The Woman Who Thought too Much E-Book

Joanne Limburg

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

SHORTLISTED FOR THE MIND BOOK OF THE YEAR AWARD 2011 Joanne Limburg thinks things she doesn't want to think, and does things she doesn't want to do. As a young woman, obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviours had come to completely dominate her life. She knew that something was wrong, but it would take many painful years of searching to find someone who could explain her symptoms. The Woman Who Thought too Much is a vividly honest, beautifully told and darkly witty memoir about the quest to understand and manage a life with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

Leseprobe

THE WOMAN WHO THOUGHT TOO MUCH

Joanne Limburg was born in London in 1970, and studied Philosophy at Cambridge. She is the author of two poetry collections. Femenismo (Bloodaxe, 2000) was shortlisted for the Forward Best First Collection Prize; Paraphernalia (Bloodaxe, 2007) was a Poetry Book Society Recommendation. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and son.

‘Judicious and elegant, lucid and spry, Joanne Limburg uses her uncommon gifts to anatomize an all-too-common disorder. She brings a sort of glee to the process: for all the unhappiness she describes, this remains a joyous read.’

Kate Clanchy

‘Joanne Limburg’s The Woman Who Thought Too Much is about that most intimate and destructive of civil wars – the fight against one’s own thoughts and obsessions. Brave, witty, intelligent, wise, and honest, it is the story of a lifelong battle with neurosis, but it transcends pathology, uncovering the extraordinary underside of all our “ordinary” consciousness. Her unremitting candour liberates us all.’

Raymond Tallis

‘Limburg’s clear, unsentimental poet’s eye... conveys with great skill... the identity issue of separating the disorder from the person. Moving and compelling, full of dark humour and insight.’

Sunday Business Post

‘Reading this will compel some readers – I’m one of them – to ponder their own hang-ups. There are no easy answers, but this book offers some hope... Limburg is a talented writer, and poet... Revealing, honest and thought-provoking.’

Time Out

‘Weighty in places, both intellectually and emotionally, but Limburg renders her autobiographical tale with charming gusto and boundless energy while referencing everything from medical journals, Freud and Dante, to Hollywood films and Prefab Sprout. A lovely read, expertly crafted and imbued with wry humour. These very personal and extraordinary accounts of a difficult life feel markedly different from the norm.’

The List

THE WOMAN WHO THOUGHT TOO MUCH

A Memoir of Obsession and Compulsion

Joanne Limburg

First published in Great Britain in 2010 in hardback and export and airside trade paperback by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2011 by Atlantic Books.

Copyright © Joanne Limburg, 2010

The moral right of Joanne Limburg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

The permissions on pages 323–325 constitute an extension of this copyright page.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978 1 84354 703 7 eBook ISBN: 978 0 85789 299 7

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26–27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

THE WOMAN WHO THOUGHT TOO MUCH

Contents

Author’s note

Shame

Nightmares

Body

Habits

Perfection

Confession

Sin

Grief

Avoidance

Dependence

Risk

Harm

Brain

Behaviour

Losses

A note on permissions

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

As I am aware that few people would choose to be a character in someone else’s memoir, most names have been changed. In some cases, a few other details have changed along with them.

Shame

48. At certain moments I am tempted to tear off my clothes in public.

The Padua Inventory

———

It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room

Shame is an inescapable part of being human: without it, there would be little to stop us assaulting attractive strangers and defecating on tube trains. In other words, it acts as an internal social regulator, and most of the time, for most people, it does an unobtrusively good job.

But shame can also be a bully. Nastier by far than guilt, which is merely the feeling that one has done something wrong, shame is the feeling that one is being someone wrong. When we feel guilty, we want to make right the wrong action; when we feel ashamed, we want to hide the wrong self away – or obliterate it.

There are quite a few of my own selves I would obliterate, if I could: the unsuccessful, soiled selves that could never quite act or speak or look as they should; that drag shaming memories around with them. The youngest of these is myself in middle school. She is being told off in front of everybody, and her peers are enjoying it.

