Thief of Mind

by Ben Thomas

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” hooted Dad, looking pleased with himself until he saw both Jess and Jez staring at him. Mum was just looking confused.

  “Go on, Toby, we’re listening,” said Jess. And so I explained to them pretty much what I had told Rory, but this time in a controlled manner and using examples they would be familiar with, such as why I always got Mum to go round to my house to check for me, about why I go in and out of doors, why I’m always late, why I missed my rugby trial, why I thought I had caused Jess’ illness when she was a baby.

  It actually felt good, and even easy to do it. I didn’t feel that I was shaming myself, I felt that I was shaming him and commissioning reinforcements to show him what he was up against, to show that I was shining a light on his dark, mendacious practices, to show that I wasn’t alone anymore. It’s strange, but the more I spoke, the more empowered I felt, the stronger and more resilient I became. I wasn’t trying to gauge my audience’s reaction, I just wanted to tell my story.

  I concluded my testimony and focused on the faces of my family. They sat in silence. Even Jez, who was partly aware of my issues, looked shocked, but that was probably more to do with hearing me speak so freely and honestly.

  “So, ahem, I would now like to take questions from the audience,” I joked to try and relieve the tension.

  More silence.

  “Anyone got anything to say?”

  Still silence.

  This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, but then again I didn’t know what I was expecting. Had I done the right thing telling them? This wasn’t even him asking the question. This was me, rationally asking. Had I made the most colossal mistake?

  Perhaps sensing that I was wavering, Jez stepped in. “Toby, that was a really brave thing for you to do. It takes courage, and as you know you can get help, and this is a massively important step you’ve taken.” I nodded to Jez in appreciation. “And you can count on our full support, can’t he Jess?”

  At Jez’s cue I turned my attention to my sister.

  “Of course you can, bro, and don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay. In fact, it’s kind of trendy to have mental health issues these days. All the celebs are suffering with something.”

  Jez turned on Jess with a look of frustration. “Jess, I don’t think you should be trivialising this.”

  “No, no, I’m not,” shrieked Jess, leaning back in her seat, putting the palm of her hand on her chest protesting her innocence. “What I mean is that people are more prepared to open up about it. There’s less stigma these days.”

  “Thanks, Jess, I know what you’re saying…I think.” I turned to my parents. “Mum? Dad?” Mum sat impassively, staring straight at me. Dad was leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands together as if in prayer, then he looked at Mum and then at me.

  “Son,” he said, “I can’t say that I know a lot about mental health issues, and I can’t say I fully understand what you’re going through. But I know that we love you and I understand that you’re hurting, and we’ll do everything in our power to help you get better.”

  My heart swelled with pride and love at my Dad’s response. I looked over at Mum. “Are you okay, Mum?”

  She sat there as if struck dumb, slowly shaking her head.

  “Say something, Mum.”

  She whispered something that I couldn’t quite hear.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “We’ve let you down. We should have seen it and helped you before you got to this point. I’m so sorry, Toby.”

  “Mum, it’s not your fault. You’ve always been there for me, and that’s why I’m talking to you now.”

  “But you couldn’t talk to us earlier, could you?” Mum looked haunted. “We could have helped you earlier. We should have helped you earlier, when we had the chance. We’ve let you down…oh, how could we let this happen to you?”

  “Mum, you weren’t to know. I’ve kept it bottled up. I couldn’t admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.”

  “No…no, we have failed you. We should have done more for you…I thought you would have grown out of it…I thought it was a phase, I didn’t think any of it was serious…you’d grow out of it…that’s what they said…”

  “Come on, love, it’s okay,” said Dad, shuffling closer to Mum on the couch and putting his arm around her.

  “And what about you?” Mum angrily moved Dad’s arm away from her. “All your stupid comments about people with mental health problems making it up. No wonder our son couldn’t come to us.”

  “Hold on, everyone knows I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just something you say. I come out with stupid things sometimes.”

  “No, it’s not something you just say. He could have come to us sooner if it wasn’t for your ‘stupid things’.” Mum raised her voice as tears streaked down her face. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m ashamed. I mean what kind of parents are we to have him suffer so much and yet know nothing about it and do nothing about it?”

  “Mum, Mum,” I tried intervening, “neither you or Dad have done anything wrong. I need both of you now to help me get better.” I walked over to Mum and knelt down in front of her, taking hold of her hands. “I couldn’t ask for better parents to help me through this.”

  “Oh Toby, I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me,” said Mum, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me, “I love you so much. I never wanted you to go through any of this.”

  “Mum, there’s nothing to forgive you for.”

  I stayed in Mum’s arms for as long as possible, a range of emotion pouring out, both of us crying a cocktail of tears. For me the tears were triggered by love, pride and relief. I could feel Mum’s love, but what else was she feeling? Had my revelations hurt her?

