Coming Out

Bet you thought this is the beginning of a moving article about the trauma of Coming Out as an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Sufferer - try saying it fast after a double Pimms.

And you’re wrong.

Here I am, doing Dawn Press-Ups for the eyes: holding the door of the airing-cupboard open, staring at the door jamb with forensic attention, peering left at the metal water pipes which run down the wall, then flicking my gaze up to the ceiling light which, incidentally, is off.

As I hurriedly close the closet door and begin breathing again in the hall, a separate door – this time of a sordid cerebral lock-up – rattles open.

Technicoloured visions swirl out - of a cat caught in the cupboard door, the light clicking on and igniting bed-linen on the top shelf, while the water pipes spring a leak which would alert Noah. H20 might help to extinguish the blaze – but what about the poor cat?

I whip open the cupboard door for the fourth time.
‘Last time,’ I say firmly aloud. It’s getting chilly, standing around staring at things.
‘What?’ asks my partner absently from the sitting-room.
‘Just talking to myself,’ I manage, outwardly resembling Lot’s wife, After. Inwardly, I’m thrashing around in a Tarantino mind-meld.

This time I do breathe, which improves the quality of life no end - but the OCD sneakily retaliates with the certainty that the vacuum cleaner is planning to topple sideways onto the water pipes under cover of darkness. I look down, to introduce a bit of variety and also to check for water seeping under the closed door. The hall floor is blessedly dry.

Taking a deep breath, I ease open the door to catch the Hoover at it; all is dark and quiet.

Stare, peer, flick – slam door hurriedly. March into sitting-room, perspiring with anxiety, but exhaling noisily with relief.

Partner looks up quizzically from the sofa, where he’s nursing coffee and a hangover:
‘Aren’t you cold?’ Damnit, even my knees are goose-pimpled.

I forgot to unhook my dressing-gown from inside the cupboard door: the whole reason for the past 15-minute farce. The Gremlins, who’d sneaked off for a tea-break, groan as they see me approaching the closet.

I’ve had enough: a girl can only cope with so much at 7am, it’s time to cheat.

‘Honey, would you mind getting ..?’

Helen Poskitt
www.helenposkitt.com