Choosing Life

Around a month ago I travelled, very bravely from my haven in Scotland to the bright lights and big city of London. This was something of a triumph for me as often even leaving the house can be a painful journey filled with panic attacks and doubt. However, despite my worries, my husband and I made it to our lovely hotel in London. I struggled a great deal around the city, worrying that people might hurt me or I might shout at them or hurt them (even though I know that this is something I would never want to do, the intrusive thoughts still torture me) but even with these worries I managed to navigate around the musty but exciting London Underground (even at rush hour!), wander through the beauty of Richmond Park avoiding terrifying roaring stags and even a trip to the Whispering Gallery of St Paul’s Cathedral (almost 100ft up). These were all things that I never thought that I would manage but manage I did. I wish that my bravery had continued after London but sadly I am writing this having only left the house for a walk around the block once in the past 4 weeks.

The problem started as I developed a really nasty cold on returning home. You see, while away I decided to wash my hands as little as possible as some Exposure Response Prevention but it seems that as my body is not used to a vast amount of germs due to me not going out very often, I came down with the most horrendous bug. I developed the worst cold I’ve had in a long time and then the resulting recovery time has taken me almost three weeks and I still feel dreadfully tired. Herein lies the problem: after being so ill my OCD has gotten worse again to the point where I can barely feed myself or shower without repeating my actions over and over again.

A shower currently takes me three hours, most of which revolves around me putting a product into my hand like shampoo then immediately I feel that it is contaminated the moment it is in my hair so I rinse it. I then feel that I have to wash my hair twice more to get it clean and as the second time I try to wash my hair results in the same worries as the first; you can imagine this becomes a fairly lengthy process. No matter what I do I just end up washing and washing and washing over and over again. It’s torturous. This goes for every item I need to wash – body, hair, face etc so I end up spending three hours, washing and crying until I am so covered in sweat that it was pointless washing in the first place.

I can’t go out as even the merest thought of going out seems to lead to a bubbling panic attack. I went for a walk around the block with my husband last weekend but that was a tremendous struggle.

You see, when you get to this point, it seems like the easiest thing in the world to become more insular, to think that as the world outside feels so scary and frightening; perhaps a life away from it all, inside my home is safest of all? The pain and the fear would surely all go away if I just stay where it feels safe and warm?

But is that a life? Really? Any kind of life? I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently as the longer I spend in my home, the more I feel like delaying the inevitable of having to go out. Curling up in a ball and cowering from the world is hardly a life is it?

The problem is that the idea of even stepping outside my door at the moment seems like the most monumentally terrifying action I could take at the moment and that’s where my OCD has me over a barrel. Stay in, stay safe Fred tells me in my head whereas Brian is telling me that there is a whole world of adventure out there to experience, relax, and enjoy it – except I can’t. I’m trapped in my own head with an angry M yelling at me that I’m useless, pointless and that I’ll never get better and to be honest, at times it is difficult to believe that I will ever get better.

I recently watched National Theatre at 50 and there was a short piece with Benedict Cumberbatch and Kobna Holdbrook-Smith in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard and Benedict said “Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect” and that’s effectively where I am, in a box. Admittedly it has a window in the form of social media and my husband but essentially I am trapped in my mind, in my home with my only conversation my husband, various medical people and online comfort in the form of chats with friends over Facebook. It’s a life, of sorts but I shouldn’t be in this box. I’m there because of my OCD. It’s not life. What I live everyday is not life; too scared to touch items in my own home, too scared to venture outside, too nervous to even speak to people I’ve known for the longest time.

I want a proper life. I want to regale my husband with the minutiae of my day, I want to feel the wind and rain on my face without panic and I want to function as a normal human being like I used to. It sounds so easy doesn’t it? But for me and other OCD sufferers, even a walk around the block can be fraught with fear and danger. 

I will get out and about again. My desire to lead a normal life is hopefully stronger than the torturous thoughts in my head so I’m starting small and from the start. I may not be able to sit in a pub with my friends just yet or enjoy the cinema with my husband but I won’t let the fear get me. I may have a way to go but I choose life...and not in the box.