Table of Contents
Chapter 0
The Quiet Disorder
An introduction to Aizan and Fias when they first arrive in America and think the hardest part will be the cold.
Chapter 1
Living with OCD: The Unseen Struggles
An introduction to the different types of OCD, how it manifests in daily life, and the unique challenges it creates inside a marriage.
Chapter 2
Nights Apart: Sleep, Fear, and Compulsions
How sleep issues, rituals, and irrational fears reshape intimacy and routine, and what it means for couples to live in separate rooms.
Chapter 3
The Road She Couldn’t Drive
A deeper look into Aizan’s lifelong fear of driving, Fias becoming her driver, and the lack of disability recognition or support for OCD in America.
Chapter 4
The Hospital She Cannot Enter
Educational insight into OCD and medical fears, followed by personal stories of Aizan’s terror of doctors, dentists, and hospitals.
Chapter 5
The House That Must Stay Clean
How cleaning compulsions consumed daily life, the hidden exhaustion behind constant order, and the meaning of “home” when OCD is in charge.
Chapter 6
Between Illness and Responsibility
Fias’s chronic illness, dialysis, and inability to work—and how Aizan carried the household financially while also coping with her disorder.
Chapter 7
Exile from Two Worlds
The cultural and financial struggles of being Bangladeshi immigrants in America, stigma around mental illness, and memories of a simpler past.
Chapter 8
Love as Mutual Caregiving
Closing reflections on endurance, sacrifice, and redefining love in the face of illness. Includes statistics on OCD worldwide and a final message of hope.
Epilogue Aizan’s Voice A closing reflection in Aizan’s voice about what love and survival mean beyond illness, offering hope for the next generation.
Final Note to Readers Culture, Upbringing, and Faith Practical advice and wisdom for couples facing illness together, with emphasis on cultural values, faith, and resilience.
Chapter 0
The Quiet Disorder (part 1)
When we first arrive in America, I think the hardest part will be the cold. I imagine snow falling on our shoulders as we step out of the airport — the kind of cold that feels new, fresh, hopeful. A new beginning.
But it’s not the weather that tests us. It’s something quieter, invisible. Something that doesn’t melt away with spring.
Aizan and I have been married for five years when we land in this country. We’ve survived the chaos of Dhaka traffic, the noisy neighbors, the thin walls of rented flats. In Bangladesh, everything is loud — the calls to prayer, the street vendors, even our families. Here, everything is quiet. Almost too quiet.
We rent a small one-bedroom apartment in New Jersey. The carpet smells faintly of detergent, and Aizan spends the first week cleaning it. Every corner, every vent, every light switch. She says she can’t sleep until the place feels “new.”
I think it’s jet lag. I think she just misses home.
She scrubs until her hands turn red, and when I tell her to stop, she smiles and says, “It helps me think.”
In those early months, I notice small things that don’t seem important at first.
She can’t touch doorknobs without wiping them.
She washes the same dishes twice.
She arranges our shoes perfectly parallel to each other by the door — not touching, not too far apart.
When I move one shoe by mistake, she quickly adjusts it back with an anxious glance, as if the world might tilt if she doesn’t.
At night, when we pray, she repeats her verses under her breath long after I’ve finished. If I interrupt her, she looks startled, almost guilty.
I tell myself she’s just careful. Maybe she inherited her mother’s love for cleanliness, her father’s sense of discipline. In Bangladesh, women are taught that a clean home is a reflection of their faith. It seems harmless enough.
We dream of the American life we’ve seen in films — good jobs, good schools, shiny cars. I plan to work in IT. She wants to learn driving, get a license, and maybe start a small business someday.
But things don’t unfold that way.
I fall sick a few months after our arrival. The doctors call it a kidney disorder. They say I’ll need regular treatment, maybe dialysis if things get worse. The word “dialysis” feels heavy, too heavy to say out loud.
Aizan is frightened, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she starts cleaning even more. The more I rest, the more she scrubs. The more I hurt, the more she organizes. It’s like her way of fighting what she can’t control — the illness, the fear, the silence.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. She’s in the kitchen, washing the same plates she washed an hour ago.
When I ask why, she says softly, “They didn’t feel clean enough.”
I don’t know what that means, but I let it go.
Our life becomes a rhythm of care and caution. I start my treatment. She starts a new job at a nearby grocery store. She comes home exhausted, yet instead of resting, she begins wiping, folding, reordering.
I watch her from the couch one evening — her hands trembling slightly as she sprays disinfectant on the same table over and over.
“Aizan,” I say gently. “It’s already clean.”
She stops, looks at the bottle, then at me, and says, “I know… but it doesn’t feel clean.”
It’s the first time I hear that word — feel. Not look, not smell, but feel.
Something about the way she says it stays with me.
The day she decides to learn driving, I’m the happiest I’ve been in months. She’ll finally have her own freedom, her own sense of control. We buy a used Toyota, and she schedules lessons with one of our community friends — a senior lady named Mrs. Noor, a retired psychiatrist from Dhaka who now lives here.
When I drop Aizan off for her first lesson, she’s nervous but smiling. She waves, clutching the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline.
I wait in a nearby café, sipping weak coffee and imagining her first drive through the quiet suburban streets.
But when I return an hour later, I find her sitting on the curb, pale and shaking. Mrs. Noor is beside her, looking thoughtful — too thoughtful.
That moment will change everything.
The Quiet Disorder (part 2)
The day Mrs. Noor finally speaks, I am not prepared for her words.
She sits beside Aizan after the driving lesson, her posture calm, deliberate. She is gentle but firm, the kind of presence that makes even panic seem manageable.
“Fias,” she says quietly, “Aizan isn’t just anxious about driving. She has Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. It’s severe.”
The words land softly at first, almost polite, but then they echo through the empty classroom like a bell. I feel my stomach tighten. OCD. The word is clinical, precise, and yet it explains everything—the cleaning, the repetitive prayers, the constant fear of germs, hospitals, even small decisions.
I look at Aizan. She is pale, her hands twisted in her lap. Her eyes are wide, but she does not speak.
Mrs. Noor continues: “It’s not uncommon. Many people live with it silently, especially in Bangladesh, where mental health is taboo. But here, there are ways to manage it. Therapy, cognitive behavioral techniques, support.”
Aizan shakes her head subtly. “I can’t… I don’t want pills. I don’t want to go to a hospital again.”
Her voice trembles, but there is clarity in her refusal. It is a fear I have seen before — a fear of control, of losing herself in procedures and chemicals she does not understand.
I squeeze her hand. “We’ll manage it together,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. I do not know exactly how, but the promise forms naturally, without thought. We have no choice — our lives are intertwined.
It’s a life I didn’t imagine, Aizan writes later in her diary.
I came here hoping for freedom. I came here hoping we could breathe. But fear followed, and now it is a shadow in every room, every step. I cling to him because he is the only one who understands the storm that rages inside me.
Chapter 1
Living with OCD: The Unseen Struggles
When people hear the term “OCD,” most think of a neat desk, a spotless kitchen, or someone who likes things “just so.” It has become a casual label for tidiness, almost a compliment.
