day and night, my brain generates images of things that have happened to me and things that might happen. It’s like watching a horror movie over and over again, without ever becoming immune to the terror. If I can get things right, do things in the right order, check things properly, follow the correct rhythm, then the pictures go away for a while. If I can get out of the door and know for sure that everything is definitely secure in the flat, then I will get a few hours where the worst feeling I have is a vague discomfort, as though something’s amiss but I can’t put my finger on it. More often, though, I do the best I can with the checking and, assuming I make it out of the house at all, I then spend the rest of the day worrying about whether I did it right. Then the whole day will be filled with these images of what might be waiting for me when I get home. If I don’t choose a different route home every night, then someone will follow me. You get the picture. It’s not a pretty one.
Whatever this is, it snuck up on me and now it’s here to stay. Every once in a while I catch myself forming a new rule. Last week I found myself counting steps again, something I’ve not done for years. That’s certainly one I can do without. But I don’t seem to be able to control myself anymore. I’m getting worse, not better.
So, it was Saturday again, and an odd-numbered day, and I’d run out of bread and teabags. The teabag issue was a big one, because tea is another important rule, particularly at weekends. I know that if I don’t have cups of tea at eight, ten, four and eight o’clock I will grow increasingly anxious, both from the failure to get things right, and probably from the lack of caffeine. I looked in the garbage, where my 8 a.m. teabag, stupidly discarded before I saw that it was the last one, lay among potato peelings and last night’s spaghetti sauce, and for a brief moment I considered fishing it out to reuse. But that wouldn’t have worked either.
The mere fact that I had been stupid enough to run out of teabags was enough to cause a heightened state of anxiety; I’m very good at the self-blame thing. If I went out to buy teabags, I would not be able to check the house properly because it wasn’t an even-numbered day today. I might be able to get teabags and bring them back to the house, but in the meantime someone could have broken in, and would be waiting for me to return.
I spent more than an hour fretting over which was the worst of the two options—which rule was the more important? In order to try to get the images out of my head, I checked the flat several times, each time getting it slightly wrong. The more times I did it, the more tired I was getting. Sometimes I get stuck like this. Eventually I physically can’t check anymore.
And a small, small voice of reason at the back of my head, trying to be heard above the cacophony of self-reproach, was screaming this is not normal.
By a quarter to ten, I was scrunched into a corner, a small tight knot on the verge of self-destruction, when I heard it—the sound of the front door being closed—properly—and footsteps on the stairs.
Before I had a chance to think, I saw a way of escape. If I couldn’t buy teabags, maybe I could borrow them . . .
The footsteps passed my door and continued upstairs to the top flat. I waited for a moment, rubbing my cheeks to get rid of the tears, dragging my fingers through my hair. There was no time to check the flat. The front door wasn’t unlocked; I’d heard him shut it, I’d definitely heard him shut it. I would have to just go .
Taking my door key, and locking the flat just once, checking it just once, I went up the stairs, pausing outside his front door. I’d never been up here before. There was a window on the landing, but no other light. I looked down the stairs. I could just about see my own door. I knocked, listening to the silence and then the footsteps on the other side.
When he opened the
Whatever this is, it snuck up on me and now it’s here to stay. Every once in a while I catch myself forming a new rule. Last week I found myself counting steps again, something I’ve not done for years. That’s certainly one I can do without. But I don’t seem to be able to control myself anymore. I’m getting worse, not better.
So, it was Saturday again, and an odd-numbered day, and I’d run out of bread and teabags. The teabag issue was a big one, because tea is another important rule, particularly at weekends. I know that if I don’t have cups of tea at eight, ten, four and eight o’clock I will grow increasingly anxious, both from the failure to get things right, and probably from the lack of caffeine. I looked in the garbage, where my 8 a.m. teabag, stupidly discarded before I saw that it was the last one, lay among potato peelings and last night’s spaghetti sauce, and for a brief moment I considered fishing it out to reuse. But that wouldn’t have worked either.
The mere fact that I had been stupid enough to run out of teabags was enough to cause a heightened state of anxiety; I’m very good at the self-blame thing. If I went out to buy teabags, I would not be able to check the house properly because it wasn’t an even-numbered day today. I might be able to get teabags and bring them back to the house, but in the meantime someone could have broken in, and would be waiting for me to return.
I spent more than an hour fretting over which was the worst of the two options—which rule was the more important? In order to try to get the images out of my head, I checked the flat several times, each time getting it slightly wrong. The more times I did it, the more tired I was getting. Sometimes I get stuck like this. Eventually I physically can’t check anymore.
And a small, small voice of reason at the back of my head, trying to be heard above the cacophony of self-reproach, was screaming this is not normal.
By a quarter to ten, I was scrunched into a corner, a small tight knot on the verge of self-destruction, when I heard it—the sound of the front door being closed—properly—and footsteps on the stairs.
Before I had a chance to think, I saw a way of escape. If I couldn’t buy teabags, maybe I could borrow them . . .
The footsteps passed my door and continued upstairs to the top flat. I waited for a moment, rubbing my cheeks to get rid of the tears, dragging my fingers through my hair. There was no time to check the flat. The front door wasn’t unlocked; I’d heard him shut it, I’d definitely heard him shut it. I would have to just go .
Taking my door key, and locking the flat just once, checking it just once, I went up the stairs, pausing outside his front door. I’d never been up here before. There was a window on the landing, but no other light. I looked down the stairs. I could just about see my own door. I knocked, listening to the silence and then the footsteps on the other side.
When he opened the
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