Don’t think about it, do it

I was asked to take part in the 2nd OCD Blog-Hop project with other bloggers who also aim to raise awareness of the realities of life with OCD.

The topic we were given was ‘favourite quotes’.  Here is my contribution.

The quote that first sprang to mind was actually a song lyric.

Do it! is a song I know from 1987 and The Rollins Band, although the original recording was from 70s English Psychedelic band Pink Fairies.

“Don’t think about it, do it

Don’t talk about it, do it
Do it, do it

Don’t lie about it, do it
Do it, do it”

Says a fair bit to me about tackling the issues of OCD rather than skirting around them.

“Don’t think about it, do it”… The information and help is out there.  Don’t think about going to your GP, do it tomorrow and DEMAND treatment.  Each week spent thinking about seeking help is a week you’re not getting better.


“Don’t talk about it, do it”… You don’t get an infinite amount of CBT sessions in a course.  Don’t waste them talking for hour after hour about what may or may not have happened in your week or the causes of your illness.

Tackle the issues head on while you have the chance and expertise at hand.


“Don’t lie about it, do it”… We get good at this!

Was that a check back there?… No…LIE!

Do you really need to go back to that shop?… Yes…LIE!

Did you wash your hands in there?… No…LIE!

Have you done all the tasks I set you this week?… YES…LIE!

You get the picture.  Every little lie to ourselves and others feeds the OCD beast in us.  Tackle it with honesty; you’re only cheating yourself out of a better future.


Hope (Living on a prayer)

I was recently asked to take part in a Blog-Hop project with some other bloggers who also aim to raise awareness of the realities of life with OCD.

The title we were given was ‘HOPE’.  Here is my little contribution.



What does hope mean to me?  Good question and one I’ve never really considered before.

An initial thought that springs to mind is that it’s a bit like prayer, but without all the associated religious mumbo jumbo /baggage /connections /horseshit (delete as applicable).

An example of this thought process for me would be when a disaster or tragedy hits the news.

You get the usual well natured god botherers stating how they are going to ‘pray for the victims’, as if only they can bring relief through the act of talking to an imaginary sky fairy.

Us less worthy ‘souls’ are left to do something virtually the same but without the blessing of an old story book or priest … HOPE.

‘I hope the people affected recover’ or ‘I hope that doesn’t happen again’.  Does this mean any less because it has no biblical endorsement? … No, didn’t think so.

The REAL heroes here are obviously not the hopers or the prayers, but the good folk actually DOING something physical to help, be it on the ground in person or by fundraising.


Anyway, mini-rant over and back to the word HOPE. 

I hope a LOT of things.

Some of these are just that … hopes.  The type of hope I could easily replace with pray if I was so inclined!

I hope my family enjoy good health and luck, I hope I win the lottery; I hope my football team win on Saturday.

I could pray for these or hope for these or both; won’t make much difference either way.

Luck, chance and, if you believe it, destiny will take care of these things and me talking to myself, the clouds, a statue or any random imaginary being will make absolutely no difference whatsoever.


Then there are some REAL hopes.  Hopes that I CAN influence.

I hope I can be healthy, I hope I’m good at my job, I hope people think I’m nice, I hope my friends and family are happy, I hope OCD is understood better in the future, I hope I can recover from this horrible illness that’s ruined my life.

Praying for these will have absolutely zero effect … how can it?  It’s just talk with nothing to back it up.

With REAL HOPE comes real action and real inspiration.

I HOPE I CAN BE HEALTHY – I can’t stop illness or disease coming to my door, but I can best prepare myself to fight it off by living a clean, healthy and active lifestyle.

I HOPE I’M GOOD AT MY JOB – Preparation, study and dedication will set most of us down the right path with this one.

I HOPE PEOPLE THINK I’M NICE – Even the most hardened and cynical of us surely want to be liked, or at least respected.  You tend to get what you serve with this one I guess, for better or for worse.

