A couple of months ago, I found myself standing perilously high on a shopping centre balcony. A day earlier, I had stood on a railway platform, inching closer and closer to the edge as the trains blasted past. I wasn’t suicidal: quite the opposite; I was petrified about the possibility of suicide and the quest for certainty, the impossible task of eliminating every inch of doubt that I could be capable of such an act, had made me very poorly indeed. Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) had reared its ugly head again, robbed me of my judgment and I was now on the road to curing it – through exposure therapy with my therapist such as the above.
Months earlier, I had been so intent on preventing myself from harm, I had spent Christmas avoiding any sort of travel at all. I would walk miles along edges of dual carriageways to avoid car travel, navigate 15 buses instead of the train and complete many obscure rituals in private to stay safe. What had started as normal intrusive thought, that most people have had (what if I jumped in front of this train?), grew into a gnawing obsession, a thirst for absolute certainty that could never be quenched.
I know that taking medication is the right thing for me, and will help me to be an amazing mum
Related: My son’s struggle with OCD showed me the unfairness people with mental illness face | Norman Lamb
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