The ironic thing about this particular public shaming is that it never would have happened had I not been trying to avoid that very thing. By that time, I had already spent several years as one of the class weirdos, what with my precociously serious manner, my penchant for long words, and my awkwardness at games. Sometimes I did manage to join in with the other girls for a while, playing skipping, or elastic, or ball and stocking, but more often I was turned away. I can remember spending countless break-times walking round and round the perimeter of the playground all alone, head down, doing my best to look self-contained.

I didn’t feel the way I was trying to look: I felt lonely, and vulnerable with it. My school wasn’t a rough place by any means, but children are pack animals by instinct, and can’t seem to help attacking the solitary beasts. One day, for example, I was sitting on a bench, staring thoughtfully into the sky, when a couple of girls came up to me and shouted angrily in my face, ‘You’re mad!’ I didn’t know who they were, and I certainly hadn’t done anything to them, but all the same my solemn, introverted presence was an offence to them. It bothered the teachers too: every parents’ evening, my mother and father would come back to tell me the stale news that I was doing very well at my schoolwork, ‘but was a bit of a loner’.

At lunchtimes, the rule was that all children had to queue for the dining hall in twos. The dinner ladies would count off so many pairs at a time and then bring their arms down like car park barriers to hold the rest of the queue back for a few minutes, before letting another few pairs in. Looking back, I suppose this must have been the easiest way for them to manage the flow of child traffic through the dining hall, but at the time the main purpose of the whole ritual seemed to be to humiliate the friendless. More often than not, I had no partner, and the penalty for this was to be sent to the back of the queue. Again and again and again. So it was hardly surprising that, after a while, I gave up trying to get into the dining hall altogether.

Running parallel to the school’s main building was a row of single-storey, post-war prefabs. There was a long strip of uncut grass and weeds between the two which was safe and quiet. Nobody played there, because nobody was allowed to, so that was where I went every day to eat my packed lunch. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing, and the nettles had nothing to say about it.

But I had been spotted. Donna had stolen my friend Nathalie from me and turned her against me. Lately they had spent a lot of time together on the long path between the prefabs and the playing fields, playing catch with a big, heavy football; I remember that it was heavy because every time I walked past them it hit me on the head. When we played net-ball, it always seemed to be Donna who marked me; who stuck her hands up my T-shirt because, she said, they needed warming up; who followed me about the court asking endless questions about myself to which there were only wrong answers. She couldn’t get enough of my blood, and when I came out of my private dining place one day and bumped into her, ready and waiting with a whole gang of girls, I knew I had handed her a victory on a lunch plate. ‘What are you doing, Joanne?’ she asked in that syrupy tone I had come to dread. ‘Were you eating your lunch there?’ I must have said something back, but I don’t remember what: I spoke into my chest in those days, and I had a stammer to boot.

So, she told on me. Our usual form teacher, Mrs Hall, was a kind woman and probably would have dealt with the matter quietly, but unfortunately for me she was away on holiday, so I had to face Mrs Greenbaum instead. She was one of those teachers who, as far as I could tell, had entered the profession solely for the opportunities it gave her to snap children’s heads off, the more publicly the better. By the time I came back into the classroom after break-time, Donna had already spent a good ten minutes telling on me, embroidering wherever possible, and working Mrs Greenbaum up beautifully. Donna had told her that she had found me eating in the toilets – how dirty! How disgusting! She had even looked into the toilet after I had gone, she said, and seen a Marmite sandwich floating in the water, with the initials ‘JL’ scratched into it.

Perhaps Mrs Greenbaum wasn’t listening to the details, or perhaps she was just an extraordinarily credulous woman, but whatever the reason, she took Donna at her word and laid into me: I was naughty; what I’d done was filthy; the headmaster was going to be furious. She finished by using me as a teaching aid to help the class rehearse their proverbs.

‘What do they say?’ she asked. ‘When in Rome . . .’

‘. . . DO AS THE ROMANS DO!’ chorused the good children.

What could I do? My efforts to hide my soiled self had ended up with it being waved around in front of everybody, as if it were – I don’t know – a urine-soaked monogrammed sandwich. However I played it, I was different and that difference was felt as a stigma.

According to Erving Goffman, who wrote the book on stigmas and their management,1 an individual can be said to carry a stigma when there is a discrepancy between his or her ‘virtual identity’ – his term for what one is expected to be – and that person’s actual identity. A stigma is something which marks that person as outside the norm, and not in a good way. When it is revealed, its appearance might be said to interrupt the flow of easy social intercourse; it makes everyone, stigmatized and ‘normal’ alike, feel uncomfortable.