I HOPE MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY ARE HAPPY – More down to them than us, but our behaviour and influence can certainly bear some fruit in the welfare of those we care for.

I HOPE OCD IS BETTER UNDERSTOOD IN THE FUTURE – IT WILL BE!!  There are a lot of dedicated and good people; professionals, sufferers and carers out there pushing the awareness message home on a daily basis.  I hope in my own little way I can add myself to the bottom of that list.


It’s not going to come to us though.  We cannot simply ‘pray’ to get better; hope requires so much more than that.

It requires us giving all we can, learning all we can, being prepared to take the rough with the smooth, dealing with the inevitable knock backs, chasing the best treatments, acknowledging that the system isn’t perfect but that it’s what we currently have and that we have to work with it and try to improve it.

It requires us to accept that we may need to be selfish and think about ourselves first sometimes, even if this feels somewhat alien and uncomfortable.


Life is real. 

It can be changed and improved by positive actions and thoughts … or you can live life on a wing and a prayer.




Out, damned spot!

Yesterday I saw something.

Something red.

A spot of red liquid.

Actually a splash of red/pink soap that had dropped onto the plastic skirting board between the sinks in the gents toilets at work.


This got me thinking…and as you can see, ultimately got me writing.

What would I have seen 4 years ago?

If I had looked at the same thing 4 years ago would it have looked any different?

The answer of course is no.  It would have looked the same.

I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder not a vision problem.


A more testing question would be “would it have FELT any different?”

Felt different??  How can looking at a nondescript splash of soap ‘feel’ different?

The key with this ‘feeling’ is what happens directly upon looking at this red spot.

What does the mind do with this new information it comes into contact with?


For the non-OCD blighted brain, “not a lot” would probably be the answer.

Maybe “who made this mess?” possibly “oh, I’d better tidy this up” or “bugger, our dispenser is leaking”, but in all probability nothing – or at least nothing after that initial recognition and thought.

Certainly not any lingering fears that may still be tormenting minutes, hours or even days later!


So how does it feel to me?

Well yesterday it felt bemusing, and caused me to do some reflecting.

Reflecting on how this would have made me feel 4 years ago when gripped in OCD’s spiteful, twisting grasp, compared to the smirk it had put on my face now.


What had actually changed?

The soap?  No, that was still just soap for cleaning hands; nothing more, nothing less.

The venue?  No, it was still the staff toilet at work; no cleaner, no dirtier.

My eyesight?  Well I need specs for reading now, but I don’t think my eyes were ever bad enough to mistake the whole scenario and write the stories in my mind that would have unfolded.


What has actually changed?

ME!  My head, the chemicals in my brain and the way my mind responds to certain triggers.

Yesterday my eyes saw some red soap.  My brain processed this; said “Haha that’s funny, I used to cower in fear of that” and then moved on to some other thought such as “are my flies undone?” or “can I manage to throw this paper towel in the bin without missing?”


What I didn’t do – Initially process the vision as that of some spilt soap, then throw doubt and suspicion on to that accurate assessment with a series of irrational intrusive thoughts which cast a whole range of make believe possible scenarios of what it was, how it got there and how it would affect my life going forward.

This sudden reverse biblical style skill of turning soap into blood and weaving a story of how this (now OBVIOUSLY contaminated) blood had jumped up onto the sink and taps and therefore on to my hands and thus, despite sustained repetitive vigorous hand washing, on to a tea bag or chip and into my mouth, before miraculously entering my bloodstream, giving me HIV and prematurely ending my life and those of my family that I had clumsily contaminated in some strange toothbrush related incident….you get the picture?

This wouldn’t be some side story to dip into when bored either; this would be the main act dominating centre stage, only interrupted by the need to occasionally focus on your job or some other welcome distraction.

Once this horror story had backed off a little in its intensity, I down scaled it slightly.  Maybe from a Code Red to Code Amber.