But the truth is, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is not neat, and it is not a compliment. It is an invisible guest that barges into a person’s mind, reshaping their life and the lives of those around them. It is not simply liking order—it is fearing chaos. It is not choosing to clean—it is being unable to stop. It is not wanting control—it is being controlled.
The Faces of OCD
OCD wears many masks. Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize its different faces, not only through my wife’s struggles but also through study and experience.
Here are some of the most common types:
- Contamination OCD o The fear of germs, dirt, or “uncleanliness.”
- o People with this type often wash hands until they bleed, scrub surfaces until they shine, or refuse anything that feels “contaminated.”
- Checking OCD o The compulsion to repeatedly check whether the stove is off, the doors are locked, the lights are out, or even whether one has harmed someone without realizing.
- Symmetry and Order OCD o The need for things to be perfectly aligned, balanced, or arranged. A crooked painting can feel like torture.
- Intrusive Thoughts OCD o Perhaps the most invisible kind. These are disturbing, unwanted thoughts—of violence, sin, harm, or taboo subjects—that play in a person’s mind like a broken record, leaving them with guilt and shame.
- Hoarding OCD o A compulsion to collect or hold on to items out of fear that throwing them away could cause something terrible to happen.
Each type is rooted in fear. And that fear, once it grips the mind, rarely lets go without a fight.
OCD in My Home
My name is Fias Ramo, and I’ve been married to Aizan Fias for over fifteen years. When we wed, I didn’t yet know OCD was a silent partner in our marriage.
Over time, I began to realize that my wife’s habits were more than just quirks:
- She cannot drive, because her fears and rituals overwhelm her behind the wheel.
- She avoids hospitals and doctors, terrified of medical procedures. This fear spills over into our intimacy, because to her, pregnancy means hospitals, and hospitals mean terror.
- She cannot stop cleaning—day and night, surfaces, floors, corners. Our home is spotless, yet never “clean enough” in her eyes.
- She refuses to allow pets in our home, seeing them only as walking sources of dirt.
For outsiders, these may look like strong preferences, even eccentricities. But when you live inside that world, you begin to understand: these are not choices. These are compulsions.
OCD in Marriage: The Shared Struggle
In marriage, two people usually imagine sharing responsibilities, joys, and challenges. But OCD changes the equation.
It is not only her struggle—it is our struggle. OCD dictates our routines, our conversations, our travel, our intimacy. It sets limits on what we can or cannot do.
- Loss of Balance: In a healthy marriage, both partners take turns carrying the load. But OCD shifts the balance. I drive her everywhere, I adapt to her endless cleaning rituals, I live with the absence of pets and the silence of childlessness.
- Loneliness: At times, I feel like a bystander in my own marriage, watching her battle fears that I cannot touch. Her attention is often stolen by her compulsions.
- Frustration vs. Patience: I want her to seek treatment, but she is terrified of psychiatrists and medication. I oscillate
- between wanting to push and needing to stay patient.
- Unseen Battles: Outsiders never see the full picture. They may admire how “clean” our house is or how “cautious” she is. They cannot see the exhaustion behind it.
Yet, it is not a one-sided marriage. Here is the other side of the truth: while I live with her OCD, she lives with my chronic illness.
The Other Half of the Story
When we arrived in America ten years ago, my body was already failing me. I had a chronic illness that drained me physically and financially. Aizan, despite her own mental battles, became the one who worked seven days a week. She became the provider, the caretaker, the person who made sure I had food, medicine, and shelter.
So while OCD steals from her, it does not steal her courage. While she cleans compulsively, she also sacrifices tirelessly. While I drive her everywhere, she works endlessly.
This is the paradox of our marriage: I care for her mind, and she cares for my body. Together, we survive.
Lesson One: Redefining OCD and Marriage
The first lesson I want to leave with you is this: OCD is not a quirk. It is a disorder. And in marriage, it is never one person’s burden—it is shared.
But the second lesson is equally important: a marriage is more than illness.
Yes, OCD has made our marriage unconventional. Yes, my illness has added weight to her shoulders. But our story is not about defeat—it is about endurance. It is about two flawed, fragile humans who have learned to care for one another in ways we never imagined.
Love, in our home, does not look like flowers and candlelit dinners. It looks like her working seven days to pay the bills. It looks like me patiently driving her through her fears. It looks like a spotless home and a tired body, side by side, still standing.
Chapter 2
Nights Apart: Sleep, Fear, and Compulsions
We left Bangladesh with hope. Like so many immigrants, we believed America would be a fresh start—a place of opportunity where we could build a life, free from the weight of poverty, superstition, and limitations.
What I didn’t know then was that America would also be the place where my wife’s secret companion—her OCD—would finally be named.
The Lady With Sharp Eyes
It happened almost by accident. Aizan had never driven in Bangladesh, but in America, driving was not optional. Without a car, life feels nearly impossible. We decided it was time for her to learn.
A senior lady friend of ours—kind, wise, and retired from her work as a psychiatrist—offered to help. She had taught others before, and she was patient enough to handle new drivers.
One day, while sitting in the passenger seat, the lady watched carefully as Aizan gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles were white, her breathing shallow. She adjusted the mirror once, twice, three times. She wiped the steering wheel with a tissue. She asked me if the door was locked. Then she asked again. And again.
The car barely moved, but her mind was already racing a hundred miles per hour.
The lady didn’t say anything at first. She let Aizan fumble, hesitate, freeze. Later, when the session was over and Aizan went inside to rest, she turned to me and said quietly, almost gently:
“Your wife is not just nervous. She has severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.”
Those words hit me like a stone in water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew.
From Habits to Illness
Until that day, I had thought Aizan’s behaviors were just habits, or maybe her way of being careful. I thought she was just a bit too cautious, a bit too clean, a bit too anxious.
But this woman, with decades of experience in psychiatry, explained to me that what I had been witnessing were symptoms of a mental illness.
- Her refusal to drive wasn’t just nervousness—it was OCD paralyzing her with “what ifs.”
- Her endless cleaning wasn’t about loving cleanliness—it was about fighting invisible contamination.
- Her refusal of hospitals wasn’t stubbornness—it was fear fused with compulsion.
- Her refusal to have pets wasn’t dislike—it was contamination fear magnified by OCD.
For the first time, I saw my wife’s world through a different lens: not as quirks, but as a cage.
My Own Illness, Her Sacrifice
The timing of this revelation was complicated. While I was processing what OCD meant for her, I was also battling my own chronic illness. I was weak. Some days I could barely move. Most days I couldn’t work.
And here was my wife—working seven days a week, carrying our financial survival on her back, and still coming home to fight her unseen battles with OCD.
It humbled me. It made me feel both guilty and grateful. Guilty that she carried so much. Grateful that she never gave up.
That is when I realized: we were both sick, in different ways. And somehow, we were each other’s medicine.
The Cultural Shock
In Bangladesh, no one had ever said “OCD” to us. Mental health was not a topic. If someone struggled, they were called lazy, stubborn, or worse—possessed. To admit to a mental illness was to invite shame, judgment, or ridicule.