Some stigmas, such as obvious physical disability, or severe facial disfigurement, or a skin colour which differs from the norm, are impossible to hide, and any individual thus stigmatized faces a stark choice when it comes to the management of that stigma: either they shun society altogether, or they go out into it with their ‘spoiled identity’ on show and take the awkward consequences. If your stigma is not immediately obvious, you have a third option: to ‘pass’ as normal, to fail to mention it, whatever it is, and hope that you don’t get ‘outed’. Since Goffman was writing, in the 1960s, a fourth option has become increasingly popular: you out yourself. You give a newspaper interview; you go on a chat show; you write a book. But if you have any sense, you’ll think hard beforehand about how much you have to lose.

The Mental Health Foundation addressed this dilemma in 2000, in a report it called ‘Pull Yourself Together! A survey of the stigma and discrimination faced by people who experience mental distress’. One respondent wrote: ‘when I tried to kill myself 2 years ago I walked out of A&E on Saturday morning and went to work on Monday as if nothing had happened because I was scared to let anyone know.’

The report goes on to say: ‘There were many more reasons why people could not tell work colleagues than why they could . . . the most frequently reported reason for not telling work colleagues was fear of discrimination, stigma and prejudice.’ They have good reason for their fear: there are psychiatrists who advise their patients against disclosing their histories on application forms.

When it comes to covering up one’s mental health problems, sufferers from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and its ‘spectrum disorders’2 lead the field. This is a characteristic that Freud noted about a hundred years ago, when he commented that ‘many more people suffer from these forms of obsessional neurosis than doctors hear of’.3 He guessed that the prevalence of these kinds of disorders must be vastly underestimated, and current received wisdom suggests that he was right. Thanks to some rapid developments in research and treatment which have taken place over the last thirty years or so, the perception of OCD has shifted from that of a rare condition with a poor prognosis to its current status as a very common condition which can respond extremely well to the right treatment.

Despite the better prognosis and treatment, the average sufferer copes alone with the condition for an average of eleven years before seeking appropriate help. They know they’ve got a problem; in many cases, they don’t realize that their problem has been classified as a treatable illness, but, illness or not, they know they feel ashamed of it, and that they’d better keep it hidden.

The very nature of their symptoms contributes to their sense of shame. There are two components to obsessive-compulsive disorder: obsessions, which are intrusive and distressing thoughts or mental images; compulsions, which are the actions the sufferer performs in order to lessen the anxiety which these thoughts bring. While it is the intrusive and persistent quality of the thoughts, rather than their particular content, which marks them out as obsessions, their content is often of a kind that would distress or embarrass most people, were it to be revealed.

Ian Osborn sums up the usual themes very neatly by calling the relevant chapter of his book Tormenting Thoughts and Secret Rituals (1998), ‘Filth, Harm, Lust, and Blasphemy’. Common obsessions include fears of contamination and contagious disease; thoughts of the sufferer causing harm to herself or her loved ones, through accident or oversight, or out of some uncontrollable impulse; images of the sufferer engaging in some kind of forbidden sexual activity. Blasphemy may be a less common issue here than it is in the more religious USA, where Osborn has his psychiatric practice, but obsessions relating to religious doubts or fears of damnation have been familiar to clerics for centuries. As this suggests, the content of these obsessions – like stigmatization – is often determined by the sufferer’s social and cultural context.

The obsessions are most often shaming because of their content. Sometimes the compulsions are shaming too, because the sufferer can see perfectly well – but without being able to do anything about it – that her behaviour is ridiculous. Some compulsions, like hand washing, list making, or the repeated checking of locks and switches, are widely known about, often written on, and generally laughed at. Others are not so easy to identify. It took a long time for me to recognize it, but my favourite compulsion when hit by an obsessive thought was to seek reassurance – from my husband, from my GP, from my mother – that what I feared couldn’t happen. For eighteen months I had to push my small son, in his buggy, across a main road which had no pedestrian crossing, and for most of those eighteen months, at about 4.30 or so, my husband would find himself fielding phone calls about how I had pushed the boy across safely but a car was coming towards us as I did so and it was not that far away, but if I had fallen over it would have had time to break safely, wouldn’t it? Or turn aside, do you think? And all the time I knew how wearing it was for my husband to be my human safety blanket, and how ridiculous I was being, but it was still a long while before I managed to prevent myself from picking up the phone and bleating on like an idiot.