Now my hands were clean ‘enough’.  But the floor and hence my shoes were not.  This was on the skirting board – shoe level. 

These would need inspecting and isolating from home, maybe by leaving outside or in my van for as long as I deemed it ‘necessary’.  Obviously I would need to wash my hands A LOT after shoe removal, well ‘enough’ anyway.

And what about the toilet door handle?  If someone had bled it would be on their hands surely?  A well-practiced system of hand washing/ hands-free door use would need implementing.  Probably safer to just use another toilet all together, can’t be TOO careful …can we????


Ah, I can always play my trump card.  I’ll ‘clear it’ with someone else, someone NORMAL.

If I carefully mention “oh, I see the soaps leaking” maybe a colleague will inadvertently confirm this thesis and relieve my pain.  To ask outright would obviously blow my ‘cover’ – not cool with our mental health stigma still ridiculously in place.

Take a photo to show a loved one ‘in the know’ later?  Never thought of that one personally, but some sufferers do apparently.

My preferred tactic to drop my anxiety levels was often to slyly swing the conversation around with my long suffering wife to “oh, I think our soap dispenser is broken, either that or there was blood on the floor (little laugh to make it sound unimportant) …DO YOU THINK IT WAS??!!”

Unfortunately/fortunately she wised up to this pretty quickly and ruined that little outlet of relief.

OCD just loves a willing/unknowing accomplice!


Finally I may have talked myself into starting to believe this is some harmless substance after all. 

Best to make sure though, eh?  How to do that?  Take as many opportunities to inspect, stare at, check and convince myself as possible.

Feigning some stomach upset should give me ample excuse for frequent ‘comfort breaks’ throughout the day, each one lowering the specific anxiety but simultaneously fuelling the OCD beast inside.

OCD feeds off reassurance and rituals; the more you feed it, the more it craves and needs.


4 years, 1 spot of soap, 2 eyes, 1 mind.  BIG DIFFERENCE.


RECOVERY, well worth the fight.



OCD & the Implications to Bringing Up Children (Part 2)


For part 1 see here


Once the initial shock of the first week or two of fatherhood was over, the realities of the new batch of anxieties on the table started to kick in.


Most of my issues up until now had involved me in the most part.  Things that I might have done, or that may have happened to me.


My family and friends ‘normalness’ meant that I was not overly concerned about them, as they were big and ugly/sensible enough to look after themselves.




Hand washing now took on a new dimension as it now affected 2 of us; me AND a baby.

New rituals surrounding bottle preparation, food serving and nappy changing added to the already extensive collection of unnecessary washes in my arsenal.


Fortunately I didn’t develop any unwanted need to keep checking the baby when she was sleeping (well no more than any first time parent does anyway).


Being a November birth, I didn’t have to worry about crawling around on playground floors and parks for a few months, but that didn’t stop our house floor becoming an imaginary death-trap.

Any mark, piece of fluff, crumb or, worse of all, red or shiny thing needed to be inspected to within an inch of its life to confirm to me it wasn’t going to miraculously imbed itself in the baby and cause it harm. 

Actually picking these things up and disposing of them was its usual traumatic ritual of over inspection.  Taking in and out of the bin or hoover to reassure myself it wasn’t some diseased needle, and followed by the subsequent hand washing frenzy.


Shoe removal and inspection also ramped up at this time the living room floor had now become the inevitable playroom/dining table/nappy change area combination.

Any of the blood I was imaginarily treading in on a daily basis would now not solely be being transferred to the place we walked and put our feet while watching the telly, but also to every toy, dummy, bottle and snack that was dropped onto the floor and subsequently entered my little girls’ mouth.

This resulted in much panic from me as I raced about picking things up, checking the floor, washing them off/swapping them and doing all the correctly ordered associated hand wash rituals. 


Easy to ‘get away with’ when it was just me and the wife at home, but tricky to mask and police when grandparents, friends and family were visiting as the depth and severity of my condition was still secret to them.