But in America, here was this woman, calmly naming it for what it was. Not a curse, not a weakness, not a superstition—an illness. Something real. Something that could be treated.
The irony, of course, is that while America gave us the vocabulary, Aizan was still too afraid to seek treatment. She refused psychiatrists. She refused pills. The fear was stronger than the diagnosis.
But for me, the recognition was still a turning point. For the first time, I knew what we were dealing with. And when you can name a thing, you can begin to face it—even if only in small steps.
Driving Nowhere
After that, the driving lessons stopped. She could not continue. The anxiety was too much. She would never get her license.
And so, for the past ten years, I have been her driver. Every trip to work, every errand, every grocery run, every appointment—it’s me.
At first, I resented it. It felt like a chain around my neck. But over time, I began to see it differently: it was not a chain—it was a bond. A small way in which I could carry her, as she carried me through my illness.
She worked to support me. I drove to support her. In our imperfect way, it balanced.
Lesson Two: The Power of Recognition
The second lesson I want to leave with you is this: naming the problem is the first step toward living with it.
For years, I thought my wife’s behaviors were personal choices. That made me frustrated, even angry at times. But when I learned it was OCD, my anger began to turn into empathy. I could finally separate her from her illness.
It didn’t solve everything—she still refuses treatment, and her compulsions still rule much of our life. But recognition gave me patience. It gave me perspective.
If you live with someone who has OCD—or any hidden illness—remember this:
- Don’t confuse their compulsions with their character.
- Don’t confuse their rituals with their love for you.
- And don’t confuse their illness with their identity.
Recognition may not cure, but it transforms how you carry the burden.
When Love Sleeps Apart
Marriage, in its most romanticized form, is often pictured as two people falling asleep in each other’s arms and waking up together every morning. For Aizan and me, that image exists only in fleeting dreams. The reality of our nights is much different. We sleep in separate rooms, divided not by a lack of love, but by the peculiar burdens that illness and obsession place on a marriage.
Aizan’s fear is unshakable: she worries that I might stop breathing in the middle of the night. Her OCD feeds this terror like an endless loop. If she hears my breathing change, she jolts awake, her heart pounding, convinced that death is hovering in the dark. It’s not just fear—it’s paralysis, the inability to convince herself that what she feels is irrational. For her, the worst-case scenario is always the most likely scenario.
On my side, I’ve long been aware of my heavy snoring. At first, it was a nuisance; later, when my illness made me weaker, the sound grew rougher, more alarming to her ears. She associated every rasp of my breath with the possibility of loss. I saw how it consumed her, and so, one night, I quietly suggested that perhaps we both sleep better if we rested in separate rooms. That decision became our compromise, our silent pact to preserve both her peace of mind and my dignity.
But even in separate rooms, the intimacy of marriage has not left us. I often hear her footsteps in the hallway late at night, as she checks to make sure my door is unlocked, as though ready to rush in should the silence grow too deep. And I, in turn, pause at her doorway some mornings, watching her from the crack as she folds and refolds the same blanket in perfect symmetry, her rituals giving her a sense of control in a world that feels too chaotic.
The bed we don’t share is not a sign of absence—it is a symbol of survival. Where other couples might see distance, we see endurance. We have learned that love is not always about closeness, but about respect for each other’s fragile spaces. Our marriage is a balance of contradictions: fear and safety, illness and caregiving, distance and devotion.
Sleeping apart has taught us that sometimes, the deepest intimacy is found not in holding each other close, but in knowing when to let each other breathe.
The Larger Picture: Sleep, Compulsions, and Fear in OCD Marriages
What Aizan and I live is not unusual for couples where one partner struggles with obsessive–compulsive disorder. Sleep is often the first casualty. For some, it is contamination fears—worries that bedsheets, pillows, or pajamas are “dirty” or not folded perfectly. For others, it is hypervigilance, like Aizan’s fear of my death in the night, which keeps both partners awake for hours. Sometimes, it’s rituals—checking locks, rewashing hands, rearranging objects—that stretch far past midnight and leave the house silent only when the sun is rising.
When sleep is disrupted, marriages suffer in subtle ways. Couples may begin to feel like roommates instead of partners. Separate bedrooms, while protective in some cases, can also reduce physical intimacy, making the relationship feel fragile. And yet, as I have discovered, sometimes that distance is the only way to preserve harmony.
Compulsions extend into the bedroom as well. Many partners of people with OCD report that bedtime routines can last for hours, delaying rest. A person may need to shower multiple times, clean the room obsessively, or repeat prayers until “it feels right.” The spouse without OCD often feels torn—wanting to help, but also frustrated by exhaustion.
Fear also takes root in unexpected ways. For Aizan, the hospital is her greatest fear, and because pregnancy leads to hospitals, she associates sex itself with danger. For others, fear may attach to germs, betrayal, or the possibility of harming a loved one. OCD is not just an illness of the mind; it reshapes the entire emotional landscape of a marriage, dictating where intimacy can and cannot exist.
And yet, despite all this, many couples—like us—find ways to survive, even thrive. We learn to adapt, to respect boundaries, to communicate in whispers of patience rather than shouts of frustration. We discover that love can stretch farther than we ever thought possible, even across separate rooms.
Chapter 3
The Road She Couldn’t Drive
Driving is freedom in America. The wide highways, the sprawling suburbs, the endless distances between places—without a car, you are a prisoner of geography. For many immigrants, the driver’s license is more than a piece of plastic; it is a rite of passage, proof that you can belong to the rhythm of this country.
When Aizan and I first arrived, we both assumed she would learn to drive. She was intelligent, determined, and hardworking. But behind the wheel, something invisible paralyzed her. She froze at green lights, unsure if it was truly safe to move forward. She panicked when other cars honked, convinced she had made a life-threatening mistake. The very act of steering became a battlefield between her will and her obsessive fears.
It was during one of those driving lessons with a retired psychiatrist friend that the truth first revealed itself. Our friend watched her closely and then told me, with a kind but serious expression, “Fias, your wife has severe OCD. That is why she cannot drive.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand. But as the months turned into years, the reality became impossible to ignore: Aizan’s compulsions and anxieties had stolen from her the ability to sit confidently behind a wheel.
So I became her driver. Ten years later, I still am. Every appointment, every errand, every workplace, every late-night grocery run—it is me behind the wheel, her in the passenger seat. What some couples divide evenly, we carry as one person’s burden.
And yet, I never saw it only as a burden. There was something deeply symbolic about it: my role as the one who steers us forward when she cannot. In many ways, our car became a metaphor for our marriage. She trusted me to navigate, and I accepted that trust as both responsibility and privilege.
Of course, the reality was not always so poetic. There were times when I longed for her to drive herself, to take just a little of the weight from my shoulders. There were days I resented the extra hours, the exhaustion of always being on call. But then I would remember her face at the wheel—tense, pale, overwhelmed with fear—and my resentment softened into compassion. The road was simply one more place where OCD dictated the rules.
OCD and Driving: Why the Wheel Feels Impossible
OCD often robs people of ordinary freedoms. Driving, for many, is among the most terrifying. Some fear that they might run someone over without noticing, replaying every bump in the road as a potential tragedy. Others cannot stop checking mirrors, signals, or locks, repeating rituals until their anxiety is unbearable. Still others are paralyzed by intrusive thoughts: What if I cause an accident? What if I die? What if I kill someone else?
