TOO MANY TEETH IN THE TOOTH FACTORY

I live in the shadow of a colossal factory, its thirteen chimneys spewing black smoke into the ozone. Wherever I go in the world, I smell its toxins polluting the space around me, the thirteen brick towers casting their gloom over my sagging shoulders. A long conveyor belt loops around the foundry floor, and whenever my head is clear, or I am happy, a spike falls into a box and is delivered, wherever I am in the world (via ‘Crow Express Delivery Service’,) to my doorstep.
To help me cope, to visualise what is happening, I have used many metaphors over the years. Often I think of these spikes, these intrusive thoughts, as teeth. Each fear is a fang, and sometimes I am bitten by one tooth, sometimes by an entire row. I usually obsess over one intrusive thought until I can bury it, often in a shallow grave in the woods, but occasionally somewhere more permanent, like deep in the foundations of a city new-build, or maybe mafioso style and thrown into the sea with concrete boots. However, when there are several spikes, or teeth, the day can generally spiral into an inescapable black pit.
A while ago now, at the end of one particularly cruel day, I counted that thirteen intrusive thoughts had spiked me – thirteen yellow teeth biting into my bones, puncturing thirteen holes direct into my marrow.  It was mid March, seventy-seven days into the year. I calculated that another two and a half months like today would mean being mauled, potentially, by one thousand and one teeth. It was a mortifying prospect. So far that year I’d done absolutely nothing, not a plan made or a dream realised since January the first. No memories but a thousand terrible maybes, and not a single one of them had come true. But still I worried.
As panic incapacited me two considerable things happened. Firstly, I realised that I had to do something, anything, before I died with a spike in my throat, choking on splinters; but more importantly, it was the start of my resignation period. As my condition worsened over the years, my multiple attacks began to have a bizarre calming affect. The more teeth that punctured me meant more rituals, more time touching wood or imagining blinding bolts of lightning, sweating on my bed, howling at the wall and wishing I was in a coma – but something else was occurring too. My brain felt like it was vibrating , stressed under the flashing red lights and plumes of smoke from the overworked cogs and dials. One especially bleak day of ruminating ridiculous events, pinned to my bed and pulling out my hair, strand by strand, I experienced a type of shut-down. The factory had produced excess items and the conveyor belt was jammed as it meandered through the various machinery, or there were too many teeth in the attack dog’s mouth and it was unable to gain a proper purchase, or the Crow’s beak was blunted with the excess pecking, like a reused nail hammered into one piece of wood too many. It didn’t matter what metaphor I chose, the important thing was I felt a wave of euphoric relief that lasted for a considerable amount of time.
Its strange, but I learned that the more the Crow flexes his wings, or the dog bares his teeth, or when extra spikes roll off the production line, the more peace I feel because of my resignation to the cold fact that I simply cannot handle the ferocity of the attacks. I forget the lies the Crow has whispered in my ear because on such formidable days he talks too much, or the pain from the wounds on my leg eclipse the throb from the one on my arm, or the factory warehouse loses stock in its jungle of boxes.
Of course the Crow still flies, and the beast still bites and the factory continues to produce, but there’s much less ruffle to the feathers, strength in the jaws and far less pollution in the river.
And I nearly forgot, this is a travel blog too.
I’m currently still in Greece waiting to be relieved of house sitting duties. The cat is still alive and I’ve not stabbed myself to death or died of a brain tumor or been burnt alive by angry villagers in a giant wicker-man. Since I’ve been here the factory has produced these exact fears, and lots more besides. Or, depending on my metaphor, the Crow has whispered them in my ear, or gnashing teeth have gnawed them into my skin. But the factory is rusting and the Crow is getting old, bless him, because his feathers are starting to fall out and his peck can sometimes feel no more than a tickle.
At this moment, peeling a lemon with my free hand, I have no idea where the next destination will be. I do know there’ll be a factory close by, and a crow, turning slightly grey, circling in the sky.
Any Ideas are welcome.