Oddly, what went on during the days I was at work or away from mum and baby didn’t really bother me. 

Although I knew that my ‘safety levels’ would be being broken constantly, that didn’t concern me as, with OCD, we KNOW that others are the ones with the correct compass of fear and worry, not the sufferer.

The removal of responsibility making it ‘not my fault’ is a common issue in OCD and is often a blurred and confusing place that is wildly out of touch with the reality of the situation at hand.


Maybe it’s my relative lack of involvement at this early stage (or my good acting/masking) that has not led my over protective activities from influencing my now 6 year old into becoming an over cautious kid?


Some of the more bizarre, extreme (and expensive!) episodes of my illness took place during this time.

As well as the huge ramp up in hand washing and cleaning products being devoured, we could add to that list countless food products and meals, dummies, bottles, a sterilizer and a microwave oven!

The latter two were in a frenzied afternoon during which OCD convinced me that a baby’s bottle had come into contact with some varnish which meant it inevitably needed washing.  A sink wash wasn’t sufficient for this in my mind, so a blast in the microwave heated sterilizer was in order…expensive mistake!

Within an hour, and despite huge protests from a desperate wife, I had convinced myself that the £60 sterilizer unit was now poisoned and was going to kill my little girl.

Duly despatched to the wheelie bin, my frantic mind now turned to the microwave which then suffered the same fate.

£200 down the toilet for something most would never even consider worth a mention or even a wash in the sink, yet I had turned into a catastrophic turn of events that was going to rip our hearts out.


It was in the first year or so of my daughters’ life that I accessed my first course of CBT treatment.   I was in pretty rough way, off of medication and probably in the worst state of health I’d been in since we moved to our current location.

Looking back, I should probably have gone back to the pills earlier and insisted on fully professional psychological help rather than the enthusiastic, but lacking in experience and specific expertise treatment I received from the local authorities Gateway team.

This CBT was spread across the various strands of OCD I was enduring, but mostly around the contamination side of things from handling needles and syringes, being exposed to photos of blood, home visits during which I was observed and helped through carrying out tasks without hand washes and accompanied walking whilst not checking the floor.  Pro-active, good work but a little scattergun and un-focused.


When this CBT, despite being a good experience and giving me foundations for future success didn’t ‘cure’ me, I went back on medication and got a bit better for a while before lapsing again when my daughter was about two.


It was during this time that I let a wider part of my family into knowing the extent of my problems.  My parents were supportive as expected but sort of in a ‘you’ll be alright/let’s not talk about it’ kind of way.

My in-laws, who spent a large amount of time with my kid, found out during a particularly uncomfortable episode I was having regarding a meat/blood/shopping/cooking obsession.

This ‘coming out’ certainly made things more comfortable for me.

Rather than thinking that this would enable and encourage compulsions, it had the reverse effect because the lowering of tension, worry and desires to mask my actions actually led to a reduced ‘need’ for them.


Other positive things were starting to occur too.  Despite being really up and down with my OCD, work was going well and I was promoted to full Lecturer status and grasped the added responsibilities with both hands.

I also somehow managed to fall back in love with the bicycle and exercise.

A lifelong affection for riding had taken a back seat for a couple of years as I couldn’t make myself ride and when I did I’d had a few difficult episodes which had ruined the experience.

A couple of old friendships had also surprisingly rekindled which had helped to reinvigorate my fighting spirit.



All of a sudden it was on!  War had commenced and a corner was about to be turned.

I had a kid I was scared to play with, a wife who was running out of patience I was approaching 40 years of age.  Things couldn’t continue this way.  I HAD TO FIGHT.


After a horrifically troubled weekend culminating in our front room window being smashed by local youths (don’t ask!) and the massive stresses and obsessions this invoked, I dragged my sorry ass back to the doctors and DEMANDED action.


