles and white trim were inviting. We entered the clinic.

The lobby had a cozy atmosphere. Inviting sofas and armchairs matched a large beige rug. Floor lamps added to the feeling of warmth and comfort. Soft music was playing.

Hello, may I help you? The receptionist was an elderly lady, attractively dressed. She was the only one present.

Yes, I’m Bruce Waylon. Dr. Thomas made arrangements for my voluntary admission.

Oh, welcome, Dr. Waylon!

Cecelia tapped my shoulder. I’ll be leaving. I’ll see you tomorrow. We hugged for a moment. After a kiss, she left.

Dr. Waylon, let me take you to see our administrator, Dr. Morgan.

Thank you. My thinking went something like this: At last, I am in a place that will end my suffering. Surely these professionals will fully understand what I am going through.

Dr. Morgan’s office was spacious. A large walnut nameplate caught my eye. It was engraved, Dr. William B. Morgan, Psychiatrist. He sat behind a large mahogany desk. The office was filled with modern art reproductions, personal photographs, leather-bound books, and archaeological items. An aroma of coffee filled the room. The sound of the small water fountain was soothing.

Hello, he said. I answered respectfully, trying my best to appear rational. Tell me what brings you here.

Well, it’s difficult to explain.

He gave me a quizzical look and then said, Dr. Waylon, we need your help. I’m told you hold a PhD in psychology. I trust you know the mind and how to treat and diagnose mentally ill patients. So, please, try to tell me why you’re here in my office. His harsh manner angered me. His condescending attitude couldn’t be missed. After giving him a short description of my symptoms, he responded with a smug I see. He was neither empathetic, nor did he seem familiar with the nature of my illness. (At the time, there was no name for OCD.) He wasn’t really listening to me. My optimism that I would find help began to fade. He picked up the phone and summoned a staff member. Well, Dr. Waylon, I hope your stay with us will be pleasant.

I responded with an insincere Thank you.

Moments later, a psychiatric nurse led me to my room. He took from me all items capable of causing harm to me or others. The items included my Gillette razor, belt, shoelaces, and pen. Also taken were my valuables. He handed me a schedule of daily activities, group therapy, meals, and bedtime. He said I could relax in my room for the remainder of the day.

Sleep was difficult that first night. I kept second-guessing whether my decision to enter the clinic was really a good idea. Group therapy started right after breakfast. At first, I felt a kinship with the other members of the group. But none of them had symptoms corresponding to mine. Discussing my mental illness in the presence of strangers was both uncomfortable and embarrassing. Being a licensed psychologist exacerbated my shame. The sessions were not guided by a professional therapist. The group consisted of people with mixed mental problems: depression, severe anxiety, substance abuse, trauma, phobias, and other disabling conditions. The group therapy sessions offered me no help. Healing was not occurring—at least for me.

My younger sister, Anna, was a psychiatric nurse. She visited me at the clinic. Though she gave encouragement, she seemed to have little understanding of the agony I was experiencing. Anna was noticeably favored by my mother. From the day of her birth, she was smothered with attention and admiration. The favoritism didn’t bother me, but strangely, it seemed to bother my sister. She herself was experiencing some unrelated and unknown mental illness of her own. A few years later, she moved away to Arizona to find independence. However, my parents soon sold their home and followed her to Phoenix.

My condition continued to grow worse. During an arts and crafts session, I was putting together a small model of a wooden sailboat. Suddenly, I was overcome by a panic attack. My behavior became unmanageable. I was given a tablet of Thorazine. Soon after, I entered a state of emotional blunting and extreme lethargy. I felt woozy and zombie-like.

The next day, Dr. Thomas visited me. We talked awhile about my panic attack, as well as the anti-psychotic tablet given to me to calm me down. With a serious look, he said, You haven’t shown any improvement. Perhaps we should increase your medication.

I answered in a hopeless tone, Doctor, I’m not sure that will help. I can barely handle the side effects as it is.

He answered, Well, let’s give it a try anyway. I’m approving a weekend release so that you can go home.

I gave a quick Thank you, Doctor.

Before leaving, the doctor said, If you haven’t shown any improvement after this weekend, your condition might be resistant to medications. Many mental illnesses fall into that category.

I said, I know.

The doctor continued, Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with electroconvulsive therapy, ECT. My heart started racing. The day before, my dinner partner, Robert, began a series of ECT procedures.

That evening, he said to me, I had my first ECT session today. Do you know, Bruce, I couldn’t even recognize my wife when she visited me this afternoon? They told me she was my wife, but I didn’t know her. I couldn’t even remember what my wife looked like.

I wanted no part of anything that sent electricity through my brain for the purpose of causing an induced seizure. Before Dr. Thomas reached the exit door, I knew my report to him after the weekend leave would be favorable, but also a lie. I was intent on being discharged from the clinic. My fear of ECT was too intense to bear.

The next day was Friday. My weekend leave was scheduled to begin in the late afternoon. After the morning group therapy session, I asked a female nurse if I could walk outside to get some fresh air and look at the foliage. She answered with a smile, That sounds like a good idea. Her voice was soft. She was so understanding. As we walked the grounds, we talked about our careers. She treated me with respect, as if I had no mental problem. Looking back, it was the only pleasant moment I spent in that hospital.

Cecelia came at 4:00 p.m. to take me home. Shortly after arriving, she said, Do you know what Mrs. LeBlanc said to me while you were gone? Mrs. LeBlanc lived across the street from us.

No, I don’t.

She said I ought to divorce you.

That really made me mad. I loudly answered, Mrs. LeBlanc ought to mind her own business!

Two days after I returned to the clinic, Dr. Thomas spoke with me again. How are you feeling, Dr. Waylon?

I had my response memorized: The weekend visit some­how did wonders for me. I’m much better. I’m ready to go home. Of course, I was being untruthful. I was no better than when I entered. For some unexplainable reason, Dr. Thomas allowed me to be discharged from the clinic, pending further appointments with him. I felt free. After seeing a medical doctor, specializing in internal medicine, I knew the proper way to taper off the Tofranil. I lost all confidence in Dr. Thomas and never saw him again.

Chapter 2

My employment as a school psychologist continued. But because of the stigma attached to those having a mental illness, I became proficient at concealing my symp­toms from my coworkers and the students I assessed and counseled. Many times, I feared that someone had noticed me engaged in a compulsive act—such as repeating a sentence or phrase when I spoke, or scratching out a word and rewriting it repeatedly. Hiding my actions to reduce the tension caused by the unwanted thoughts made my work more difficult. It also lowered my self-esteem. The feeling that I may have been observed was intensely disturbing. I never disclosed my disorder to anyone associated with the school system, nor even my close friends and neighbors.

The illness, together with the clinical depression it created, compro­mised my job and my marriage. Massachusetts had adopted the No-fault Divorce. Cecelia wanted out. As much as I wanted her to stay, I understood the strain she was under. My constant seeking of reassurance from her had taken its toll. Having proved to the court that the marriage had broken down irretrievably, a divorce was granted. We parted amicably.

Living alone was a big adjustment. The isolation heightened my depression. To numb the emotional pain and loneliness, I sought companionship at a country western bar. For months I would go and sit alone at a table, nursing a bottle of beer for hours. I danced with women to the slow country music. None of their personalities made me comfortable, that is, until I danced with Natalie. She was also recently divorced and had a small home in Marlboro, where she worked as an order administration super­visor at the Digital Equipment Corporation. I enjoyed being with her. It wasn’t long before we moved in together. I told her of my mental illness. She reacted with compassion and understanding. Within a year, she became my wife in