To an outsider, these fears may seem irrational. But for the one living them, they feel as real as the road beneath the tires. The result is often avoidance—some with OCD simply stop driving altogether.
For their spouses, the consequences ripple outward. The non-driving partner must take on the role of chauffeur, disrupting work schedules, social lives, and independence. Resentment can creep in, not out of lack of love, but from sheer exhaustion. And yet, hidden within this sacrifice is also a form of intimacy. Driving becomes more than transportation; it is a daily act of care, a repeated vow of companionship.
In our marriage, the steering wheel is mine, but the journey is ours. Every trip we take—whether across town or across states—is a reminder that love sometimes means carrying the other where they cannot go. Aizan cannot drive the roads of America, but she has driven me through my illness, through despair, through the long nights when I thought I would not make it. In her own way, she is my driver too.
But there is another layer to this story, one that is less personal and more political: the silence of the system. For all the years that Aizan has been unable to drive, unable to live with the independence most Americans take for granted, there has been no safety net, no recognition from the federal government that obsessive–compulsive disorder can be a disabling condition.
When people think of “disability” in America, they picture the visible—wheelchairs, canes, prosthetics, or conditions that can be proven with X-rays and blood tests. What they rarely see are the invisible illnesses: the relentless compulsions, the crippling anxieties, the quiet prisons of the mind. OCD, despite being recognized by psychiatry as a chronic and often debilitating disorder, still struggles for legitimacy in the eyes of bureaucracy.
I learned this the hard way. I once researched whether Aizan could qualify for disability benefits, even temporarily. The forms asked for proof of hospitalization, psychiatric reports, medication records. But Aizan has none of these. She fears doctors and refuses treatment, terrified of pills and psychiatrists. And without those papers, the government sees her not as someone disabled, but as someone unwilling.
The irony is unbearable. Her inability to seek treatment is part of her OCD. Yet the system punishes her for the very symptom that defines her illness. The door to assistance remains shut, because OCD does not fit neatly into the categories that policy-makers understand.
And so, the burden falls entirely on us. She works seven days a week despite her compulsions, carrying me through my chronic illness. I drive her everywhere she needs to go, ensuring her life does not collapse under the weight of immobility. Together, we stitch together a survival plan with no thread of government support.
This is what the world does not see: behind every OCD marriage is not only the struggle of compulsions and fears, but also the quiet abandonment by the systems that should help. We are left to care for each other, and only each other.
When we first arrived in America, I imagined a future where I would work hard, build a life, and support Aizan as she adjusted to a new country. Instead, fate played a crueler hand. Within months, my body began to fail me. A chronic illness settled in, stripping me of my strength and my ability to work. The timing was devastating—newly arrived, I had no employment history here, no “work credits” built into the system. And so, when my kidneys failed and I looked to the government for disability assistance, I discovered the fine print: without a decade of steady employment, I was invisible to the very programs meant to help people like me.
In the eyes of the federal government, I did not exist as a worker, and therefore I did not exist as someone worthy of support.
That left Aizan. Despite her own battles with OCD—her rituals, her anxieties, her cleaning that never seemed to end—she became the breadwinner. Not just with one job, but with two, sometimes even three, stacked back-to-back. Seven days a week she worked, her body growing weary but her will unbroken. She earned for both of us, carried us both.
Imagine this paradox: a woman disabled in her own right by obsessive–compulsive disorder, unable to drive, unable to rest, trapped in cycles of cleaning and fear—yet still standing tall enough to hold me up. This is not the picture people expect of an OCD marriage. Society imagines the husband as caretaker, the wife as fragile. In our case, it was both true and false at once. I drove her everywhere, but she carried me everywhere else.
Her sacrifices cannot be measured in paychecks alone. She gave up her own dreams of independence, her own chance at rest, her own opportunity to slow down. She worked so I could live.
And the government? It stood aside, blind to the complexities of our life. There were no benefits for her OCD, no disability coverage for my illness, no recognition of the reality that we were two people drowning together but holding each other up by sheer force of will.
We often say that marriage is about compromise. For us, marriage became survival—two flawed, fragile bodies learning how to keep each other afloat in a system that refused to throw us even the smallest rope.
It was nearly midnight when I pulled up outside her workplace, headlights casting long shadows on the empty sidewalk. Aizan emerged slowly, her shoulders slumped, her steps heavy from another double shift. I watched her through the windshield—my wife, my partner, my warrior—carrying the weight of two lives in her tired body.
There were nights when my own body had been strapped to a dialysis machine only hours earlier, the needles still leaving fresh marks on my arms. I would sit through the draining routine, then climb into the car, driving an hour through the dark just to bring her home. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but I knew she was waiting, just as I knew she depended on me to keep moving forward.
She opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat without a word. For a moment we just sat there, listening to the quiet hum of the engine. Her hands were raw from endless hours of labor, but when she set one gently on my arm, I felt the strength that had carried us through ten years of hardship.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. And I did.
I put the car in gear, and we drove home through the sleeping city. She leaned her head against the window, her eyelids fluttering, trusting me to take her safely where she needed to be. And I thought about how many times we had repeated this ritual: her working, me driving, both of us holding each other up in ways no one else could understand.
We had no help from the government, no benefits, no outside support. What we had was each other. She carried the burden of our survival, and I carried her where she could not go. It was not the marriage we imagined, but it was the marriage we built—one mile, one shift, one dialysis session, one sacrifice at a time.
And yet, survival did not mean serenity. Our arguments lived on a spectrum most couples never touch. Where others might argue about bills or household chores, our disagreements bent around Aizan’s OCD. She could fight with me over fears that had no logic—whether my breathing meant death was near, whether a hospital visit spelled catastrophe, whether dirt invisible to my eyes was destroying our home. I often felt lost in these battles, wrestling not with her words but with the invisible illness that shaped them.
And still, I stayed. Because beneath the confusion and exhaustion, there was something stronger: the quiet knowledge that we were both broken in different ways, and that our only chance at wholeness was holding on to each other.
And in that quiet night, as the traffic lights flickered green above us, I realized again what our life had taught me: love is not just about sharing joy—it is about sharing exhaustion, fear, and responsibility. It is about knowing, without speaking, that you both depend on each other to keep the road ahead alive.
Chapter 4
Fear of Hospitals, Fear of Intimacy
For many people with obsessive–compulsive disorder, hospitals represent the ultimate paradox: places meant for healing that instead become symbols of danger. Medical fears are one of the lesser-known but deeply crippling dimensions of OCD. They can manifest as contamination fears—terror of germs, infections, or medical equipment. They can appear as health anxieties—intrusive thoughts about death, disease, or procedures going catastrophically wrong. And sometimes, they take the form of avoidance, where the very thought of entering a clinic triggers overwhelming panic.