I didn’t realize that this reassurance seeking could be seen as a compulsion. Neither did I understand how many compulsive activities I was managing to perform inside the privacy of my own mind: I was ‘neutralizing’ my obsessions with counter-thoughts; I was ‘ruminating’. I am one of a large group of OCD sufferers – some think the largest – whose symptoms are mostly in their heads. When I tell people that I’ve been diagnosed with OCD, their first question, more often than not, is: ‘So what do you do then?’ My usual answer is: ‘Nothing that you can see.’ When your stigma is of this kind, the easiest thing is to take option 3, and keep it zipped.

While we’re on the subject of how to manage one’s stigma, it’s also worth pointing out that OCD sufferers, as a general rule, care more than most about what others think of them. We are known to be ‘reward-dependent’ (where the reward is someone else’s approval) and to have ‘tender consciences’. As a group, we are law-abiding, conscientious, exquisitely self-conscious and excruciatingly eager to please. We set ourselves the highest standards, and are disgusted with ourselves when we don’t live up to them. We are forever scanning our own faces for flaws and other people’s faces for signs of disapproval. We cannot forgive ourselves for ever having acted stupidly; we cannot bear to make a mistake. We can be destroyed by the merest hint of criticism but we criticize ourselves all the time. No wonder that most of us choose to ‘pass’, if we possibly can.

Neither is it at all surprising that many sufferers don’t even know that there’s a name for what they’re hiding. They would be unlikely to recognize themselves in popular images of the illness. Think of Leonardo di Caprio in The Aviator, for example, playing Howard Hughes as a naked, bearded recluse, peeing into empty milk bottles in a darkened room. Or Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets, playing it for laughs as a tactless, misanthropic neat freak who brings his own plastic cutlery to restaurants. Dirty Filthy Love, a play broadcast on ITV in 2004, was written by a sufferer, and managed to convey more of what the condition feels like from the inside, but it was a television play, so it still had to show the afflicted characters doing things: walking strangely up the stairs, wiping seats before they sat on them, that kind of thing. As I remember, every single one of them was bothered by dirt – I’m not. I tend not to notice the dust building up in my house until I can shuffle through it. But I have been diagnosed with OCD.

It is only to be expected that the visual media would concentrate on the more visible aspects of the disease; thoughts do not lend themselves to visual representation, and a film about a life spent feeling anxious while quietly avoiding all possible harm would not make gripping viewing. The anxious, avoidant life doesn’t make for a thrilling read either, which may be another reason why – apart from the shame and desire to cover up, or the hiddenness of the disease – even in these self-outing times, there are still relatively few OCD memoirs on the shop shelves. Alcoholism, drug addiction and manic depression make sufferers do all sorts of wild and extreme things that non-sufferers would never do, but find very compelling to read about. A single episode of major depression, suffered and then recovered from, has its own built-in narrative structure, which takes the protagonist and the reader into hell and out again, having learned something on the way, maybe.

When Dante goes into hell in his Inferno, what he finds is a place full of damned souls condemned to perform the same painful actions again and again, to go round and round in circles – quite literally, in some cases. Dante is in a privileged position: as the heroic protagonist and narrator of the tale, with Virgil as his guide, he is able to move through the circles in which the damned are condemned to stay. Along the way, various sinners tell him the stories of how they came to be damned, he thanks them, takes his leave of them, and then moves on. As a writer, this journey provides him with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Out of one day in hell, he gets enough material for a third of an epic.

Meanwhile the damned are stuck in their circles. Were Dante to return the next day, all that he could expect from them would be stories he’s heard already, told in exactly the same words. So he moves on to Purgatory, and then to Paradise. No sense in boring your readers to death.

At least Dante’s experiences are interesting to read about. Imagine if, instead of witnessing bleeding, weeping trees, lovers blown about by gales, popes stuffed head first down burning holes, and sinners forever eating the brains of other sinners, he’d seen the following:

First Circle: People making lists.

