I Loved You More

I must have counted the windows in my living room at least nine times before I was satisfied there were exactly twelve of them, six small and six large. Sometimes I don't count the windows, I count the frames around them. There are four on each window, I follow the square pattern in my head and count each and every one of them. There were forty eight this morning, and I know full well there will be forty eight when I count them again later on. I need to count, it relaxes me and calms my mind, I find it hard to focus on anything these days. If I don't count I start to think, and thinking
upsets me too much, as I get fixated on negative melancholic thoughts. I've been counting like this for the past three years, five months, and eighteen days. That was the day my whole world
collapsed and it turned upside down. My husband’s boss phoned me to check if I was ok, assuming I already knew. I guess he'll have to live with that mistake for the rest of his life, after all it
wasn't his place to tell me my husband had died.

So, just like that he was gone, my beloved husband of two and a half years had died and left me all alone. He was my best friend and my world, and now all I feel is empty. I vividly recall the day it happened; it was an ordinary Tuesday morning, rushing about getting ready for work. He complained of feeling slightly under the weather, exclaiming he had a headache and slight numbness in his left arm. Of course I just put it down to stress and exhaustion as he'd been working quite long hours, as most high school teachers do. I quickly found a packet of paracetamol at the bottom of my handbag, and shoved them in his hand, then left for work. That was the last time I saw him alive, apparently he never got as far as the end of the road. A post mortem examination found
that he'd suffered a massive stroke while driving, lost control of the car and died instantly. I started to count things mechanically almost instantly, and felt the need to rearrange things around my
house. Bathroom towels were folded meticulously, tins were lined up in height order in the cupboards, nothing was out of place. Keeping myself busy counting and re-arranging things helps me control the intrusive thoughts that attack my mind. My sister nags me incessantly to see a doctor, but I refuse. I know my behaviour isn’t normal, but I never asked for all this, it was thrust upon me.

To any stranger on the street I must look perfectly normal, I have no obvious scars or any physical injuries, but an illness such as mine is controlling and debilitating, and for the sufferer it can be quite shameful. My sister seems to think I'm suffering from survivors guilt which is manifesting itself in obsessive behaviour. I've spent numerous hours on Google trying to find out about OCD, my shameful condition. I know I've developed obsessive behaviour as a coping mechanism, and I think I've got it under control. I'm no where near as bad as the people I've read about on the internet, at least I can still go to work. Admittedly I do count a lot, and it does relax me, but it has in no way impeded me from functioning with day to day activities. My obsessive behaviour helps me control the huge void I have in my life since my beloved husband died. When those intrusive thoughts enter my head, counting comes as a welcome distraction. I have the attention span of a goldfish, watching television or reading a book has become a significant challenge.

Truthfully, this condition is exhausting. I'm tired of living like this, and I do wonder how long I can keep up the pretence. I miss my husband so much, I feel so lost without him. From the first time I met him at university, I knew I would marry him. The fact is, I've always been quite an anxious person, even as a child I wasn't content unless I had something to worry about. I'd lie awake at night fretting over the smallest of things. My teenage years were beset by panic attacks, although by the time I started university they just stopped. I buried my anxieties well, yet they decided to rear their ugly head when my husband suddenly passed away.

So,here I am, three years, five months and eighteen days later, not sure where I'm supposed to fit in. I don't look forward to tomorrow and live in fear of the present, my mind has become a prison cell. I'm well aware that I'm ill, but having an obsessive compulsive disorder is scary, lonely and debilitating. The desire to conceal the mental pain only increases the pressure. People can't see my
pain because it isn't physical, yet I hurt just as much as someone with broken bones. No one likes to talk about it openly, which only adds to feeling even more isolated and alone. One of the
hardest thing I've had to deal with are the intrusive thoughts that torment me. For example, yesterday my mother arranged to visit me, but instead of driving over she decided to take the bus. Of course when she didn't arrive on time, I imagined all sorts of terrible things had happened to her on route. In the space of her forty minutes delay, I thought she'd been mugged walking to my house and was lying in some ditch alone with horrific injuries. When that wasn't dramatic enough, I thought she'd been taken ill and was lying in an A&E ward knocked unconscious, unable to speak to identify
herself. I know I have a mental illness, and it scares the hell out of me.

I suppose that's the first step to recovery, actually admitting that I have a problem. The world seems such a cold and daunting place without having my husband by my side to lean on. He would often tell me how suited we were to one another, he was my rock. My thoughts and ideas were always way off somewhere in the clouds, but he would keep my feet firmly on the ground, gently pulling me back down to earth. If he was here right now he would be telling me to think it
through and not to make any rash decisions. However, my calm and logical husband isn't here, he's six feet under and it's time I boarded my train. I think about how desperate I am for a change of
scenery, just wanting to be somewhere different. As the train sets off from the platform I begin to count the borders of the windows and the shape of the chairs, I'm hit by the stark realisation that
no matter where I go, or whatever new surroundings I have, my obsessive compulsive behaviour will stay with me for a long time yet. For now at least it's a welcome comfort.