I am fortunate to have a great GP who has a sympathetic and professional attitude and grasp of my anxiety issues and whom I feel very comfortable talking to.

He agreed that further treatment was necessary and was willing to get this into place ASAP.  The demanding took place with concern to who would be carrying out this treatment.

The suggestion was that I return to the Gateway team for another stint.



I’d done my homework a bit by now and knew what I needed.

I wanted a psychologist and I wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t rude or aggressive as that’s not getting anyone anywhere.  Strong and assertive were more the words that spring to mind.  Not easy with our illness I know, so if need be take a strong, informed, and angry looking : ), friend or relative along to fight for you if you think it’ll help.


…and it worked!  A week or so later I was being properly assessed for an illness I had already been receiving medication and therapy for for years??  How’s that possible NHS?!

Funnily enough they agreed that I was indeed suffering with the same illness I’d been told I had several years earlier?? 

This triggered a few weeks wait for a new improved CBT course, with guess what? … a TRAINED PROFESSIONAL!  Even then she hadn’t quite finished her training, but as I was her final case study and all my visits and sessions were going to be written up for her thesis and reviewed with her mentor I felt safe that I would be in good hands and that all the correct processes and procedures would be in place.


There’s no magic wand with CBT, and it’s not a ‘one fix wonderfix’ cure, but by making the most of the opportunity it is possible to make significant improvements and to set you on the way to relative ‘normality’ whatever that is.  (See my OCD patients guide to CBT blogpost for more on this).


Number 2!

A second child was always on the cards once the first had arrived.  As stated earlier, I chose to continue on my medication at this stage (20mg Paroxetine) so as not to fall backwards.

My more relaxed state allowed this to not trouble me, and it’s only now typing this that I remember it at all.

A 2 ½ year old and a pregnant wife are a fine combination to keep you busy and motivated and the fact I can remember little of any OCD related incidents during this time speaks volumes.

We moved house again just for good measure and a few couple of months after our daughters 3rd birthday we had a bouncing baby boy to bring home.


The improvements I had made and continue to make since that successful CBT course have made the second time fatherhood experience so much more enjoyable. 


Monitors?  What monitor!  We didn’t bother this time.  The precision and delicacy with washing and sterilizing was replaced with a more haphazard approach that was more akin to the realities of the ‘dangers’ at hand.

Trips to playgrounds were now not feared, but enjoyed as I got to look at the joy in the kids’ faces rather than the dropped screws on the floor and the dirty marks on the apparatus.

Nappy changing was now, if not embraced, then certainly just a job that needed doing.

Meals out were not a contamination fest of crockery, cutlery and table inspections.  They were just the horrible scream-athon endured by parents worldwide : ).


He’s three now and his big sister is nearly seven.  And they’re great.

I’m not ‘cured’ but I am a hundred times improved from just a few years ago.  I still take medication daily, but I am experimenting with my GP to reduce this. 


To be fair it took a while to get around to my current view on medication. If I had a bad back I would take medicine, if I had heart or organ anomalies I would take medicine and if I had diabetes I may well be injecting myself daily.


Why is me rebalancing the chemicals in my brain worse than any of these? 

Because of a stigma that means Mental Health is the elephant in the room with regards to our wellbeing?

Well I’m sorry, but I’m not buying into that.  Well I’m not sorry at all to tell the truth.


I’m not going to apologise for wanting to be well enough to support and love my family. 

I’m not going to apologise for wanting to be well enough to follow my ambitions with running and cycling. 

I’m not going to apologise for wanting to be well enough to teach my students and prepare them for their lives and careers. 

And I’m not going to apologise for being well enough to write and talk about MY life.

And I hope that if ANYONE takes ANYTHING from my ramblings and that it helps in ANYWAY then that’s terrific.


Steve (JUST A DAD)

OCD & the Implications to Bringing Up Children


Please don’t touch, I CARE too much (A dads tale)


A reasonable amount of research has been done looking into the links between OCD, Motherhood and Post Natal Depression.