At the heart of this pattern is a struggle with control. OCD thrives on uncertainty, and few environments feel more uncertain than hospitals. To a mind already wired to doubt, every needle, every diagnosis, every possibility of complication becomes unbearable. What most people accept as a routine procedure—a blood draw, a dental cleaning, a pregnancy checkup—can feel like stepping into mortal danger.
This fear does not only affect the individual with OCD. It spreads into marriages, families, and relationships. It affects how couples make decisions about health, how they handle emergencies, and even how they navigate intimacy. If medical procedures are feared, pregnancy itself becomes feared. If illness is terrifying, discussions about health become arguments rather than plans.
In this way, OCD does not stop at the hospital door; it follows couples home, reshaping their private lives in unexpected and painful ways.
Aizan sat on the edge of the bed, twisting the hem of her work shirt between her fingers. Fias had mentioned it again—just a simple routine check-up at the clinic down the road. “Fifteen minutes,” he had said gently, “and it would give us both some peace of mind.”
But the words felt like daggers to her chest. The thought of walking into that building, the smell of disinfectant, the fluorescent lights, the distant echo of machines—her whole body rebelled.
Her OCD was loudest in moments like this. What if they find something? What if they tell me I’m sick too? What if hospitals aren’t for healing but for trapping?
She shook her head violently, pacing the small room. “I can’t, Fias. I can’t go. They’ll poke me, they’ll test me, and then I won’t sleep for weeks wondering what they saw in the blood.”
Fias, weary from his dialysis session earlier, leaned back in his chair, clutching his side. He tried not to let the frustration show, but it was there, simmering under his exhaustion. “Aizan… it’s not about fear, it’s about knowing. You work so hard—three jobs sometimes—and you never stop. Your body deserves care.”
Her eyes flashed with panic. “No! If I go, I’ll find out something terrible, and then I’ll lose control. Don’t you understand? It’s safer not to know.”
The room fell into a tense silence. He wanted to argue, to shout even, but her trembling hands and the way her breath came in shallow bursts reminded him this wasn’t stubbornness—it was terror, tangled in the knots of her OCD.
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Alright. Not today,” he whispered. “But promise me someday.”
Aizan didn’t answer. Instead, she sat back on the bed, head buried in her palms, whispering prayers under her breath to quiet the storm inside her.
And in that small, dimly lit apartment, the unspoken truth hovered between them: love wasn’t always patient or kind. Sometimes, it was just surviving one another’s fears without walking away.
Like a Child
Fias had long ago realized that if Aizan ever went to a doctor’s office or dentist, he would have to go with her. She would never walk through those doors alone. Even then, it was an ordeal.
At the primary care clinic, she would cling to his sleeve the way a child clings to a parent on the first day of school. Her eyes darted at every sound—the rolling of a cart, the squeak of shoes on tile, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. And when the nurse approached with a needle, Aizan’s body stiffened like stone.
“I can’t,” she would whisper, her voice breaking. “Don’t let them do it, Fias. Don’t let them hurt me.”
He would take her trembling hand in his, then gently cover her eyes with his palm. “Don’t look,” he’d murmur softly. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”
Every time, without fail, Aizan cried. Not the controlled tears of an adult holding it together, but the raw sobs of someone who felt cornered, powerless, terrified. The nurse would glance at Fias, as if to ask silently, Is this normal? And Fias would simply nod, weary but protective.
At the dentist, it was no different. Even the hum of the cleaning tools made her fists clench, and he had to sit in the waiting area listening to her muffled whimpers through the walls. When she finally came out, cheeks blotched and eyes swollen, she would look at him as though she had survived a battlefield.
For Fias, these visits were exhausting. He had his own illness to manage—his dialysis, his pain, his fatigue—but in those moments, none of that mattered. What mattered was getting her through it. He carried the weight of both their fears, both their bodies.
When they got back home after one of those appointments, Aizan often retreated straight to the bedroom, curling up under a blanket as if the whole world had been too much to bear. Her sobs would fade into exhausted silence, leaving behind only the sound of her breathing—still quick, still uneasy.
Fias would sit in the living room, body aching from his own treatment, staring at the quiet home they had built together. He thought about the strange paradox of his wife: the woman who cried like a child when a needle approached, yet worked like a soldier day and night, seven days a week, to keep them alive.
In public, Aizan was the warrior—managing two, sometimes three jobs, navigating buses, juggling responsibilities, and keeping a roof over their heads. But in those sterile clinic rooms, she was fragile, terrified, and in need of protection. Fias had learned to hold both truths at once.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. Their marriage wasn’t built on the illusion of normalcy. It was built on survival. On her carrying him through his illness, and him shielding her from her fears. On tears in the doctor’s office and strength on the factory floor.
This was their version of love—mutual caregiving in the face of two different, relentless battles. And though it was never easy, it was theirs.
Chapter 5
The House That Must Stay Clean
One of the most recognizable forms of Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder is the cleaning compulsion. While outsiders often joke about being “a little OCD” when they like things neat, true OCD-driven cleaning is not about tidiness—it is about fear. Fear of contamination. Fear of germs. Fear of invisible harm.
For many sufferers, the home becomes both sanctuary and prison. The very place that should bring peace instead becomes the battleground where compulsions must be carried out again and again—scrubbing, wiping, sweeping, washing—until exhaustion takes over. And for spouses, the home is no longer just a place of comfort, but the stage for a partner’s endless rituals.
Fias had long ago stopped trying to argue about it. Aizan cleaned from the moment she woke up until she went to bed, often rising in the middle of the night to wipe down counters or re-mop the floors. To her, a speck of dust was not just dirt—it was a threat. Shoes were left at the door, clothes washed more often than they were worn, and any thought of pets was out of the question.
“No animals,” she declared firmly once. “They carry filth. They will ruin the house.”
Fias knew there was no convincing her otherwise. The house was her kingdom of control, the one place she believed she could hold back chaos. And yet, even in its gleaming state, she never felt satisfied. The fight against contamination had no finish line.
Sometimes, Fias would watch her from his chair—her hands raw from scrubbing, her face tight with focus—and wonder what peace would look like if she ever allowed herself to stop.
The cleaning compulsions bled into their intimacy as well. Aizan’s fear of contamination intertwined with her fear of hospitals, creating an invisible wall between them. Pregnancy, in her mind, meant medical procedures, and medical procedures meant terror.
“Don’t ask me to go through that,” she would whisper whenever the subject arose. “I can’t. The hospital… I can’t.”
And so, their marriage carried a quiet absence, a space where fear silenced desire. For Fias, it was painful, confusing, and sometimes lonely. But he also knew that behind every refusal was not rejection—it was dread.
Arguments about this, like so many others, often spiraled into misunderstandings. Her OCD responses confused him, made him feel as though they were speaking two different languages. When he tried to reason, she grew more frantic. When he asked for closeness, she pulled away.
Yet, despite the walls OCD built between them, there was also resilience. They still sat together after long days, still leaned on one another in exhaustion, still shared a bond held not by touch alone but by survival, sacrifice, and the quiet knowledge that no one else could understand their struggles the way they did.
That night, after a double shift, Aizan came home long past midnight. Most people would have collapsed straight into bed, but not her. She dropped her bag, changed her clothes, and went straight to the kitchen sink. The faucet hissed as she scrubbed a dish that was already clean, then moved on to wiping counters that had been wiped three times already that day.
