The urge for me to write has always been strong, my education focussed around subjects with long essays and complex words, a law graduate I enjoyed the web words can weave. You can mystify, hate and fall in love all within the pages of a book. I also love reading, much prefer it to the films, much prefer the images my mind conjure over watching someone else’s interpretation of those very same words.
Writing has always been my escape, my sure fire way of feeling better. Happy, write about it, make someone else feel happy too. Distraught, share it, a problem shared is a problem halved and I’ve found there is no greater inclusiveness than feeling lost and finding sanctuary in the words of others. We are never alone. So I’ve always written about my OCD. Private diaries that are destroyed on completion, countless books started and two blogs, one I’ve now retired in favour of this one.
I’ve been asked why I took the silent crazed moments of my mind to the masses. Many have referred to it as brave, strong and resilient. But if I’m honest, I feel none of those things, it’s an abyss to me. I’m talking into the wind of a cavern. It’s never felt like I was talking to someone, fact is I’m terrible at talking to people, really struggle, anxiety and overthinking gets ahead of the words I want to say and judges each one, interprets the impression they would leave and I find myself stuttering. You’d often find me buoyed up with dutch courage to calm the anxiety and then try and shut me up.
It’s a strange concept, I write in the most public forum, performing on the greatest stage yet I see myself stood there alone. Probably because I’m vulnerable, this is my story, my mind, my perfect flaw exposed and I’m sending it out there to be seen by those who know me, those that don’t, to see the ugly side of me, to see the me I hide so well.
It helps though, it helps me, it’s cathartic to go this is it, this is what keeps me trapped, the bars of my mind, I’m slowly finding the key to the lock. But it helps others, it’s a very misunderstood illness and whilst it is not all of me, for a long time it has been most of me and it will be the same for others, it gets better, gets easier, with help, persistence, patience but mostly time. The time to understand that I talk for those that have not found their words yet, the time to learn we are in this together, the time to realise you are never alone.
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