I asked myself today which word I would use to describe OCD. For me, I think the word “fire” sums it up pretty nicely.
Why fire? I don’t actually know.
Perhaps it’s because fire is red and red is danger and red is blood and blood is HIV?
Or, perhaps because water destroys fire and I seem to spend much of my life seeking water to douse myself in? I generally associate water with an impending calm that will happen for a few moments once I’ve scrubbed my skin clean. Maybe that is why I find the ocean to be so peaceful. There is something about being able to float on water, being able to say, ‘Here you go, sea, take me! Hold me for a while as I snooze under sunshine! Relax my body and cool down my brain a little minute, I want to float away from the shore and hear nothing but the swishing salt….’ I have mentioned in a previous post about default traffic light settings of OCD – during the more positive periods, my own OCD is usually at amber (more or less). When it’s burning hot, it’s at a constant red. There are the weeks where it can drift between the two, but it nearly always settles itself back to red….. Why am I telling you this when I’m supposed to be talking about the sea? Well, unfortunately, the sea can only be my respite when my default OCD setting is amber or, if I’m really lucky, green-amber (oh how I miss sweet green-amber!). But when the default setting is red, the sea is actually a big bath of germs. Bodies upon bodies bounding into the sea, complete with all of the bodily fluids that go with them – it’s all in there, in my mind. Which is such a shame because, as I say, there is something so peaceful about water.
So back to the fire. Why fire? Perhaps because, at times of intense OCD freakouts (as I call them), it truly does feel as though my mind is on fire. In those moments I would swear blind that, if you were to stick a thermometer in my brain, it would tell you that my brain is, in fact, a livid volcano. That’s right, a volcano. And when it’s bubbling and brewing away, swelling with the panic, it almost feels as though my mind is too big for my head. There is just so much going on, so much activity, so much electricity fizzing away at my skull. Behind my eyes it’s a 70s disco ball of crazy – although minus the awesome flares and funky music (anyone for a song called Mind Fever….?).
As it turns out, perhaps I am not that far off the mark – in his book Brain Lock: Free Yourself From Obsessive Compulsive Behaviours, Dr Jeffrey M. Schwartz describes a research study wherein he compared the brain activity of someone with OCD with that of someone without OCD. Without going into too much detail (mainly because I am not a scientist and it took some effort for me to fully understand it myself), Schwartz explains that there is evidence to suggest that one of the differences between a non-OCD and an OCD brain is that the OCD brain demonstrates a kind of chemical ‘overheating’:
“To help patients understand this chemical imbalance, we showed them pictures of their brains at work. During a study of brain energy activity in people with OCD, my colleague, Dr. Lew Baxter, and I took some high-tech pictures using positron emission tomography, or PET scanning…. The resulting pictures clearly indicated that in people with OCD, the use of energy is consistently higher than is normal in the orbital cortex— the underside of the front of the brain. Thus, the orbital cortex is, in essence, working overtime, literally heating up.”
Yep, apparently I’m just walking around with a burning brain – no wonder my mood seems to swing from being super excited and enthusiastic to lethargic and sleepy. No autumnally cosy glowing embers purring softly in the corner for me, oh no! I’ve got big fucking burning oak logs, and if you can occasionally throw some petrol in for good measure, all the better. And that’s just my brain.
Just as soon as my brain is all ablaze, then it’s only a matter of time before my body follows suit. First of all, I will feel it in the centre of my torso, a whirlpool of lava that gets progressively louder until it is the only physical sensation that I can register at all. But, before long, the fire will throb through my belly, creeping up to my neck, dripping down to my thighs. This fire is cruel – your chest cavity no longer contains a set of carefully compacted organs; it contains a hot smoothie of mess, and it is beginning to shut down. I imagine blood cells running around screaming at one another: it’s just so fucking hot!! My lungs are screaming at my heart to slow down, my stomach is smacking the shit out of my lungs, telling them to shut the fuck up and start breathing, my mouth is so dry it is struggling to produce saliva at all, my face is flushed, my eyes are burning. My ribs feel like they are no longer made of chalky bone, but of piping hot iron, I am sure they will bend and twist if I should fall. My body is attacking me.
Then my skin starts to itch. It’s like there is a substance, something, on my skin, spreading like ferocious little ants. The longer I wait, the larger the area covered by the ants. They get everywhere, behind my knees, into my belly button, onto my scalp, dancing their sadistic happy dance around my hair. And their little feet are hot – so fucking hot – that everything is itchy and burning. I scratch my hands, my arms, and I scratch my scalp. I want to jump into water, or bleach my skin, anything to stop the stampede of disease and itch and scratching that is happening all over my skin. I want to scratch my skin off, sand away the top layer to reveal the untouched, untainted, wonderfully sterile layer underneath. But, as luck would have it, I’m not a snake, and so I am stuck with the skin I have got. I wonder if my skin will ever get clean again – is there a substance on earth strong enough to stop this? I am just so fucking hot. If you could see how my skin feels, it would look red raw, lumpy and live – I swear it is live with the kind of heat that distorts light. I need to cool down, slow down, calm down. I want to throw myself head first into a tank of clean ice and fall asleep right there until it’s all over.
When I was little, if I burned myself, my mother would put calamine lotion on my skin. That powdery milky substance was the most sacred of super remedies; a cool layer of creamy retro lotion that provided a brief but welcome distraction from the pain of a heat that was now out of control, a respite from the suffocating temperature of my skin. Ah, sweet calamine! – Wait, isn’t that a song? – How I loved you and your cold embrace! Passport to sleep and temporary peace, I salute you! In this the enlightened and modern age we have managed to split the atom, send human beings into space and develop a weapon so powerful that it can literally wipe out cities at a time: so tell me, why have they yet to discover a calamine lotion for the brain? Why is there no remedy for this shit? And why do so few people give a crap about finding one? Who gives a fuck about the universe when there is a universe in my own head that I can’t understand.