Fias sat in the living room, his body aching from dialysis, watching her in silence. He wanted to tell her to stop, to rest, to sleep beside him. But he knew better—this was her ritual, her shield against the fears that stalked her mind.
Her shoulders drooped with fatigue, her hands moved slower than usual, yet she did not stop. Even when her eyes were heavy with sleep, she clung to the belief that one more wipe, one more scrub, might bring her peace.
Fias leaned back, sighing softly. His own body betrayed him with weakness, hers betrayed her with compulsions. And yet, together, they kept moving—he driving her through her panic, she working through his illness. Two tired souls locked in a cycle of care, each unable to let the other fall.
In that quiet moment, as Aizan wiped down the table one last time before finally sitting to catch her breath, Fias thought: This is love, in its strangest form. Not flowers or poetry, but sacrifice and survival. A love that cleans, drives, weeps, and carries.
Chapter 6
Between Illness and Responsibility
Arguments are inevitable in any marriage. But in a marriage shaped by OCD, the fights are rarely about what they seem. Dishes, laundry, driving routes, hospital visits—on the surface, they appear ordinary. Yet underneath, the real struggle is between fear and reason, two forces speaking different languages.
For Fias, arguments began with logic. He wanted to explain, to solve, to reassure. For Aizan, arguments began with dread. She wanted certainty, safety, escape. Neither was wrong, but neither could fully understand the other’s world.
One evening, after dialysis, Fias mentioned he needed to refill a prescription. “It’s just the pharmacy,” he said casually, “five minutes inside.”
But Aizan’s face twisted. “No, don’t go. People cough there, people sneeze. You’ll catch something worse. Why risk it?”
“It’s medicine I need, Aizan,” he replied, tired but firm. “I can’t skip it.”
Her voice rose, edged with panic. “You don’t understand! If you go in there, you’ll bring germs back, and then what? What if you collapse in your sleep? What if—”
He cut her off, frustration seeping out. “You think I don’t already collapse enough? You think I don’t live every day with that fear too?”
The room went quiet. Her breathing was sharp and quick, his words heavy with bitterness. He hadn’t meant to wound her, but OCD had a way of dragging both of them into corners they didn’t want to stand in.
These arguments were never simple wins or losses. They left both drained, misunderstood, and sometimes resentful. Fias would sit alone, wondering why her fears seemed stronger than her trust in him. Aizan would sit in her own silence, feeling that her terror was invisible, dismissed as nonsense.
And yet, despite the sharpness of these exchanges, they always circled back to each other. Because beneath the words, both knew what the other couldn’t always say aloud: I’m scared of losing you. I don’t know how to live without you.
The Bedroom Divide At night, Aizan often insisted they sleep in separate rooms. “What if you stop breathing while I’m next to you? What if I wake up and find you gone?”
Fias tried to reassure her. “That’s not how it works. Me snoring won’t kill me, and me being alone won’t save me.”
But Aizan shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand. If I’m next to you and you die, I’ll never close my eyes again.”
For Fias, the loneliness of that choice cut deep. He missed the comfort of her beside him, the quiet rhythm of shared sleep. But her fear was immovable, a wall no words could climb
The Cleaning Spiral Another common flashpoint came late at night. Exhausted from dialysis, Fias begged her to stop cleaning. “Please, Aizan. The house is clean enough. Lie down, rest. Your body needs it.”
But she would keep scrubbing the same spot on the floor, anger flashing in her voice. “It’s not clean. Can’t you see? You never notice the germs. You don’t care if we live in filth!”
Her words stung, though he knew they weren’t true. In her mind, the fight wasn’t about dirt—it was about safety. Still, to him, it felt like rejection of his presence, his judgment, even his love.
The Fear of Intimacy Perhaps the most painful arguments came when Fias longed for closeness. “We are husband and wife,” he whispered one evening. “Why do you always pull away from me?”
Her answer came sharp, almost panicked. “Because if I get pregnant, I’ll be trapped in hospitals. Needles, doctors, surgeries—I can’t! Don’t you see? It terrifies me.”
He turned away, hurt. “So my love is a threat to you?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The fear is. But you can’t fight fear with reason.”
These arguments were never about winning. They were about colliding worlds—his logic against her compulsions, his longing against her terror. Each fight left wounds, but also a strange kind of resilience.
Because in the quiet after the storm, when neither had the energy to keep arguing, they always ended up back at the same truth: they needed each other. His illness bound him to her care, her OCD bound her to his protection. It was a cycle of frustration, sacrifice, and love spoken in two different tongues.
That night, after one such argument, they sat in silence in the car outside her workplace. The engine hummed softly, the streets were empty, and neither spoke for a long while. Then Aizan reached over, resting her trembling hand on his. He squeezed it gently, no words exchanged.
It wasn’t resolution. It wasn’t understanding. But it was enough to remind them that even when their fears and logic collided, they were still holding on to each other.
Chapter 7
Exile from Two Worlds
For Aizan, Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder was never called by its name in Bangladesh. Growing up, her cleaning rituals and fears were seen as quirks, even virtues. A spotless home was praised, a cautious woman respected. But no one understood the torment behind those rituals—the endless cycle of fear and relief, the exhaustion that followed.
Mental illness was a forbidden topic in her homeland. Too poor, too religiously entangled, too superstitious, Bangladesh had no room for “invisible sickness.” Families whispered about madness, but never about disorders. For Aizan, this meant she arrived in America carrying not just OCD, but also the silence of a culture that refused to name it.
In America, silence gave way to survival. The government had no program for people like her—OCD was not recognized as a disability that could earn assistance or support. So she worked. Two jobs, sometimes three, seven days a week. Her hands scrubbed in restaurants, in offices, in other people’s homes, and still she came home to scrub her own.
Fias, meanwhile, carried his own burden. His illness struck not long after they arrived, making steady work impossible. His dialysis schedule ate up entire days, leaving him drained and weak. He tried—on his “good days,” he took odd jobs, short shifts, anything to ease the load. But his body betrayed him. After an hour, sometimes less, fatigue and pain forced him home.
Worse still, his role as Aizan’s driver kept him tethered. Her fear of driving meant he had to remain on stand-by mode, phone always at his side. Aizan would call between shifts, her voice hurried and weary: “Fias, come now. I finished early.” Or, “Fias, I can’t wait here long, it’s too much, please hurry.”
And he would go. Always. No matter how weak, no matter the hour, he drove—an invisible lifeline in the background of her working life.
The financial strain was constant, gnawing at their sense of stability. Rent, bills, food, medicines, gas—everything depended on Aizan’s paycheck. There were months when she broke down, clutching the bills in her hands, whispering, “I can’t do this anymore.” There were days when Fias felt the crushing guilt of being unable to provide, his own body reduced to dependency.
And yet, they survived. Not by ease, but by endurance. She worked until her feet blistered. He drove until his bones ached. Together they carried the weight of two worlds—the cultural silence of Bangladesh and the unforgiving reality of America.
