‘I thought someone was strangling me,’ she hissed and let go of him, catching her breath as the song ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ pumped out from the lounge below.
‘My God. You’re alive. You’re reallyalive!’ He gulped, stared for a moment then preceded to do some sort of Good Times Dance on his own. ‘I was only checking your pulse. What with today’s date and…’ His face split into a grin and he lunged forwards to give her the tightest hug.
‘Jesus, can’t a girl get a bit of kip on her own bed?’ she said, loosening herself from his embrace, secretly wishing it would last forever. ‘I was knackered. Must have nodded off. Can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.’ She wiped dribble from the side of her mouth.
‘You missed a bit,’ he said and brushed his hand across her skin and then looked at his wet fingers.
‘That’s disgusting,’ she said and their eyes locked, her mouth upturned, along with his. Laughter rang around her bedroom and tears of mirth poured down their cheeks, until they turned into something different. Her tone was scratchy as she spoke. ‘It’s gone midnight, hasn’t it? I… I’m safe.’
He jumped up, grabbed her hands and insisted they do the Good Times Dance properly, together. She’d never performed it with more gusto, swinging his arms, throwing out her hips. Eventually, they fell on the bed and both lay on their backs. She looked sideways at him and croaked, ‘It’s over, isn’t it? All my fears.’
Rory took her hand.
‘You were right,’ she said, ‘about the False Memory OCD. But I still believed the worse – right till the end. Couldn’t get rid of that voice in my head saying I’d made some fateful pact. I… I know that means that I am – I am ill, if I still believed it, despite having an alternative evidence-based explanation.’ Elena squeezed his hand. ‘I’ve been unwell all this time, not under the spell of a promise.’ She shook her head. ‘But if that night was a false memory, what else has been?’
He ran his thumb over her palm. ‘False Memory OCD is about the person thinking they’ve done something wrong – about guilt and shame. It’s not about other memories, like other people upsetting them or about trips, events, feelings, relationships, the world at large.’
She sat up. ‘I’ve done my own research, last night and this morning. I’ve read dissertations on it, visited medical websites, and the patient cases given all resonated. I’ve also gone into chat rooms, and the despair felt tangible. People like me, so confused about what is happening, angry they can’t ignore the voice intheir head doubting them – part of them knows it’s telling lies. Being locked in a prison where you hold the key is soul-destroying.’ She stared at the duvet. ‘I’m so stupid. For most of my life I’ve feared that I’d die at thirty, and even worse, that Mum would go to some terrible place in the afterlife, as a punishment. The guilt over that has overwhelmed me at times.’
Rory sat up too and put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Julian’s given me the number for his therapist. He said go to your GP in the first instance, but the waiting list for treatment might be long. If you can afford it, Julian’s counsellor transformed his life. He also used to think that OCD was just about people washing their hands too often, but it’s much more complicated and there are multiple subtypes – as you’ve probably found out from your own investigations.’
Elena’s body shook. Tears rolled down her cheeks with relief.
‘I googled what you said, about a common form being people believing they’ve run someone over. Poor Julian. Yet seeing him tonight, you’d never guess.’ She exhaled. ‘Like so many mental illnesses, it’s invisible. How arrogant of me, thinking I was any different, any less susceptible to suffering.’
‘Not arrogant,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘That ten-year-old girl felt she had to be the strong one, I’m guessing?’
She met his gaze.
‘Maybe your OCD became a coping mechanism.’
‘I came across something else, as well – Magical Thinking OCD. You kid yourself that if you do something specific, you can magically prevent certain things happening. Like if I turned my pillow over exactly five times before going to sleep, it would mean nothing bad would happen to Mum or Dad during the night. I went through a phase of rituals like that as a child, and different ones have appeared as I’ve grown up. Stupid really, believing I have some sort of power.’
‘You’ve not been stupid, Elena – you’ve been stressed.’
They sat listening to the music coming up from the lounge. Her whole life didn’t flash but steadily replayed before her, the parts where she’d checked the oven, the windows, bolted the door, and so much more, often a particular number of times. She’d told herself that everyone was like this, that there was nothing wrong with being careful. But she was beginning to see what drove that checking… The ‘what if’ voice, taking control, ravaging her good sense.
But what if you leave the window open and a burglar breaks in?
What if he’s got a knife?
What if he kills you? It would be your own fault.
And when she was a child, there was that huge sense of responsibility for her parents, especially after Mum’s accident.
What if they left the cooker on?
What if I don’t check it? And then don’t go back to check it exactly five more times? Then I’ll be to blame if they burn to their deaths.
Elena thought back to primary school and the bullying – how little control she’d felt she had when the children ganged up and circled her, imitating her lisp. The OCD had given her back a sense of being in control. Protecting herself. Then protecting Mum.
‘Nobody is going to die. At least not now,’ she mumbled.
‘Don’t get carried away. I for one will combust if I have to listen to any more of Gary’s singing.’
They smiled at each other.
Plans. For the first time in years, she dared to look forward to the future. She could travel the world, live dangerously, act impulsively. Her eyes filled. Yes. All of that. But really, the dreams that mattered were much simpler – to be happy; to spend more years with Mum and Dad; to be adventurous. Morag’s words came back to her – over the phrase about passing on to the nextstage of our world, and what that might really mean. Even if those words had simply come from young Elena’s imagination, theyhadgiven Elena food for thought.
