If Ever I Fall. S.D. Robertson

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      All in all, a pretty dreadful day.

      The thing is, Sam, before we had that argument, I was feeling better about our relationship than I have in ages. Dan turning up at the hospital renewed my faith in him. It felt nice the three of us being together again as a family unit. A small part of me even started to wonder …

      No, I can’t bring myself to say it. Not after how it all turned out. I guess that was why it hurt so much when he started having a go at me. The irony is I’ve done that to him on loads of occasions; if I’ve not actually used the D word at some point, then I’ve definitely implied it. I’ve shouted and screamed at him; behaved in the bitchiest way possible countless times. I even made him return the present he gave me last Christmas, because we’d agreed not to do gifts. Nasty or what?

      That might not sound like how you remember me, Sam. I never used to lose my temper so easily, did I? It’s part of the personal problems I’ve been having: the breakdown I mentioned in my last letter.

      The thing about Dan is that he usually takes whatever I say firmly on the chin. As awful as that sounds, it’s true. He’s not the type to shout back, even when I deserve it. He definitely hasn’t asked for a divorce before. He’s never been one to say much at all about his emotions. That’s played a part in the problems between us. So in a way, although it sounds warped, I’m glad he shouted at me. It was good to see him being passionate, but a shame it was so horribly negative.

      Gosh, just thinking about the current state of my relationship with Dan has got me welling up, especially since we used to be so good together. The way we met – in a pub with a group of friends – might not have been especially romantic. (I’ve told you the story before about how I knocked over his beer, spilling it all over his shirt.) But everything else about the start of our love affair was perfect. We fell head over heels for each other. I knew I wanted to marry him after we kissed at the end of that first meeting, believe it or not. I’d never got on so well with another person, male or female, before. We just clicked instantly, as if we’d known each other for years, even though I spent the first half an hour or so apologising for my clumsiness. It was like everyone else we were out with that night disappeared. Within a few weeks we were inseparable, and it remained like that for so long.

      Relationships change over the years, of course, especially when you start a family. But when you’re married to your best friend and soulmate, as I truly felt I was, you travel through the ups and downs of life confident that your relationship will stand the test of time, no matter what. Unfortunately, as we eventually found out, even the strongest marriages have their breaking points.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