I've had OCD for as long as I can remember. This is how it affected me growing up.

• I've had OCD for as long as I can remember, and it wasn't always obvious to those around me.
• A therapist confirmed what I suspected and gave me an OCD diagnosis.

If I mention obsessive-compulsive disorder, people might think of a modern Lady Macbeth washing her hands repeatedly until they bleed, or they will tell me they also have OCD because they alphabetize their CD collection.

At its most severe, OCD can fully disrupt a life. It can get in the way of relationships, everyday activities, and even leaving the house.

I can trace OCD symptoms back to early childhood, yet at no point would a casual acquaintance have noticed anything overly amiss. Getting diagnosed changed everything for me.

I tried to keep my OCD a secret

As a kid, I used my security blanket to tie my stuffed monkey to my wrist, not only to protect me from tornadoes but to prevent tornadoes from happening.

Every night as a teenager, I prayed. I was not religious, but I had to pray. I had to get my words in the "correct" order, and it got more convoluted with each passing night, but it was what I had to do to keep everyone safe.

When I was 25, my friend's mother was killed in an accident. I spent hours curled up in bed listing the names of everyone I knew in order to protect them, even as I cried because I just wanted to stop.

I apologized to dead animals on the side of the road, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, even when the animal turned out to be a discarded sweatshirt or piece of a tire.

This sort of secretive, moderate OCD is insidious in its own way. I was so ashamed that I hid my fears, making up compulsions that could be completed covertly — you might see this called "Pure O." It let me lead some semblance of a normal life, but inside my head felt like a battleground between rational thought and the "what if" of OCD.

One of the hallmarks of OCD, and what separates it from some other disorders, is that it's ego-dystonic. You know what you're thinking doesn't make sense, you feel how illogical it all is, but you can't stop doing it.

My therapist confirmed what I already knew

I had been seeing a therapist for about eight months when I emailed and asked for an extra session. I sat down on the couch, shoulders sunken to make myself as small as possible. If I had been able to dissolve between the fibers of her couch, I would have gratefully become one with the floral pattern.

I handed her the typewritten list of reasons I suspected I had OCD.

On the surface, I was simply a client asking her therapist to confirm a diagnosis. But inside, it felt like the next words from her mouth had the power to explain me or condemn me.

She finished reading and nodded. "Yep, that's OCD." That was in 2014, weeks after my 33rd birthday.

Those words didn't fix me, of course, but knowing that I have OCD alleviated the shame and some of the worst symptoms.

I've learned that OCD is here to stay and will likely wax and wane throughout my life, though medicine and therapy help. The key for me has been learning how to accept it, to pick my battles. Most important is being able to see it for what it is and name it when it shows up at the party.