Remembering my own childhood in such detail is a bit horrifying. Reliving it through my daughter can be hell. Anyone who knows Izzy knows she's a handful. She's intense, emotional, volatile, sensitive, intelligent, always challenging, and oscillates between genuine good-naturedness and being a real shit. She also has horrible tantrums, which have sent me to the brink of insanity, despair, and dreaming of an ass whooping some old timers would say she deserves.

Izzy has always had bad fits. She was born pissy. Usually her fits run through phases and are always caused by frustration. At 18 months, when she wanted to talk but couldn't, she hit every child that came into range. I slunk away in embarrassment from every playgroup. It's been more or less the same ever since: something random sets her off and within half a minute, she is hysterically angry.

She can quickly escalate from frustration to punching me. I know she can't hear me when she's in the throes of her upset. She will punch with a closed fist, bite, scream, and keen; her eyes glaze over and she sweats profusely.

I've always dealt with it calmly as possible and built up a pretty good level of patience over the years. She is a beautiful, social child, and it's easy to be patient. I hear people saying, "You can't be your child's best friend," and I agree, but Izzy is mine. I'm not trying to be her buddy. Some days it seems I yell at her all day long, but there is a connection with her and a rapport we have that feels like I'm with my oldest friend. Ruby, my baby, is always just that—my sweet little baby. Izzy is my closest companion.

In January of this year, I took the girls on a very long trip to see my sick father in Florida. I was prepared for bad behavior because upset to her routine often sets Izzy off. Surprise! She was an absolute angel the whole trip and all the way through June. Six blissful months. I kept pondering her change. Did a pod grow in her room one night, and her alien, sweet-natured copy was now roaming my house? Whatever it was, it was an unexpected blessing. I'd always hoped she'd mature, and the day had arrived. I relaxed. Parental life was sweet.

Then, a few days before school let out, she lost her freaking mind. Every negative behavioral trait from the past came back full bore, multiplied by ten. All I could guess was it was the school year ending since Izzy loves school, loves routine, and loves her teacher, Mrs. Wong.

She began expressing acute anxiety, manifesting consuming phobias, and throwing the most unbelievably violent temper tantrums I'd ever seen. She's terrified to be away from me (normally the social butterfly that works the room) and consumed with blinding terror if a bug comes near her. The temper tantrums were so unnerving they took every last bit of energy from our house like a black hole.

Again she was blind with rage, kicking, biting, crying, and screaming so hard her eyes bulge. She is so tense her back arches, and she clenches her teeth like she has lockjaw. She can't hear a word I say and wants nothing but to tear me limb from limb. She's a crazy person.

This sent my into such a morose, depressed tailspin I could hardly eat or sleep. What happened? It's all my fault. I failed her. I gave the child I love more than words the OCD I was crippled by as a child through my contaminated genes. My horrible marriage that I hold in my hands like soaking wet tissue as it melts away into pieces has destroyed her emotionally. I didn't know! I never meant to curse her to this. I wasn't formally diagnosed with OCD until after she was born. I just thought I was my own special brand of crazy before that. When I married her father, all the love in my heart told me we would make everything right together. Guess if I've learned anything, it's to never assume.

One day Izzy bit me so hard I smacked her hard enough on the shoulder to leave a bruise. The shock of the pain of the bite took my breath away. I was done. My well of patience was tapped. My fear and despair were the only things left. I took her to the pediatrician, fully prepared for words such as "disability,"behaviorist," and "chemical imbalance." I was so scared the night before the appointment I couldn't sleep.

In the office, the doctor asked if Izzy should leave the room so I could speak freely. I nodded. Before the door could close behind her, I was sobbing. A full body embarrassing sobbing that left me unable to speak. My nose poured snot. All my tension and worry came gushing out, all over poor Dr. Ward. "I'm so worried," was all I could say.

I filled her in on the demon seed behavior, how it was all my fault, and how my kindergarten graduate can't read. I swore she didn't watch violence on TV or witness it in our house. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. The doctor listened quietly and asked questions and basically told me everything was okay. Medical professionals like Dr. Ward are gifts to mothers, probably because she's a mom herself. "My nine-year old is spirited," she said, with understanding.

She said Izzy was under a lot of understandable stress and recognized she's a sensitive, hyper child. She said having my hands full with Izzy probably won't change, and my skills for dealing with her would be key. She recommended I read The Explosive Child by Ross W. Greene.

As we spoke, I realized my life was flashing before my eyes. Although I know how lucky I am she is physically healthy, that she has her relative mental skills, my daughter will always suffer. Knowing how she suffers breaks my heart. I remember all the tic behaviors I practiced like a religion to comfort myself, the anxiety that almost drove me crazy. It's anxiety I still feel dictates everything I do every day on Earth. It's probably Izzy's future now, too.

I'm only halfway through the book but already amazed that the author did not know Izzy personally. I'm also amazed that I instinctively knew the way to sooth her through her rough patches—with saintly, almost inhuman amounts of patience. I can pretty much cram the sticker charts up my ass because this child already knows where she is falling short. She's more aware than anyone on this planet.

If anyone tells Izzy she is a bad, manipulative, spoiled child, I will scratch their eyes out. She is a kind, beautiful, flawed human being. I brought her into this world; it's my job to help guide her through it, and the only good part of my own disorder is my empathy. Like most friends, our understanding of one another will draw us close as it already has and keep us tight. This life is a battle, and people like Mrs. Wong and Dr. Ward and especially myself will be my daughter's allies.