OCD doesn’t go away at Christmas, just like COVID-19 and Brexit didn’t go away either. Christmas is a time when we are expected to switch off and take a break from the rat race, to leave all our troubles behind for a few priceless days. We forget about our trifling troubles and focus on friends and family, create good times and tell life it can wait for a bit before it rears it’s ugly head at us again.
OCD is Ebeneezer Scrooge, The Grinch and Bad Santa all rolled up into one nasty little ball which bounces round your neural synapses. Often at this time of year we relax, let down our guards and take our foot ever so slightly off the pedal. It’s the ceasefire in the trenches where the British and German soldiers kicked a football about in no-mans land until everyone got back to the serious business of killing each other.
OCD thrives in such environments, it plants deep roots in the fertile soil of family gatherings and happy, smiling faces. It’s victims may wear such smiles but look closely and you’ll see that it’s not connected to the eyes, they are dead and hollow, pleading for a fleeting reprieve that never arrives. Counting the seconds to the moment when they can scuttle away to a private place to be consumed by the relentless obsessive thoughts and compulsive acts.
So spare a thought this Christmas for those besieged by this cunning, this most brutal of mental illnesses. It is a seductive whisper one minute and a relentless battering ram the next, utilising every trick in the book to break you into a billion brittle pieces. It is the most unholy of gods, unforgiving as it’s acolytes fall at its feet with their futile offerings which are never, ever quite enough. It is the worship of the damned, a mundane, murderous mass that knows no end.