I can only imagine some of the feelings and anxieties a cocktail of these three hugely challenging life events could bring.

There are some great minds looking into these cases, with far more knowledge, expertise and experience than me so I’ll leave it to them to comment on that particular subject.


Something I can look at with a fair degree of knowledge and experience however is being a DAD with OCD.

Whether this can develop post natal, I’m not too sure, although the stresses, strains and exposure to potential trigger issues would incline me to think it could.

What I can do is look at the way my OCD affected our decisions to have children, the choices we made once committed to going down this journey, the problems that have arisen and how we have overcome them and how I now look at things moving forward as a family.


First a little background information.

Bar a few little things that I can look back on now, I was pretty much OCD-free until my early 30s.  I would certainly not have been diagnosed as a sufferer, and was in no need of any form of treatment as I led a relatively care free happy and full life.


My OCD developed and took a grip of me in about 2002-3 following the coinciding of two emotionally challenging relationship breakups and two fairly serious bike related injuries, one of which led to me being off work for a summer and the other a year later that not only left me needing to take six months off work, but that also meant that I couldn’t go back to my trade as a builder afterwards as a result of the injuries severity.

During my convalescence from the second of these accidents was when I met/re-met my now wife whom I had known for a long time, but not seen for several years.

This was at the time that my OCD was just starting to bite.


A few years passed during which my mental health seriously declined, yet somehow I managed to forge a new career in education, moved sixty miles from the ‘anxiety ridden’ place we had been living and got married.

Simply moving and getting a new job are never going to be enough to defeat something as overpowering as OCD, so we kind of struggled on until a combination of medication and therapy got me to an almost acceptable level of living.


Now the idea of starting a family had always been on the table as my wife was always determined to have children.

It had mostly been just a background thought for me up until this point, as although I knew this was coming, the other things going on in my life and mind were keeping me plenty busy enough!

Once it was decided we were going to start trying for kids though, there was no going back and I vowed to give it as much effort and energy as I could to make myself well enough to be the best dad I could.



At the time of our decision to have kids, I had been taking SSRI medication for a number of years to help with my attempts at recovery and to ‘knock the edge’ off of my anxieties.

With the limited level of information you are given as a patient I had no idea of any possible effects of taking medication whilst conceiving.

Worries; irrational OCD ones or genuine cautious ones (who knows), of certain medicines effects on babies meant I was determined to stop my meds for a few months leading into this.

I did this, and kept myself med-free for the first year or so of my daughter’s life until having a relapse and needing to get on them again.

For my second child I was much more relaxed about the situation and didn’t stop taking them at all.  I didn’t look into the issue, but figured that people are abusing their bodies with a hell of a lot worse substances such as alcohol and drugs than by me taking a mild dose of medicine, and that me being a healthy and capable Dad was more of a genuine concern.

This has seemingly been a good decision, as my involvement, effectiveness and enjoyment as a parent have been vastly improved second time around.

Not having had a break in my care has also been beneficial as it has, along with a successful course of CBT, helped me recover enough that my behaviour would now probably not be diagnosed as OCD driven and I am now starting to slowly decrease my medication doses.


Sexual Contamination

Not something that’s easy to write or talk about for many, myself included.

Anyone who suffers with contamination OCD (solely or as part of their ‘package’) will have a pretty strong view or even fear of what is essentially something that is not only necessary for our species to survive, but should also be one of the most fulfilling and enjoyable parts of a couple’s relationship.

It’s a crying shame that at the same time as thousands of virtual strangers can be drunkenly ‘knobbing’ away without a moments thoughts to the consequences, two loving caring people can be kept from even touching each other by a crappy illness one of them is unfortunate enough to have.

Needless to say, if contamination anxieties are the dominating thoughts in your mind ALL DAY EVERY DAY, then acts which involve hands, mouths, genitals and worst of all bodily fluids are going to provoke some pretty unpleasant, uncomfortable and at times terrifying feelings.

