I used to subscribe to Jonathan Swift’s satirical essay on the merits of eating babies, whilst simultaneously waxing indignant on human over-population of the world with a rallying cry of ‘Birth Control not War!’
However, this slogan if instigated would promptly cut 80% of news, violence, current affairs and 100% of arms-trading, paradoxical statues of war heroes, Peace Prizes - not to mention putting the mockers on a glut of glory. A large percentage of the populace would promptly kick the bucket - often metaphorically in the new non-violent civilisation - with boredom. So humans would be off doing all that foolish procreating all over again and Getting Carried Away.
This is bad news for anyone with OCD who is terrified of babies and children, if not yet of adults. This appears to be in reverse order to most British adults who seem frightened of each other, but fairly relaxed around offspring. Personally, there was a period where I couldn’t stay in the same room as a pregnant woman, without becoming convinced that I was causing damage to her unborn child - or if I wasn’t, would be, by something I said or did very shortly. People would wonder why I was being stand-offish, or appeared to have a form of Lockjaw.
Fortunately then in the circumstances, my own maternal instincts emerged belatedly and wilted from lack of nurture. Otherwise there could have been an unfortunate infant in a similar position, because I as their mother was unable to touch them.
Parents unaware of the paralysing spell of OCD might exclaim: ‘Pah, Nature would overcome it - of course you’d cuddle your little baby!’
No, I might very well not. Not if I was having one of those deadly moments, when a horrifically graphic film sequence kicks off in a heart-beat, featuring me centre-brain harming my infant.
Some time ago I saw a very sad woman in her late 30s, who had unexpectedly become affected by OCD, being interviewed on a TV show. She said quietly that she was suddenly unable to touch her children. The camera soon swung away from her - it must be quite dispiriting for TV producers if they hope that an OCD-sufferer will give them a dramatic interview and raise viewing figures – but, as is often the case with OCD, the poor woman’s inner turmoil scarcely showed on the outside.
Helen Poskitt
Friday 31 July 2009
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Computer Virus
Having received innumerable tempting leaflets from supermarkets, listing the joys of shopping on-line, I thought I’d avoid the hell of a clinically-lit store and the civil war triggered by loading 16 bags, the ecological string one leaking yoghurt, on to a London bus in the rush-hour. I'd make a huge effort and lift a finger to tap a few computer keys instead.
Then, magically, through the ether will appear an electric vehicle bearing the desired lavatory paper, plus innumerable tins of cat-food, gallons of beer, a tower-block of detergent, pounds of chocolate biscuits, litres of wine and a couple of bananas. As the market research people know, now on a par with God in their ability to divine people's true desires, all of human life lies within the contents of a supermarket trolley.
I log on with a spring in my finger. Suppose I'd better get something nutritious to add to the proposed delicious comestibles: 'Dairy and Eggs' that'll do to start with. My goodness, there are umpteen types of egg available ...
It's fine, I think initially, clicking recklessly on boxes to add groceries painlessly to my shopping trolley. But maybe because of the amount of choice in each category, the process becomes akin to completing quite a demanding puzzle. Despite being a decisive sort, I eventually concede defeat from the sugary depths of the doughnut section and press 'Checkout'. I'm feeling almost as drained as if I'd slogged my customary way round the supermarket, terrified of committing GBH with a trolley.
Now things get a bit tricky, they want me to register as an on-line customer. I can do this, despite being form-phobic in Real Life. I notice with a sinking feeling that there are several sections. I type the relevant information requested under 'Personal Details' fairly speedily and without neurosis.
'Log In Details' causes me to pause and take deep breaths against incipient panic, but I only re-read my answers once. 'Store Card Details' is the signal to re-read and neurotically check boxes three times. By 'Delivery Address' I'm perspiring lightly, my shoulders are rigid and I'm sure I'm starting RSI. I enter the correct information with shaking fingers, but spend several minutes erasing it forensically, before entering it again, then reading it aloud for good measure. The cats have trooped in to watch. 'Telephone Number '…
Eleven minutes later, my bloodshot eyes skid down to 'Your personal information is safe with us at all times' at the bottom of the page. While the sensible majority probably wakes with a start at 4am wondering who is poring over their Personal Info. - I couldn't care less. My brain is fizzing with anxiety as to whether I wrote Something Dreadful which will get me or someone else Put Away, in one of the boxes. To this end, I stare obsessively at the screen, then erase it all again …
After the site has crashed twice because I'm taking so long to pay, I concede defeat. Grabbing the string bag and my Oystercard, I head for the Real Supermarket - it has to be easier.
It's shut.
Helen Poskitt
Then, magically, through the ether will appear an electric vehicle bearing the desired lavatory paper, plus innumerable tins of cat-food, gallons of beer, a tower-block of detergent, pounds of chocolate biscuits, litres of wine and a couple of bananas. As the market research people know, now on a par with God in their ability to divine people's true desires, all of human life lies within the contents of a supermarket trolley.
I log on with a spring in my finger. Suppose I'd better get something nutritious to add to the proposed delicious comestibles: 'Dairy and Eggs' that'll do to start with. My goodness, there are umpteen types of egg available ...
It's fine, I think initially, clicking recklessly on boxes to add groceries painlessly to my shopping trolley. But maybe because of the amount of choice in each category, the process becomes akin to completing quite a demanding puzzle. Despite being a decisive sort, I eventually concede defeat from the sugary depths of the doughnut section and press 'Checkout'. I'm feeling almost as drained as if I'd slogged my customary way round the supermarket, terrified of committing GBH with a trolley.
Now things get a bit tricky, they want me to register as an on-line customer. I can do this, despite being form-phobic in Real Life. I notice with a sinking feeling that there are several sections. I type the relevant information requested under 'Personal Details' fairly speedily and without neurosis.
'Log In Details' causes me to pause and take deep breaths against incipient panic, but I only re-read my answers once. 'Store Card Details' is the signal to re-read and neurotically check boxes three times. By 'Delivery Address' I'm perspiring lightly, my shoulders are rigid and I'm sure I'm starting RSI. I enter the correct information with shaking fingers, but spend several minutes erasing it forensically, before entering it again, then reading it aloud for good measure. The cats have trooped in to watch. 'Telephone Number '…
Eleven minutes later, my bloodshot eyes skid down to 'Your personal information is safe with us at all times' at the bottom of the page. While the sensible majority probably wakes with a start at 4am wondering who is poring over their Personal Info. - I couldn't care less. My brain is fizzing with anxiety as to whether I wrote Something Dreadful which will get me or someone else Put Away, in one of the boxes. To this end, I stare obsessively at the screen, then erase it all again …
After the site has crashed twice because I'm taking so long to pay, I concede defeat. Grabbing the string bag and my Oystercard, I head for the Real Supermarket - it has to be easier.
It's shut.
Helen Poskitt
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