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Chewing Feathers

By far, the most enjoyable part of my travelling has not been what I’ve seen along the way but who I’ve met. If I had stayed in my hometown in England I’d never have smoked a spliff with inmates in their cell during a prison visit in Ecuador, or had a conversation with a Freight-hopping Brooklyn vagabond in the alleyways of New York City, or played a thousand hands of cards with a loco Panamanian who drank Las Vegas dry and escaped the US owing thousands in medical bills. (I’m not condoning any of this, they are merely examples of some of the more interesting characters I’ve met along the way.) From drinks with a ’60s Slovenian pop star to a night in Thailand with a Hawaiian pot dealer, for me, it’s all about the people.
It’s just a shame that I’ve either had to cut the meetings short, (I should have gone to the golf club in Slovenia), or missed the bones of a conversation (what was the homeless mans ethos again?) If I hadn’t had the Crow flapping in my ears, maybe I’d have learned and experienced more than I have. But then again, if it wasn’t for that feathered demon from the Abyss, I probably wouldn’t have sold my home in England – I wouldn’t be here, house-sitting in Greece, watching the distant fishing boats idle on the calm blue sea.
I often lament those split conversations, the times when you find yourself talking to someone in the outside world, but you’re also busy trying to talk sense to yourself somewhere in that chaotic world inside your head. Dissecting a thought you take too long answering a question, there’s an awkward silence, maybe you didn’t quite catch what was said. You ask them to repeat their question, just as another spiked ball bounces into the equation. You’ve missed the real world conversation AGAIN! You’re standing there, literally face to face with a man you met on a train, and you’re listening but struggling to hear a single word he’s spoken all morning. A third time, and yes, you hear what’s being said but it makes no sense because you missed the critical three minutes of dialogue before this query.  You smile apologetically, “Sorry mate, I was miles away.”  You blame a late night, say you’re a prolific daydreamer, or, “that joint has really hit me, man.” You certainly can’t mention the screeching bird in your cerebrum . “Sorry mate, I was talking to the Crow,” is not an option.
The problem is not only missing the key words but also, when you know precisely what’s being said, your stomach can feel so full of lead that you don’t have the mental strength to join in, or expand the question, or debate it, or anything at all because you’ve got the black feathered Prince of Doubt pecking holes on your head. Chances are I’ve missed out on more than a fistful of profound revelations because of this. Seriously, I could have had the answer to life explained to me in glorious detail but was too busy thinking about killing myself in front of my Nan to heed the words.
If it worked the other way around it would be the perfect solution to my problems. “Sorry Crow, I was talking to my friend, you’ll have to wait. Stand in line, come back tomorrow.”
The greatest problem with OCD, for me, is that big fat O. Obsessional thoughts that take over my entire world. Everyone, at least a continent’s worth of people, have dark thoughts, perhaps everyday. But with the crow, and the millions of other crows, and imps, and demon monkeys out there perched on peoples’ shoulders, it’s not just every day, but every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
It’s not surprising that we miss things. We just have to make the most of the conversations we do have, and as the Crow circles me a little higher these days, a plea for all OCDemons the world over to ignore: “I know you devils suffer from a warped social reality, but give your hosts a break, let them have a spike free conversation with whoever is sharing their table, whether it’s in a bar in Southeast Asia or in the lounge of their grandmother’s house, back the fuck off for an hour or so.”

The Art of Stopping

Too much of anything is a bad thing. I have to stop more.
Stop thinking – like in my younger years pretending to be upstairs on my computer when I was actually laying on my bed, facing the wall, worrying, ruminating, obsessing over AIDS, paranoid that a boy at school wanted to stab me to death, and are those heart murmurs in my chest? I shouldn’t have watched those television shows about modern medicine because by the time the credits were rolling I’d diagnosed myself with Leukemia and Parkinson’s and three types of kidney failure.
Stop drinking – like waking up in a homestay in Havana, Cuba, mottled in vomit. Apologising to the old woman whose house it was, taking the sheets to the launderette, humiliated when they refused to wash them. “Too dirty to clean,” they said. Oh the irony! Our new Cuban friend, Alex, had showed us the particulars of local life, cheap bars and hole-in-the wall eateries, and nicknamed me ‘El Dragón’ that night, because of the noises I was making, the roars and facial tics, as he and his friend helped me home along the Malecón. It had been a hard few days, spikes-a-plenty me hearties, and I was trying to drown the crow in a barrel of rum. I was drunk, ecstatic that the crow was silenced, but I didn’t know when to stop, the cheerful haze mutating to a red mist, angry at myself that I didn’t feel like this all the time. That fucking crow! And then the facial churns and the roars as the two Cuban men helped me to my homestay through the dawn lit Havana streets.

