Blog 2 (you'd have thought a stand up comedian would think up a catchier blog title)

Seven years ago when I was suffering heavily from OCD even a short trip away would be fraught with trauma for me, here’s is a short list of some events which made holidays stressful during my life as an OCD sufferer;

1) A big argument with my parents who tried to take a straw off of me which I needed to tap as part of an OCD ritual.

2) Spending an eternity tapping objects in hotel rooms on the last day which I knew I could not return to in order to complete my rituals.

3) Having to return to the top of water slides in order to tap a certain segment of the slide correctly

4) Obsessive thoughts all my waking day and in my dreams, ten times stronger than when I was at home

Seven days ago I went on a trip to the Edinburgh fringe festival for 3 nights to do some stand up and to take in the shows with two friends, Pete (also a comic) and Chris (a blues musician). Here is a short list of the things which made this trip stressful;

1) We couldn’t find the campsite

2) The clutch in the car we drove up in made a screeching noise every time it was in use, (two days after we made it back home the clutch gave up the ghost)

3) Pete went missing for over an hour at one point and he still won’t tell us where he was.

4) Freezing cold nights

5) Getting lost, all day, every day.

On top of this I had to stand up and amuse six different audiences over 3 days having had little to no sleep.

But despite all the apparent stresses of the trip I had more fun than I‘ve ever had, if you don’t believe me just ask any of my friends who I’ve been boring with Edinburgh anecdotes since. A big part of the reason I’m still involved with OCD awareness is that I want to show people how much I enjoy my life having overcome OCD and that all the fighting and all the struggle to do this was worth it.

I appreciate evenings now. Evenings were stressful when I had OCD. That was when my OCD was at its worse, if I was the slightest bit tired it was harder to keep the obsessive thoughts out. But now I love evenings, at the Edinburgh fringe they have a midnight show at the caves. It’s literally in a cave and starts at midnight, running on till about 3am. We went to this event two nights running. Comedy is a lot better when you know that everyone sensible is in bed. Reginald D. Hunter headlined the second night and I laughed uncontrollably. And it felt like I’d earned it. In beating OCD I had reclaimed the evening in my life. When my OCD was at its worse I would never have been able to relax at that show.

This year’s Edinburgh award went to the comic poet Tim Key, but my award goes to ‘The Evening’, my new, favourite part of the day.

Joe Wells

About me

In 2005 I wrote my first and so far only book, Touch and Go Joe about my own experiences of suffering from OCD as a teenager. Since then I have travelled about giving talks about OCD (you might have seen me at the OCD action conference last year) and done lots of different media things. The point of the book, or at least one of many points the book had set out to make was that there was a human face to OCD. In telling my own story of my life with OCD I intended to write a book which was different to other books about OCD, which did not talk about OCD in general terms but showed it as an illness which people suffered from.

I felt like I achieved that to some degree, but I only showed the OCD which effected one person, myself. This is the reasoning behind my next project, a film entitled One Point Eight. One Point Eight is a documentary project which I am Co-Directing with film maker Matthew Harrison. We are currently looking for as many OCD sufferers as possible to let us interview them, but there is a twist. We don’t want these interviews to focus on OCD, we want the main focus of these interviews to be about ‘what makes us us’. maybe it’s a passion for music, The interviewee’s relationships with their friends and family? or their career? OCD will be a footnote to contextualise the interviews next to footage of my lecturing. But the purpose of the interviews will to put that human face to the 1.8% of people who suffer from OCD.

If anyone is interested in this project, drop me an email on touchandgojoewells@msn.com

Joe

New Blogger

We would like to welcome our new guest blogger - Joe Wells .....

To eat or not to eat ... babies

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

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

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

Deep Breathing

Is it at puberty when people – let's face it, girls in particular – begin worrying that they smell bad?

What I'm leading up to is Addictive Sniffing. … Okay, there was a little Snorting during the Experimental Period, but I didn't inhale.

I'm one of those annoying people who hits the ground running at 6.30am, but who
head-buts the keypad just after lunch from sheer fatigue – partly due to an effortful lung-expanding Sniffing Schedule. I could patent it for anyone avoiding the gym, but wishing to develop a big chest and dispense with diving equipment.

Daily schedule goes something like this:

(Sound of duvet cover being thrown briskly back and reaching with feet for slippers.)
Self: Euck! Ouch. Bloody hell!
(Bang of cat-flap as Tomcat speedily exits.)
Self: Entrails, between the toes, aghkk!
(Begins hopping towards bathroom, trying to do up dressing-gown.)
Self: Ow! What was that? Oh, a beak! Gross ...

I gingerly remove the beak, then wipe mess and blood off feet frantically with loo paper, simultaneously adopting a lemon-sucking expression. This strengthens face muscles.
Raise lid of lavatory gingerly, due to fear of faeces and drop in tissue (of both types) from great height. Rinse hands thoroughly under bathroom tap, rinse tap, rinse hands, turn off tap. Sniff fingers three times. Let's not get neurotic about this; they smell fine.

Dressing-gown was on the floor, has cat done something horrible to it during the night ..? As well as slaughtering things nearby, of course. Vivid mental vision of feline spraying his territory, despite not having a hormone to his name since the Trip to the Vet. He's never forgiven us – hence the head under the bed payback.

Remove dressing-gown and inspect it minutely, in chilly dawn light of bedroom window. I gradually become aware that our Paramedic neighbour, returning from his night shift, is staring across. Drop to floor below window level clad in annoyed frown and ancient sleeping vest. Can't see any blood on dressing-gown. Sniff at fingers three times each hand, front and back.They smell fine.

I neurotically sniff the whole of dressing-gown – 19 sniffs in all – it doesn't seem to smell horrible. Perhaps my olfactory nerve isn't working. Yes it is: I can smell the compost bin in the kitchen from here. Crawl on hands and knees past bedroom window to bathroom. Cat's passed along this hall and he probably cussedly slept in the cat litter tray again, despite having a sumptuous cat sofa. Sniff hands, three times front and back and also my wrists for good measure. All seems fine, if a bit dusty.

Exhale hard and feel dizzy. Have shower, paying neurotic attention to washing.
Emerge, reach for towel, then remember that towel was seen left on lid of lavatory yesterday afternoon by partner.

I try and sniff at towel with the breath control of an opera singer, but begin hyper-ventilating and my vision shimmers interestingly. Towel seems fine, but by this time most of the water previously on me is in a puddle round my feet on the floor. Drop towel on it, gingerly mopping with my feet. Get dressed as fast as possible trying to avoid sniffing anything at all, even when nose runs.

Return for towel. I pick it up between finger and thumb and feed it into washing-machine with my foot. Fall over. Hobble to kitchen tap and rinse finger and thumb. Rinse tap. Rinse fingers. Sniff hands 6 times, seems fine- See neighbour staring at me out of his window.

Perspiring with embarassment, I smile unwillingly at him and feel my face creak as the frown furrows smooth out. He gestures wildly; I open the sash window.
He says: 'Sorry to bother you - your cat's just killed something big on our patio. Wouldn't matter, but I need a kip and the wife faints at the sight of blood. Haven't seen such a mess since I had to cover a boxing match. If you wouldn't mind?'

Perhaps the perfect pet would be a nice shiny goldfish ...

- Helen Poskitt