Second Circle: People checking to make sure that they haven’t left the oven on.

Third Circle: People washing their kitchen surfaces – again.

Fourth Circle: People touching the back of every chair they pass.

Fifth Circle: People opening envelopes they’ve just sealed for the third time, to make sure they haven’t made any mistakes on their job application forms.

Sixth Circle: People phoning their husbands to ask for reassurance about the roads they’ve just crossed.

Seventh Circle: People sitting on their sofas trying to anticipate everything bad that might happen if they go out on a planned trip and then deciding it would be easier to stay at home . . .

It’s a tormented life for sure, but that doesn’t make it an interesting one. In fact, I would say the sheer repetitive tedium of it is a pretty large part of what makes it so tormenting. Then on top of the tedium, there’s the anxiety, intense and ever-present; the exhaustion; the frustration, because you know that you are getting in the way of your own life, but it seems beyond you to get out of it; the painful awareness that your behaviour makes you a trial to the people around you; and of course the shame, the shame of not being able to control yourself like a normal, sensible person would, and the shame of knowing that your predicament is ridiculous, comical even.

It’s not an interesting life, but it is quite an interesting predicament. As I’m a poet, who finds that the admission of this is usually quite enough by itself to interrupt the flow of easy social intercourse, I felt that I probably had less to lose by airing my predicament than most. And I do believe it needs some airing.

1. Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity (Prentice-Hall, Inc., New Jersey, 1963)

2. Body dysmorphic disorder, bulimia, trichotillomania, compulsive skin picking, etc.

3. Sigmund Freud, Obsessive Actions and Religious Practices (Standard Edition, Volume 9: pp. 115–28, 1907)

Nightmares

27. Sometimes I am not sure I have done things that in fact I know I have done.

The Padua Inventory

———

Here am I,

Little Jumping Joan;

When nobody’s with me

I’m all alone.

Nursery rhyme

Much as it surprises me now, and would probably surprise anyone who knows me, I do know what it is to be fearless – or, at least, I remember how it was. One memory in particular shows how different I must have been once. The summer after I was three I ran away at the funfair, and without realizing it, got lost. It’s one of those memories that has to be reconstructed from its few surviving fragments. First of all, I see the fair, colourful, noisy and tempting, across the field from the pavement where my family are waiting, and feel my impatience to be there; then I am already halfway across the field and look back to see my family – my parents, my baby brother, uncle, aunt and cousins – standing in a row in the distance; here is the merry-go-round that I had seen from far away and was so desperate to ride on, and across the path I can see a ride I know I am too little for, with chairs on cables that flare out from a revolving disc; next is the view from the back of one of the wooden horses, as the roundabout slows down and my mother and father come into view; now my mother lifts me off the horse – she is wearing a brightly coloured buttoned blouse which is one of my favourites, and, for no reason that I can see, she is crying.

These days I can see the story from the terrified mother’s viewpoint, but this doesn’t make the memory itself any more frightening. It remains stubbornly sunlit, coloured by a happy child’s belief that everything will be taken care of. Some people seem to have retained a version of this belief into adulthood. I see them wobbling down the middle of main roads on their bicycles, helmetless, talking into mobile phones, and I wonder at them. There’s no one moment, no one trauma I could identify as the point when I lost that sense of safety, but I know that I still had it a few years later, because I was – in my own head, at least – a tree-climbing legend.

At seven years old, I had managed to climb every flowering cherry with reachable branches that our street had to offer, and decided to move on to the trickier ones. I chose one that stood on the verge at the bottom of our road, a few feet away from the patch of wasteland we called The Green. The fork in its trunk was too high for me to climb into, but halfway up to the fork there was a truncated branch with a few bristly new twigs sticking out of it, and I figured that if I could get a foothold on this stump, I could swing myself up to the fork and climb on from there. I took hold of the trunk and placed one foot on the stump. Then I pulled myself up. For a moment it looked as though I was going to make it, but then I lost my footing, slithered down the trunk and scraped first my knee and then my stomach against the stump I had thought would be my ally. The scratch across my stomach stung like mad so I clutched it, bent double, all the way home. I tried to get my mother and grandmother to understand just how much my stomach was hurting, but they were more preoccupied with my right knee, which had a bleeding chunk taken out of it. I still have both scars, and I’m proud of them.