Stop joking – know when to be serious. At school I kept the OCDemon at bay by laughing loudly, the class fool, taking the jokes to the next level, forcing them out when inside I was terrified of the world. The silent moments between antics magnifying the ways I would die, how unless I thought things through to their conclusion, I was gonna have my house set on fire by school bullies, with my parents still inside, or worse, maybe I would lose control, pouring the petrol and striking the match myself. So fuck silence, my education, a chance to be someone, be silly instead, force out those crappy jokes because when the class is laughing, the crow is crying. God, how I wish now I’d stopped and learned something useful! But I know this was impossible at the time, so I must not be too hard on myself.

Stop writing – when I’ve said enough for the day because thinking of the Crow is making me sad, know when to close the lap-top.

Mzungu in The Mist

Crow and The Bowl of Cereal

Before I begin I must say a big thank you to my Nan for buying me the Child’s Atlas when I was nine years old.  I remember clearly the picture of the boy in Botswana and the list of international flags at the back of the book.  I slowly became obsessed…but in a good way.

This blog is purely and selfishly written to help me.  If it can help at least one other person, then I will be the happiest OCD sufferer ever to walk through the lounge door thirty-seven times before I could leave the house.  I suppose this is my disclaimer, that if what I have done to battle the Crow doesn’t work for you, then I apologise but I’m neither a doctor nor a packet of Clomipramine. If it can help, then great, but if it doesn’t, please continue with your medication.  This is an account of my own personal demon, and my attempts to drown it in the bath.  If anything, this is a blog to my teenage self, telling that terrified awkward shell that it was worth sticking around after all.

I’m sitting on a pebbled beach on a beautiful Greek Island as I write this.  There’s a dull thud in the back of my mind, as if the Crow is trapped beneath floorboards in my head.  He is present, but at the moment contained.  I would have chopped off my hand for peace like this ten years ago.  Arguably the Crow attacks me as frequently as he ever did, but now he has those floorboards to get through before he can hurt me, or his beak is tied with duck tape, or I manage to bat him away before his claws can do damage.  He is an old enemy and we know each other well.  I can usually predict his tactics, smashing him with a preemptive strike, and some days he’s just a pathetic cawing black smudge on the horizon.

I watch the gentle waves breaking on the stones, thinking back to an earlier time in my life, not his first visit but certainly one I remember quite clearly…

…When I was ten years old, while eating my breakfast in the kitchen, a sudden thought emerged in my head that I had the option, the possibility, to pour the milk and cereal over my dad’s head.  I could just do it, i thought.  It wouldn’t be a nice thing to do, I’d be in a lot of trouble, but if I went into the lounge I could quite easily empty the entire bowl over his head.  It wasn’t an urge but a fear.  And what is actually stopping me? I wondered.  So I stood up from the table and walked through the hallway to the lounge door, where I paused, aware that my insides were tied up in knots.  My hands were clammy.  I pictured the milk and cereal oozing through my father’s hair, dripping down his face in a series of zigzagging white rivers.  I imagined his shock that would quickly turn to fury, the scolding that would inevitably follow, but worse than that, I imagined his disappointment, upset that his son had done such a thing…was this what being punched in the stomach felt like?  The horror of this consequence was strong in my head, I focused all my attention on the sadness that could come of this act, and after fifteen minutes of concentrated effort outside the lounge door, I almost felt that I had followed through with my urge.  Had I imagined it so clearly that I’d actually tricked myself into thinking I’d witnessed first hand the worst of what would happen?  The fear of actually doing it subsided, my intestines untying, my heart no longer racing quite so fast.  I felt odd that I should have had such a thought, but I was barely ten, and so finished my breakfast and moved on with my day.

     I didn’t realise at the time but pouring milk over my Father’s head would be by far the tamest of acts I would have the urge to perform.
     The crow got a lot darker.