Yesterday was a struggle. It dragged interminably and a restlessness descended upon the house; a sense of boredom and frustration. There was plenty to do, chore wise, but we lacked the motivation and desire to launch into any new tasks. Personally, I could sense obsessive thoughts circling my carefully constructed defences like vultures hovering over their next victim; watching and waiting for the inevitable final breath.
The thoughts are ridiculous but incessant and revolting. They peck at my consciousness, a nagging rhythm which taps out a steady beat, increasing in regularity and volume as the day progresses. They are a casual evil and have all the time in the world as I rush my meagre resources to the ramparts in an effort to repel them. I succeed, this time, but they will be back. They play the long game, a war of attrition par excellence.
I don’t want to think these thoughts but there they are, bold as brass on my front doorstep, all wrapped up in a shiny bow waiting to be unwrapped and unraveled. Unraveled. That’s how OCD works. It picks at a loose thread until it pulls away and soon the whole garment of your sanity is falling apart at the seams. All it needs is one gap, one opportunity, one second of weakness. It will take root and flourish. Watch as it’s thorny vines engulf your battered mind.
These are thoughts of death and misery, these are visions and images of unimaginable suffering. I succumb and check again, watching the tide of despair sweep all before it. The voice inside me, my personal Skelly, smirks and says they deserve it for their staggering ignorance and stupidity. But nobody deserves this, you wouldn’t wish this on your worst enemy, on a dog in the street. Yet still I ruminate and succumb to the thoughts, kicking and screaming every inch of the way.
OCD plucks you from the straight and narrow, the well trodden path. It senses, it smells your vulnerability and drags you from the safety of the herd into the long grass. There it can paw at you, probe at leisure, until you split open like a pregnant peach, exposing your inner workings to its ravenous intentions. It will feast upon your essence, drain you dry until nothing remains but a desiccated husk. You will be tossed aside and left to rot, a putrid irrelevance.
We are fighting a war. The daily casualty list rises as our politicians, physicians and scientists fight to curb this killer virus. There are many heroes, genuine and worthy. There are others less so, clinging to the bandwagon and strutting about like pampered peacocks. We clap, we cheer, yet the voice is capable of drowning out every vacuous platitude and overused cliche. It grinds the soul, scatters the powdered remnants to the four winds. This is OCD in a time of plague.