Certifiable Mermaid

My boyfriend and I started dating in the season of cicadas, and it was such a joyous time in my life. My mental health wasn’t terrible, I had just connected with a man in a very unexpected way, and I was about to be on summer break after my first few months of teaching during a pandemic. The buzzing sound of cicadas in the bushes topped everything off and filled me with childlike joy. I remembered being in fifth grade the last time the 17 year cicadas came out of the earth and running away from them on the playground. This time around I was running towards them, excited to let them land on my shoulder, and in awe of their sparkly wings and adorable eyes.

At an outdoor art market in May 2021, I remember manically chasing cicadas while oversharing with my (future) boyfriend (who was also at the market to support a mutual friend) that I had OCD and was coming off my antidepressants for the first time in seven years. It was a decision I made spontaneously and it would backfire later, but at the time I thought it was a good idea. I wanted everyone around me to know in case I inevitably went off the deep end later (and I did, but that’s neither here nor there). He wasn’t phased by the way I blurted out every thought as it came to my mind or the fact that I played with bugs that he likened to disgusting drunk vermin crashing into the ground. Instead, he was drawn to my peculiar zeal for life and adolescent wonder; his genuine interest in getting to know the inner workings of my mind made me think that maybe our new connection was something worth exploring, but I was resistant at first.

When he first asked me out (shortly after the art show) I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. As a self proclaimed misandrist, I was more fascinated by bugs crawling in the dirt than the idea of dating a man (some people are grossed out by bugs, I am repulsed by misogyny). But the more we talked, the more I felt warm in his presence. He didn’t get defensive during my passionate rants about patriarchal doom like a lot of other men did, and he liked experiencing simples joys of the universe with me. The part of him that saw the light in me reflected back on him like a mirror. He too, was a curious mind with a heart like the ocean. His emotions were vast and deep, and the fiery Leo in him matched the fluid Cancer in me.

We spent the summer nights laying in the field behind my apartment, admiring the twinkling lights of fireflies. We made pillow forts in my living room and watched The King of Staten Island, and I joked that I was just as mentally ill and self deprecating as Pete Davidson playing himself. As the nights cooled down and fall emerged, we cuddled up with my cat (the infamous Gus), binging You and Criminal Minds right in time for spooky season. Then fall turned into winter and we kept each other warm, even when my mental health began to decline.

When the days got darker and colder my OCD got louder again and I realized that coming off of my medicine earlier in the year wasn’t the best idea. I was embarrassed for him to see a new side of me, one that was less joyful and curious. I was often tearful and afraid of my own thoughts, and I didn’t want to let him into that part of my world. Even so, he wouldn’t let me push him away and he took the time to learn about OCD. He came to understand the disorder very well, making sure not to engage in behaviors that fuel it more. He respected my space when I needed it, encouraged me to stick with therapy, and reminded me that he was there to support me.

In January of 2022 we stopped seeing each other as often on the weekends because I temporarily moved in with my parents. I was in the process of weaning onto a new psychiatric medication for my OCD and I wanted the comfort of my family around me. We weren’t ready to meet each other’s parents so to stay in touch we played Connect Four on our phones with each other and he even drove 30 minutes out of his way to visit me on my lunch break at work. He had made clear from the beginning that he wanted to see our connection grow for the long haul, and I was starting to really believe him.

Things got really real in the early spring of 2022. My OCD had reached a tipping point and the new medications were not helping. I checked myself into the hospital at the advice of my therapist, who was scared I might harm myself. My boyfriend was both worried and surprised but he didn’t run. In fact, he did the opposite. He introduced himself to my parents while I was in treatment and they had dinner without me! Luckily they all got along great, and my parents loved him right away. He proved that he was dedicated to loving me while I was going through the hardest time of my life, showing up to visiting hours in the hospital and making sure to call the ward’s “payphone” twice a day to remind me that I wasn’t a burden; I felt like one.

When I checked out of the hospital, I still felt like I was at the bottom of a murky pool, where everyone else was on the outside watching me sink further below the surface. My vision was cloudy and I felt like I still couldn’t breath. I would swim up briefly for air and get a peak of the sunlight before getting pulled back down by the weight of my contaminated thoughts. I was still trialing different medications, and going through withdrawal from others that weren’t working. There were brief realizations that I might make it out of this pain alive, but more often I felt like I was drowning. My boyfriend was like a scuba diver, sitting at the bottom with me until I could find my way back up. He reminded me that my healing would not be linear, but a series of coming back to the surface and sinking down; I would always float back up to the top.

As the summer passed I worked with the first psychiatrist that I really trusted. It took time but after months of trying, we found medications that began to give me some relief from my painful obsessions. I started getting glimpses of me, the exuberant, bug loving, Mariah Carey obsessed, Cancer extraordinaire. My boyfriend was there when I found my boisterous laugh again, especially when we watched the only show that seemed non-triggering to me… Wife Swap! Most other shows brought up my existential doom in some way, but this show somehow managed to give me a break from my OCD. We laid in bed hysterically cackling at the early 2000’s reality TV show, tickled by the oddities of the opposing families. It felt really good to laugh again, and even better to be laughing with him.

Now it’s fall 2022, and we have transitioned from Wife Swap to 90 Day Fiance. We decided to move in together in Gus’s apartment (the cat allows us to be his roommates), and it feels so much cozier with the three of us. I feel a genuine sense of joy even though my mental health is a daily effort, and sometimes a struggle. I am working really hard to stick with my therapy and medication regimens, and having such a supportive partner has helped me stay motivated. I am responsible for my own mental health and managing my OCD, but I have realized that I deserve love despite having a mental illness and I am ready to accept it abundantly.

Finding love with a man was not something I ever imagined, especially in the midst of an illness (and a patriarchal society). Going through such a tough time with him by my side made it clear that we didn’t have a lustful relationship that would burn out quickly; we were building a love that would re-bloom like echinacea seeds do every summer, slow and steady. I don’t know how our love will evolve but right now I am thankful for everything we have. I have a partner in joy, struggle, and especially in laughter. I do hope that when the 17 year cicadas return he will be shaking his head and smiling at me as I chase after them once again.