Anyway, I digress. Back to the other night. After Dan had left and I’d cried myself out, I got into a bit of a state. I’d better explain. Sorry for the heavy subject matter again, Sam, but I need to do this.
You’ve heard of OCD, right? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s kind of a trendy mental illness these days. All sorts of people claim to have it: famous sports stars, actors, comedians, you name it. It’s often mentioned in a light-hearted way. They say something like: ‘I’m a bit OCD.’ Then they go on, with a wry grin, to explain how they like to order things in a certain way in their kitchen cupboards or have to check the front door twice before going out.
This winds me up because from my perspective, as someone who definitely does have OCD, it isn’t funny at all. It’s debilitating, humiliating, infuriating; rather than tell people, I do my utmost to hide it, even from those closest to me.
On the other hand, you get films and TV documentaries taking things to the opposite extreme. They tend to portray OCD in its most acute form. You see someone housebound or unable to lead a normal life because of it. They’re some kind of twitching wreck, hopping down the pavement to avoid cracks, or scrubbing all the skin off their palms for fear of germs. I understand why the producers and directors do this, as extremity makes for a more powerful story, but I just wish someone would portray the condition in a way that more closely matches my own experience.
I’m a functional fruitcake, remember, and I think the middle ground – the place where I and many other sufferers live, hiding our craziness from view – gets overlooked.
For a long time, I tried to hide it from myself by denying it was there. Now, finally, I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve sought help and I’m on the road to recovery, but it’s hard enough for people to understand without it being portrayed inaccurately in popular culture.
Wow. I can’t believe I told you all that, Sam. I thought it would be hard, but in fact the opposite was true. The words flowed right out of me. I wonder if this comes as a huge surprise to you, or if it kind of makes sense. With hindsight, you see, I think I’ve probably had a latent form of it for most of my life, which developed into full-blown OCD when I had my breakdown.
I’ve always liked things ‘just so’. I used to keep items on my desk at work in certain positions, for instance, and I’d get annoyed if someone moved them. I suppose I did it at home too, insisting on things being neat and tidy around the house. But it rarely got in the way of my everyday life and I never thought of it as anything more than fussiness or perfectionism. Even at school I remember tearing pages out of my workbooks and starting again because what I’d written the first time wasn’t neat enough. But it was only little things like that, every now and again.
Rosie, my counsellor, has been teaching me how to use cognitive behavioural techniques to overcome my OCD. It’s a self-help method and, although it’s not easy or a quick fix, I’ve been doing my best and I have been seeing good results. It’s not all plain sailing, though. I said earlier that I got myself into a state after Dan left. What I meant was that I had an OCD episode and ended up back at square one.
It’s a condition that affects people differently. For some it’s all about hygiene: obsessive cleaning due to fear of contamination. Others can’t stop themselves hoarding junk. In my case, there are two main obsessions. The first is a fear of harm occurring to me or my family, which leads to me repeatedly checking things like door locks and smoke alarms. The second is an excessive concern with exactness or order. This can emerge in a variety of situations, from tidying the house to writing a letter, but it’s basically a kind of extreme perfectionism. It could mean, for example, taking an hour to do a job that should only take minutes. It’s an obsession with getting small tasks ‘just right’ as if by doing that you’ll make everything else in your life perfect too.
Sounds absurd? No doubt. Even I know it’s ridiculous, but when I’m trapped in the middle of an episode, I just can’t stop. Not without following the steps Rosie’s been teaching me.
I hope I’ve not lost you, Sam, prattling on about all of this. It must be a lot to take in. Believe me when I say that I’m tempted to scrub out this whole page, screw up the paper and start over. It’s like there’s a voice in my head urging me to do so – begging me – with the false promise that I’ll do a better job next time. But I’m fighting it. I’m fighting so hard.
You know how in cartoons a character sometimes has an angel and a devil pop up on each shoulder, one urging them to do good and the other to do evil? It feels a bit like that. The angel, in this case, is the part of me that wants to beat the OCD. But fighting it is always the harder choice. And sometimes the devil won’t stop. He goes on and on and on and on and on and on. His voice bounces around my head like a rubber ball, demanding to be heard.
That’s what happened after Dan left the other night, and I didn’t have the strength to resist. I locked the door after him, but five minutes later I felt the urge to go and check it. Even though I knew it was locked. I tried to resist, to stay put where I was, but eventually I gave in. I checked it once and then dozens of times. I couldn’t tear myself away from that bloody door. And then when I finally did, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs, worrying that the carpet wasn’t properly fixed down; that Ruby could have another fall. I went up and down the stairs, over and over again on my hands and knees, checking every inch. And then I was at the back door, twisting the key in the lock like a mad woman.
It went on for hours. Somehow I managed to pull myself together before Ruby woke up. I had to. I couldn’t let her see me like that, although I’d hardly slept and was shattered. In the cold light of morning, I felt ridiculous. I felt ashamed, as I always do after tearing myself free of its clutches. If only that was enough to stop it happening again.
Gosh, I’m really starting to wonder if I’ve gone too far with this, telling you too much in one go. Maybe I ought to start over.
Maybe.
No!
No starting over!
Move forward.
Keep moving forward.
You see? I’m fighting it right now.
You must think I’m …
Sorry about that, Sam. I needed a few minutes to compose myself. I made a cup of tea.
It’s time to move on and tell you about something else. Lighten things up.
So Rick phoned me yesterday.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘How’s Ruby? Anna said she wasn’t at school today. She was worried about her. Me too, of course.’
He sounded nervous. Embarrassed. Not the self-assured, relaxed person I’d first met. No doubt he felt bad about the way he’d reacted to Ruby’s injury. He’d not exactly been supportive. Useless more like.
‘Well, she has a broken arm,’ I replied.
‘Right. Oh dear. Everything went well at the hospital?’
‘Yes. It took a while, but we got there in the end.’
‘Ruby’s arm’s in plaster now?’
‘That’s right.’
There was a long pause. He was waiting for me to expand, but I didn’t feel like making things easy, so I stayed silent; waited for him to say something else.
‘Right. That’s good. The plaster, I mean. Well, not good exactly, but it’ll help it to heal.’
‘Yes,’ I said, enjoying feeling in control for once. I almost mentioned that my husband had joined us at the hospital but thought better of it. Why risk blowing things when they’d reached such an interesting phase?