The obvious/easy option is of course abstinence.

Effective enough, but not a great course of action for budding parents or those hoping for a long, happy and fulfilling relationship.

Mine and I’m sure many others compromise was, for a few years, to sanitise the situation as best practical.

It must be said though that prolonged hand washing sessions before and after, the application of plasters to any cuts or abrasions on the hands, in depth condom inspections and immediate showering are not the finest aphrodisiac in the world!

Small price one thinks at the time though, compared to years of irrational thoughts that you have somehow been infected by, or worse infected your loved one with, a killer disease.

Now take the condom out of the equation and watch the anxieties and fear levels ramp up drastically.


This led to the next inevitable reassurance/avoidance incident … THE BLOOD TESTS!!

This had been something that I had equally wanted and feared for a LONG time.

Dating back some fifteen years to the first scary (and in this case genuine) contamination issue I can remember, involving a nose piercing being knocked out and made to bleed and being replaced with a mates earring.

This and every genuine, exaggerated or imagined contamination incident since, be they medical, injury, work based, tattoo and piercing related or from my once ‘normal’ love life, was on my mind when I broached the subject of blood tests with the wife.

I say TEST(S), as one wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy Mr OCD.  Both of us were going to need them.  Not the easiest thing to suggest to a partner of many years who you share a life and a trust with.

A week or so later we are sat somewhere about as uncomfortable as is possible with this illness … the CLINIC!

Home of the ‘promiscuous, dirty, needle sharing, bareback riding types’ you are the exact polar opposite of (well that’s what your mind tells you anyway).

Even sitting on a chair or using a pen here is massively disturbing.

This is a place that is fully loaded with anxiety triggers for my OCD obsessions.  Fear of contamination from touching ‘dirty’ doors/chairs/pens etc. fear of being overheard saying something (even if I don’t say it), limited opportunities to return to rooms to check floors and chairs for ‘bad things’ and then the big N … NEEDLES!

You’ve got to love the irony of fearing the very test that gives you the answers to some of your longest lasting fears.

Not just dreading the results, as many would, but also the process and venue involved.

Just how ridiculous do you feel asking a nurse if she is being hygienic, if the needles are new and how they are disposed of?

Any physical discomfort or pain is at this point overpowered to the point of irrelevance.


A few days later we get a couple of text messages giving us the all-clear.   TEXT MESSAGES!! Don’t they realise that won’t do!

Could it have been sent to the wrong number? no, my names on it.

Shall I phone to check it’s for ALL potential illnesses? no, that’s what I asked for, and they are professionals who are not quite as barmy as me.

Three years I kept that text message on my phone until the phone died and I had to live without the knowledge that it was there.

Did that cause some drastic relapse?  Of course not!  OCD doesn’t work that logically.



With all obvious obstacles now removed, a few months later we found ourselves in proud possession of a pregnant tummy.

We timed this wonderfully to coincide with a house purchase and a job promotion for me just to add some more fun and anxiety.

NCT classes were attended to prepare us for parenthood and write a pointless birth plan that went out the window the moment inducement was required.

Bit of a result for me really, I’m not sure I’d have survived a water birth in a ‘contaminated’ pool or second hand bouncy ball to bend over!

For my wonderful wife’s dignity I’ll spare all details of childbirth stories and just say it was long, painful looking and tiring for all concerned.  Oh, and midwives in general are superstars and there aren’t enough of them.

As for OCD levels during this, well they seemed to take a backseat in this case in the face of overwhelming competition from love and awe.

The only thing I can remember is a bit of panic that babies might get mixed up after our little girl was taken to a room of other babies for a few hours.  Thank goodness for birthmarks.

I even managed to drive home from the hospital alone in the middle of the night without resorting to countless of my driving related compulsions.

Part 2 to follow soon