At night, when Aizan collapsed into her bed after back-to-back shifts, Fias sometimes sat alone in the living room, phone still in hand as if it might ring again. He thought of the irony: in her country, her illness did not exist. In this country, it existed but had no support. And somewhere in between, the two of them had carved out a life that was both fragile and fierce.
It was not the life they dreamed of, but it was the life they fought for. Every day, every ride, every shift.
Sometimes, late at night, Fias’s mind drifted back to Bangladesh—the humid evenings, the crowded streets, the sound of rickshaw bells ringing into the dusk. He remembered their conversations back then, when America was still only a dream. They spoke of safety, of opportunity, of a country where hard work would be rewarded and health care would be accessible.
He had pictured himself working, saving, building a new home. She had pictured herself free of worry, maybe even learning to drive through quiet suburban streets. They believed that America would lift the burdens that Bangladesh had pressed on their shoulders.
But reality had been different. Illness struck him, OCD bound her tighter than ever, and survival replaced dreams. Instead of freedom, they found new kinds of chains: medical bills, work shifts that never ended, and fears that stalked them even in this land of promise.
Rideshare services—those lifelines for many immigrants—were another wall for Aizan. Her OCD made her suspicious of every driver, male or female. “What if the car is dirty? What if they’re careless? What if something happens to me on the road?” she whispered. For her, strangers behind the wheel were unbearable risks. And so, every ride began and ended with Fias. He was not just her husband; he was her chauffeur, her protector, her guarantee that she would not be left vulnerable in someone else’s car.
As he thought of those rickshaw rides in Dhaka—their laughter bouncing in the air, their simple trust that tomorrow would be brighter—Fias felt both the weight of loss and the stubborn strength of survival. America had not delivered the life they dreamed of, but in this new life, they had only each other. And perhaps, in the end, that was what kept them going.
Chapter 8
Love as Mutual Caregiving
In the quiet rhythms of their days, Fias and Aizan had come to understand love not as the grand gestures sung in songs, but as the steady pulse of endurance. Their lives had been stripped of illusions—romanticized dreams of America, smooth health, or boundless energy—but what remained was raw and undeniable: the bond of two people caring for each other when the world seemed indifferent.
Fias, weakened by dialysis, had little strength left to claim his old ambitions. Yet he clung to his role as Aizan’s anchor, the one who answered her calls no matter the hour, who stood ready by the phone to ease the panic that her OCD brought like an invisible storm. Aizan, trapped in compulsions and fears that few around her could understand, poured her energy back into caring for him in the small ways she could—reminders of his medication, the comfort of warm meals, and prayers whispered for his strength.
Their caregiving was mutual, though unequal in form. Fias gave mobility and vigilance; Aizan gave presence and devotion. Together, they carved out a definition of love that was practical yet profound: survival, side by side.
Theirs was not a perfect story—it was human, messy, and full of unanswered needs. They lived without the safety net many took for granted: no extended family to lean on, no strong community to understand OCD without shame, no financial stability to absorb the cost of illness. Yet even here, in scarcity and fragility, they discovered endurance as a form of intimacy.
As their story closes, it does so not with finality, but with a mirror to countless others who remain unseen in similar struggles. OCD is not simply a quirk or habit; it is a debilitating disorder. Chronic illness is not merely an individual burden, but a family’s daily trial. Yet these realities are often dismissed, minimized, or overlooked.
According to the World Health Organization, nearly 2% of the global population lives with OCD—tens of millions of people—yet treatment resources remain scarce, especially in immigrant and minority communities. In the United States alone, an estimated 2.5 million adults experience OCD each year, but less than half receive proper treatment. Even fewer receive acknowledgment of the disorder’s disabling impact on work, relationships, and basic functioning. For many, OCD remains invisible, unrecognized as the serious condition it is.
The silence around it—the lack of formal recognition, the absence of support structures, and the stigma that shadows those who suffer—echoes in every immigrant family like Fias and Aizan’s, where illness and survival intertwine.
Their love was not easy, and their lives were not soft. But in their struggle, they reveal something urgent and universal: the need to see OCD not as a private shame, but as a real disability. Only when we recognize its weight can we begin to lift it together.
This, then, is the redefinition of love: not the absence of suffering, but the willingness to endure it, together.
They had now been together for fifteen years. Fifteen years of compromises, of doctor visits and midnight calls, of laughter that often arrived in spite of pain. Their marriage was not marked by milestones others would easily recognize—no extravagant trips, no easy financial comfort, no carefree years. Instead, it was measured in survival: another year through dialysis, another day through compulsions, another morning waking up together despite the exhaustion of yesterday.
OCD, in its relentless grip, had taught Fias patience beyond measure. The rituals, the hesitations, the refusals—all required him to wait, to adjust, to sacrifice quietly. It taught him resilience: the ability to continue in a life where spontaneity was impossible, where planning often collapsed into fear. He learned that endurance was not passive; it was a daily choice, made over and over, to remain steady when chaos pressed in.
Illness, in turn, had shaped Aizan in ways she never anticipated. Watching her husband tethered to machines, drained by weakness, and denied the dignity of steady work taught her a heavier kind of responsibility. She had to become his advocate, his caretaker, his second strength when his first gave out. It awakened a compassion rooted not in pity but in shared suffering—the understanding that love means holding the other when they cannot hold themselves.
Together, they had become mirrors of endurance. One gave patience; the other gave strength. One learned sacrifice; the other learned compassion. They became not simply husband and wife, but each other’s caregiver, standing in for what illness and OCD had taken away.
Their final truth, hard-earned over fifteen years, was simple: OCD does not define their marriage. Dialysis does not define their marriage. What defines it is caregiving—mutual, flawed, and sometimes weary, but steadfast. Love for them is not a perfect picture but a living practice of showing up for one another, especially when it is most difficult.
As their story closes, it does so not with despair but with clarity. Love, stripped of its illusions, is not fragile after all. It is endurance. It is sacrifice. It is the daily decision to hold on—together.
And that is enough.
Epilogue
Sometimes, when the house is quiet and Fias is resting after dialysis, I find myself thinking about the years gone by. Fifteen years feels both long and short—long because every day has carried its own weight, short because our love has kept us moving, one step at a time.
I have often wondered if our struggles will ever be understood by the world outside our walls. OCD is invisible until it isn’t, until it becomes the reason I cannot ride with a stranger, cannot take a routine blood test without trembling, cannot fall asleep without fear. Yet in those moments of fear, Fias has been there—hand over my eyes when the needle pricks, steady voice when the panic rises.
And though he has been ill, unable to work, his presence has been my safety. He is not weak to me; he is the one who waits in the car outside my workplace at midnight, who drives when I cannot, who endures when most would have given up.
For the next generation—for those who come after us—I hope our story is not just about illness or disorder. I hope it is about the kind of love that survives them. I hope it teaches patience, sacrifice, and resilience. I hope it shows that even when the world does not recognize certain struggles as disabilities, the people who live them know how real they are.
Love, in the end, is not about perfection. It is about showing up, again and again, in the hardest seasons. That is the story I want to leave behind. That is the hope I carry forward.
