By Samantha Pacaccio

My experience with obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) began in the summer of 1994. My father was planning a vacation to Florida with his girlfriend, my brother and myself. It was the first time I had ever seen the beach and felt real sand. I was so excited.

That excitement was short-lived. My father and his girlfriend began to argue. Plates were being thrown and "bad words" were flying. I remember the girlfriend grabbing a bottle of pills and taking all of them. Even as a seven-year-old child, I remember thinking, "that sure is a lot of pills."

The minutes slowly passed, and soon my father offered to drive her to another hotel. However, we didn't get far before the side effects of swallowing the pills began to kick in. We pulled over at a gas station. I will never forget the words that came out of my father's mouth: "Great, now we have to call an ambulance again." Again? I thought to myself, "you mean this happens on a regular basis?"

She ran across the busy highway, and all my dad could say was "kids, don't let her get run over." I remember my five-year-old brother and me dropping to the floor on our hands and knees in prayer right there in the middle of the gas station. Eventually, the friend was rushed into the intensive care unit, where she stayed for the rest of our vacation.

The handwashing began soon afterwards. I spent hours in the bathroom scrubbing my hands raw. I felt that if I didn't take part in this routine my mother would die. I would force myself to eat foods that I absolutely hated, such as dehydrated astronaut [freeze-dried] French fries. I constantly prayed the same memorized prayer. I was exhausted and very confused. I wouldn't allow myself to participate in the activities that most seven-year-olds enjoy, such as swimming in our new pool. I thought that if I did, something horrible would happen. I didn't understand why I was like this. I thought God was talking to me. I thought I was crazy.

Finally, I confronted my mother with all of my thoughts. That's when I was taken to a psychiatrist. It was such a relief to find out that I wasn't the only person with this anxiety. It was nothing more than a chemical imbalance. I was put on medications, but nothing seemed to work. I was still washing my hair without letting it touch the water in the bathtub. After years of pills and sessions, I was put on a different medication. It was amazing that one little pill could make such a difference.

Years have passed since that summer. I am now fourteen. My OCD still hasn't gone away completely. I am just now reaching a point where I feel comfortable talking about my past experience. In the beginning, it was difficult for my stepfather to understand why I was acting the way I was. He believed I was too intelligent to think that not washing my hands would cause the death of a loved one. But as my family became more educated on the illness, their understanding increased-and so did the support.

This summer, I was selected as a national representative for teenagers across America. I intend to use this opportunity to spread awareness of mental illness: to those who have experienced mental illness firsthand, we should not be ashamed; to those who have loved ones who are going through difficult times, learn about your child's disorder and be supportive.

I want children across America to realize that they can conquer anxiety disorders with the help of family and friends. There is support, and there is hope.