Last night I made a huge advance in my exposure therapy. I only kissed my youngest brother once before bed, rather than the usual requisite of twice. I cried, I screamed and I shouted, but I did not give in. The thing is, I would be prouder of myself, I would think more of this achievement if it were not for the fact that I did all of this in front of my family.
I think that it’s pretty well accepted that mental illness does not pick and choose – anyone from David Beckham (yes, another OCD sufferer) to the girl down the road can be struck down by an invisible illness. The thing that has got me thinking is the affect that this has on the family, on those that care for and love the crazy people of this world.
Whether it’s the endless reassurance that I demand in order to satiate the dragging doubt or the complicity in my rituals that I require, they certainly don’t get an easy ride. I will never have enough words to tell them, but I appreciate the fact that my mother will reply to the endless questions that I ask, repeating again and again that yes, it is off, I am thankful that my father will push me into doing the exposure therapy, that he will challenge me and yet give me a great big hug when I do make it. I will never be able to thank my youngest brother enough – at the age of ten and without any understanding of the condition he is my greatest cheerleader.
They live with this illness just as much as I do; they sit through the anxiety with me and celebrate when it falls, they calm me when I cannot breathe, so tight is the worry that squeezes me, they laugh with me when I need cheering up, they give me a kick when I don’t want to face my fears. And for that I am truly grateful. And truly sorry.
Obsessively compulsively yours,
Bellsie
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