  *

  Whereas Mum’s reaction had been somewhat confusing, Dad’s reaction had probably been the most surprising and pleasing. Like Mum said, Dad had from time to time made flippant comments about people suffering from stress and depression, but those comments weren’t fuelled by malice; at worst they were caused by ignorance. I was as guilty as Dad, if not more so; I saw that now. I had most definitely been prejudiced against mental health issues and had run scared of the stigma, and those prejudices had formed a wall blocking my path to help. As Dad said, he didn’t understand the issues but he understood me. He loved me and saw me not as a weirdo with ‘Mad’ tattooed on his forehead, but as a normal person who was having difficulties and needed help, and he was determined for me to get help.

  “Right, Dr Jez, what do we need to do to get my son better?” asked Dad as I perched on the edge of Mum’s chair.

  “Toby, you need to see your GP first.” My heart sank and my smile dissolved at Jez’s suggestion. I looked down at my feet, hoping Jez would suggest an alternative option.

  “Are you okay with that, Toby?” asked Mum, sensing my apprehension. She had settled down now but was subdued.

  “I know I should, but it’s one thing speaking about this to people I know and trust but going to the doctor makes it…you know…official.”

  “It’s no different than seeing the doctor about having the flu,” said Jez.

  “Or an STD,” harped Jess.

  “Jessica!” came the sharp response from Mum.

  Dad sprang to his feet, a sense of urgency taking over him. “Right, you can stay here tonight son, and then first thing in the morning we’ll ring for an appointment and I will take you there. I’ll even come in with you, if you like.”

  “Dad, it’s okay. There’s no need for that.”

  “We are going to do this as a family, Toby. I insist. Don’t make me have to send you to your room.” He said wagging a finger at me.

  I felt a bit weak having to have Dad as my minder, but I was actually glad of h
is suggestion. It was one thing being brave today, but would I be tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that?

  “What else can we do to help him, Jez?” asked Mum.

  “I think you should ask Toby that question.”

  “Oh, right,” said Mum, “Toby, what else can we do to help you?”

  I didn’t know the answer to that question yet, because I didn’t know how I was going to get better. I actually already felt a bit better after opening up, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think I was free. I was determined though. Determined to acquire the tools I needed to gain my freedom.

  “At the moment I’m brave enough, if that’s the right term, and strong enough to admit to you and myself that I want and need help. Tomorrow, though, I know I might not have the courage to get the help, even though I know I still want and need it. What I ask is that you remind me that I want to get help. Remind me and encourage me to be brave.”

  Mum put her arm around me as she said, “Oh Toby, you’re the bravest man I know.”

  The love and warmth I felt from her and the family fuelled my belief that I might just get through this. I might yet learn to live again.

  21

  “So, how did it go?” Dad asked as we got back into the car.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Can they fix you, then?”

  “Fix me? I’m not broken, Dad. I’ve just got a condition called OCD…apparently.”

  “OCD? What’s that, then? Sounds like a band.” As per, Dad smiled at his attempt at humour.

  “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and what it is, is what I’ve got.’

  I had stayed at Mum and Dad’s the previous night, but only on the proviso that Dad go back to my house to pick up some fresh clothes to save me staying all that day and the next in my stinking running gear. I sent Jess with Dad as I didn’t trust him to pick suitable clothes from my, albeit limited, wardrobe, and also, if I’m honest, to check that he had locked up the house properly and not left any taps on.

  It seemed a bit childish having to stay with Mum and Dad ostensibly for them to watch over me, but to be fair, I didn’t trust myself to stay resolute in the face of his attacks if I was alone. I needed to keep up this momentum, and if being guarded by my parents helped with that, then so be it. And so it was that the next day I was woken in the bedroom of my childhood by Mum with a cup of tea, telling me to hurry up as she had booked an appointment with the doctor in an hour’s time.

  True to his word, Dad had delivered me to the doctors. He tried his best to come in with me but I refused, thinking it was one thing at the age of thirty three having your parents book your doctor’s appointment, but another thing altogether having to have them come in with you. Besides, my parents couldn’t get inside my head to beat him. Only I could do that, so I had to learn to beat him by myself at some point.

  Dad made me promise I would be honest with the doctor, and I was. The doctor was female, about my age and I felt embarrassed telling her about my illness, but in an ironic twist, he helped me to tell her, because he reminded me that I had promised Dad I would be honest and therefore if I wasn’t honest, then bad things would happen. So I described my symptoms to the doctor, after which I felt compelled to ask the standard question – whether she thought I was weird or mad (I didn’t ask her if she thought I was the loser I felt I was). She assured me that I wasn’t mad or weird, and asked me to fill in a questionnaire that went through different scenarios and asked how much anxiety I felt in certain situations. She appraised the form and then asked me other questions, including whether I had ever felt suicidal. Yes, I had felt as low as I thought I could get, but I had never taken any steps towards actively considering suicide. She explained to me that she believed that I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. My immediate thought was that Jez was going to be a good doctor, as he had sussed that without the need of my confession or a questionnaire. She explained that it was a fairly common condition and affected 12 out of every 1000 people in the UK and it affected those people in various ways. She told me that medication might be an option but she felt I should try cognitive behavioural therapy first – and then explained what that was.

  I had a fear of medication and becoming reliant on it, so it was an easy choice to go for CBT. She said she’d refer me but that it could take six weeks or so. I couldn’t wait that long, so resolved to make an appointment to see Dr Jez.

