Sunday 4 August 2013

Pills, Thrills and Locked Doors

Collected my prescription the other day. You know how some people say “I’m a bit OCD?” I have to resist the urge to say “Oh really? Can you leave your house without checking the door is locked ten times, then having to go back into the house and check the oven is off five times, then repeat the process with the lock? Do you put your hand inside the oven in the morning to check you turned it off? If not then dude, you are NOT PLAYING IN MY LEAGUE, you just need to REMEMBER TO TURN THE DAMN IRON OFF”.

Anyway, the prescription is for the nice happy pills that make this go away, or least lessen it to the extent that I only need to check the lock five times, and sometimes not at all if it’s a good day. The worst aspect of OCD, by the way, is that you know perfectly well you have got it, and that what you are doing is ridiculous, and you are embarassed and ashamed about it, but this is where the compulsiv
e part comes in; it’s very hard to stop.

(This is why, if you know someone has OCD, unless they’ve told you it’s okay, it’s not a great idea to comment on how often they’ve checked the lock. There is nothing rational about checking. Most folks with OCD know perfectly well that the lock doesn’t get more locked if you keep checking it. That’s not the point. The point is that you’ll be terrified out of your wits later if you can’t remember whether or not you locked it. You know the feeling you would get just before you fell off a cliff? It’s that feeling.)

I have my happy pills, which is nice. Every so often I have a conversation with the doctor along the lines of:

DOCTOR: Have you considered coming off your pills?

ME: Yes, but I’m concerned about the side-effects. (A combination of feeling depressed and losing your balance to the extent that you can’t tell where the floor is, if you’re wondering.)

DOCTOR: Perhaps you could try it when you have a stable, relatively stress-free period in your life.

ME: I’ve just bought my first home, I’m working full-time and studying part-time, my employer has made me apply for my own job three times in 24 months, and is likely to do so again this Christmas.

DOCTOR: Why don’t I write you another prescription?

At least now I know where my prescription goes to; the Boots next door to the doctor’s surgery. Last time I forgot this, ran out, applied for more pills and turned up at the surgery desperate for the pills, only to be told “Sorry, we can’t give you a prescription because the system thinks you might be over-using them.”

It’s hard to convince people you’re not over-using drugs when you are clearly on the verge of replying “No, I assure you I am not, now GIVE ME MY DRUGS!”

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