OCD has been both my shadow and my prison. It has shaped the way I think, the way I act, the way I fear. But in those shadows, Fias has stood with me, never letting me face the darkness alone. Every time I cried at the thought of hospitals, every time I panicked about strangers, every time I cleaned the same spot over and over until my body ached, he reminded me that I was more than my illness.
And his illness—his long years of pain, his fragile health, his nights tied to dialysis—taught me the meaning of responsibility and strength. I became the provider, the one who worked day after day, sometimes through exhaustion so heavy it felt like my bones would give way. Yet I never saw it as a burden, because it was for us, for our survival, for our love.
Together, we became each other’s caregivers. That is the truest story of our marriage. Not OCD. Not chronic illness. But the care we give, back and forth, every single day.
To anyone reading this, I want to say: OCD does not define a person, and illness does not erase worth. What defines us is how we endure, how we show up, how we love. The world may not yet fully see OCD as a disability, but those of us who live inside its walls know its weight. And we also know the power of resilience.
I hope the next generation learns to see mental illness with compassion, not shame. I hope they grow up in a world where asking for help is not taboo, where care is available without fear, where marriages like ours are not weighed down by silence.
If there is one message we leave behind, it is this: love does not cure illness, but love makes illness bearable. Love does not erase OCD, but love teaches patience to walk alongside it. Love, in its purest form, is mutual caregiving. And that is enough.
Final Note to Readers
To anyone holding this book, please know this: marriages touched by illness are not broken, and they are not failures. They are unique stories of survival, written in sacrifice and love. The world often celebrates only the easy partnerships—the ones filled with health, adventure, and freedom—but there is another kind of love, quieter and harder, that deserves to be honored. That is the love of couples who carry illness together, who face fear and exhaustion but choose to stay.
In our case, coming from Bangladesh meant that marriage was never seen as something temporary or disposable. Our upbringing taught us that commitment was not about convenience—it was about endurance, even in the hardest seasons. That cultural foundation became the backbone of our marriage. It gave us the mindset that when illness entered our lives—OCD for Aizan, chronic disease for me—we did not see it as a reason to leave. We saw it as a reason to fight harder for one another.
If you are in such a marriage, here is our advice:
- Acknowledge the illness, but don’t let it become your only identity. You are still partners, still people with dreams, not just patients or caregivers.
- Practice radical patience. Illness and OCD both bring irrational moments—arguments that feel confusing, fears that seem impossible. Instead of trying to always fix or argue back, sometimes the best response is calm understanding.
- Divide the care, but also share the care. It’s easy to slip into roles of “the sick one” and “the strong one,” but in truth, both partners need support. Both must give and receive.
- Protect your bond. Find small ways to connect outside of the illness—watch a show together, share a quiet meal, pray, or simply sit in silence holding hands. These little moments are the glue that keeps you whole.
- Don’t measure your marriage by others. Your love is not less because it looks
- It may be defined by hospital visits, sleepless nights, or relentless work shifts, but it is still love—and in many ways, it is a deeper love than most will ever know.
Our story is not perfect, but it is real. And if you take one lesson from it, let it be this: survival together is its own form of victory.
Faith also guided us. Belief in God gave us the patience to accept what we could not change, the courage to carry burdens heavier than we thought possible, and the hope that tomorrow might bring ease. When the world felt cold, prayer reminded us we were not alone.
If you are in such a marriage, here is our advice:
- Let love be stronger than fear. Illness brings uncertainty, but love gives the reason to keep going.
- Respect each other’s struggles. Even when fears seem irrational, they are deeply real for the one living them.
- Share the weight. Illness may shift roles, but both partners must give care and receive care.
- Lean on your roots. Whether it is faith, culture, or the lessons of family, let them hold you steady when the road feels too heavy.
- See your marriage as sacred. Love is not only companionship—it is service, sacrifice, and protection of one another in sickness and in health.
Our marriage endured not only because of personal will, but because of the values our culture instilled, and the strength faith provided when willpower alone was not enough. Love gave us the heart to carry on, but culture and faith gave us the backbone.
If you take one lesson from us, let it be this: survival together is not weakness. It is the highest form of love, and it is victory.
OCD Awareness & The World We Live In
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is one of the most misunderstood mental health conditions in the world. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), OCD affects about 2–3% of the global population — nearly 150 million people worldwide. In the United States alone, an estimated 1 in 40 adults and 1 in 100 children live with OCD symptoms.
Yet, despite these numbers, OCD remains underdiagnosed, undertreated, and often stigmatized — especially in developing countries. In nations like Bangladesh, mental health awareness is still in its early stages. Limited psychiatric infrastructure, cultural shame, and strong religious interpretations often prevent families from seeking help. Many people with OCD go their entire lives without ever being properly diagnosed.
For immigrants, the challenges multiply. Language barriers, lack of insurance, and social isolation make treatment even harder. The U.S. federal system does not yet recognize OCD as a disability on its own, leaving thousands of people — like Aizan — without financial or occupational assistance.
But awareness begins with stories. Every marriage, every home, every act of caregiving helps to change the narrative — proving that OCD is not a weakness of will, but an illness of the mind, deserving of compassion and understanding.
If you or someone you love is struggling with OCD, know that you are not alone. Help is available. And sometimes, the first step toward healing begins not with medicine — but with understanding.
Resources & Support
If you or someone you love is living with OCD, anxiety, or caregiving stress, these organizations and communities offer information, support, and ways to connect:
United States
- International OCD Foundation (IOCDF) www.iocdf.org Provides education, research, and support groups for individuals and families living with OCD.
- National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) www.nami.org Offers free programs, helplines, and local chapters that provide community resources and counseling referrals.
- Anxiety and Depression Association of America (ADAA) www.adaa.org Supports people living with anxiety disorders, OCD, and related conditions
- through research and professional networks.
International
- Mind (UK) www.mind.org.uk Offers mental health guidance, advocacy, and crisis resources across the UK.
- World Health Organization (WHO) – Mental Health Division www.who.int/mental_health Global data, education, and initiatives promoting mental health care access in developing countries.
- Bangladesh: Kaan Pete Roi (Mental Health Helpline) +880-1730-176-177 A volunteer-based emotional support helpline available in Bengali and English.
Online Communities
- Reddit: r/OCD & r/Caregivers — Peer communities for sharing experiences.
- 7 Cups ( www.7cups.com) — Free anonymous chat support with trained listeners and therapists.
Remember: Reaching out for help is not weakness — it is courage in motion. Healing begins when the conversation starts.
Closing Passage
As we look back on fifteen years together, through illness, fear, and endless nights of uncertainty, we have come to understand that love is not built on perfection — it’s built on endurance. Aizan’s OCD taught me patience; my illness taught her compassion. Together, we learned to survive where others might have let go.
To those who live in marriages shaped by sickness, know this — your story is not a failure. It is proof that love can exist in the quiet act of staying. When life becomes a series of hospital visits, panic attacks, or dialysis sessions, staying is the truest form of devotion.
In our culture, promises are not just words — they are threads that tie souls together through time and pain.
As the Bengalis say, love isn’t leaving when the river floods — it’s holding the boat steady until the waters calm.