  Dad hadn’t asked too many more questions on the way back. He could sense that I didn’t really want to talk too much. When we got back, Mum, in the way that mums do, started fussing over me, asking how it went? Had I explained everything? What was the next step? What could she and Dad be doing to help?

  I sighed and said, “Mum, I just want to go up to my room for a bit.”

  “You don’t want to be alone. You might have one of your…you know…moments,” Mum said in her best attempt at being subtle.

  “I’m always having one of my moments. But don’t worry, I just want to take some time out.”

  Mum took me by the hand, “Toby, we are here for you. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I know Mum.”

  “Okay, love.” She pressed her hand to my cheek, “I’ll call you when your lunch is ready. I’m cooking lasagne, your favourite. Oh, and I’ve washed your running kit for you.”

  I knew Mum meant well, and I probably did need her fussing over me, but the thought of her and Dad constantly watching my every step was incentive enough to get better. Still, lasagne for lunch and my laundry done…like Ryan had said, there were some perks of living with your parents. I just hoped that I wouldn’t end up staying with mine for six years as Ryan had with his.

  I lay down on the familiar comfort of my old bed in my old bedroom. It had long been redecorated in what I believed to be Duck Egg Blue and no longer had the football and rugby posters on the wall or the Star Wars curtains that had been put up when I was five and hadn’t been changed till I had left home at twenty-three. The same curtains which, looking back, were one of my earliest memories of having this ‘OCD.’ When I was about twelve or thirteen I started to check three times that they were closed, along with the drawers, wardrobe and door. If they were left slightly open, some sort of evil could seep out…or so I believed.

  I reflected on how my rituals had changed and grown in number over the subsequent years. I felt a mixture of emotions as I considered what the doctor had said to me. OCD? I had heard of it but never considered that I had it. You hear people say, ‘Oh, he or she’s a little bit OCD,’ when they’re always cleaning and tidying or when they are particularly fastidious. Well, I can’t say I’m always cleaning. I always thought my condition was unique to me. There’s no way I thought that anyone could possibly have what I have or understand it. Twelve in every thousand. I wondered how many people there were in Britain. How many were like me?

  I looked over to my old desk, on which sat the family computer. I got up and switched it on.

  He knew everything about me, but I didn’t know anything about him. But now my enemy had a name, I could get to know him; I could investigate him. So I typed OCD into my search engine and started voraciously reading all I could, determined to find out who and what this monster really was. He knew my weaknesses; it was time for me to discover his.

  I was amazed by what I read. There were so many revelations which shattered what I believed to be the general conceptions about OCD. Certainly it confounded my misconceptions. Yes, there were examples of OCD manifesting in people’s need for tidiness and cleanliness, but that was just one example. There were people who hoarded, people who had to wash themselves relentlessly because they were afraid of germs. There were also lots of parallels with my experiences. The constant checking of locks, doors, taps was extremely common, and while this was reassuring, I didn’t find it too surprising as you could see the rational thread in checking, even if the constant repetition was irrational.
What I was most surprised about was that a lot of people suffered from catastrophizing and magical thinking, and were troubled by various words or numbers. Yes, the words may be different to the ones that bothered me, but the context was the same. I’ll be honest, I was wondering how on earth those people in the examples I read about could ever be scared of that number or that word. I mean, they were just numbers, they were just words; they didn’t mean anything. But then again, most people would think the same about my words.

  While I read, he was remarkably quiet, I believe because aside from me being absorbed in what I read, he was running scared, because he was being exposed. I was beginning to see him as he really was: as a liar and a bully. However, if I’m honest, I was fairly troubled by the thought that by reading others’ experiences of OCD I might ‘catch’ more OCD and I might be fuelling him with new ideas and inspiring new horrors. I was relieved, therefore, when I read a paragraph saying this was not likely to be the case. As I said, the checking I could more or less rationalise, but the magical thinking and catastrophizing I believed was singular to me, and this was what really made me weird. Here, though, I was reading other people’s accounts of their OCD which could have been based on my own experiences, as if somebody had read my diary.

  I thought I was making up my issues, but it turns out my issues were real, and I wasn’t by any stretch the only one suffering. I had just read about a man who was fearful of numbers with a five in them. He felt he had to avoid reading, hearing or saying such numbers. I took a deep breath and said out loud, “Five, fifty-five, five hundred and fifty-five, five million five hundred and fifty-five thousand five hundred and fifty-five plus five.” I waited. Nothing. It didn’t bother me in the slightest.

  Reading all about OCD gave me a feeling of real relief that it wasn’t just me and I wasn’t making it up, but I also felt guilty and embarrassed. Embarrassed by my ignorance. I had been worried about how other people viewed me, always worrying about being judged negatively and labelled. My prejudice was as bad as anyone’s though, and it was this prejudice that had to a large extent prevented me from getting help. I felt guilty that there were clearly others suffering from OCD and other types of mental illness, like Rory and perhaps Kev, but I had never noticed, or apparently cared to notice.