It was a nasty fall, but it didn’t end my climbing career. At nine I was spending my summer days on The Green with the other local children. Halfway across were two tall trees: one was inaccessible to everyone but the biggest boys, but the other was more accommodating. It was an exciting tree, a tree with a view: if you climbed high enough you could see the twin towers of Wembley Stadium. I liked to climb all the way to the top. Branches were pretty evenly spaced all the way, and this dictated my method: as I reached one branch, I would grasp onto the next one above it, then jump so that I was clinging to it upside down with all four limbs like a spit-roast, then haul myself round so that I was sitting astride the branch. Then I would stand up and repeat the process until I came to the top. Nowadays I find it hard to think about this without picturing myself falling onto my spine – which snaps in two. But in those days I liked nothing better than to stand on the highest, slightest fork and make the whole tree sway from side to the side like a metronome. Further down, other children would shout at me to stop it. I only fell out once, off one of the lower branches, and scraped my ankle on a bicycle that was lying on its side at the bottom.

Bicycles were every bit as important as trees. We raced each other up and down our cul-de-sac countless times, and we never wore helmets because excessive risk-aversion just wasn’t fashionable then. My small son is a child of a different time, and he does have a bicycle helmet, which he wears as a passenger on the back of his father’s bike. My husband always wears his, and just a few weeks ago I finally bought one of my own. As I write this chapter, I am in the middle of another course of cognitive behavioural therapy and as part of this latest drive to modify my behaviour, I have agreed to get back on a bicycle. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to join the unhelmeted mobile-phoning section of society, but my dependency on walking, buses and other people’s cars is limiting my life and that of my family, so I accept that I should at least try to do something about it. I’ve started riding around the local side roads; I cast a bigger shadow on the road now, and my left knee complains in a way that it never used to, but I have to admit, it really is still fun.

The cycling exercises are only a small part of the work we’re doing. Most of the time, we’re trying to address – or redress – a certain negative bias in my thinking behaviour. It did not come easily to me to admit that I’m enjoying the cycling; these few paragraphs, in which I have been describing myself as a happy and adventurous child, have taken far longer than they should, because I felt so unlike myself when I was writing them. I’m never quite sure what to make of those memories which don’t support my steadfastly held picture of my life as one long, shameful spell in purgatory. If someone – a new friend, or a new therapist – asked me to tell them about my childhood, and I told the story that automatically came to mind, it would be quite a different one.

You never know what a small child is going to decide to be scared of. My son used to be terrified by a pre-school art show called SMarteenies; I think it had something to do with the giant paintbrush that hovers over the presenters’ heads during the title sequence. At his age, I was petrified of the Quaker Oats man, and used to imagine his dreadful, grinning face floating outside my bedroom window at night. He sometimes had Wee Willie Winkie with him. My Ladybird nursery rhyme book had a picture of Willie, next to the rhyme:

Wee Willie Winkie

runs through the town,

Upstairs and downstairs

in his night-gown,

Knocking on the window,

crying through the lock,

Are the children all in bed,

for it’s past eight o’clock?

The picture showed a wild-eyed boy in a nightshirt, running through some dark, topsy-turvy nightmare of a town, carrying a candle that burned with a ferocious light, like a piece of stolen sun. I was certain that if any child so much as peeped through a curtain after eight o’clock something horrific would happen to them, and that Wee Willie Winkie would be involved in it somehow.

There was another rhyme in the Ladybird books that would cause me even more anxiety than Willie Winkie’s evening rounds, and it went like this:

Hark! Hark!

The dogs do bark.

The beggars are coming to town.

Some in rags

and some in jags

and one in a velvet gown.

The accompanying picture showed the beggars parading into a medieval town through its stone gate, watched by supercilious ladies in pointy hats and surrounded by skinny, excitable dogs. At the head of the troop was a brightly dressed boy, walking on his hands. One night – I think I was four then – I dreamed I was that boy, a little thief sneaking into my parents’ room to steal something off my mother’s dressing table. I managed to creep up to it without making a sound, but just as I reached out to touch the forbidden things that sat on it, there was a sudden explosion of noise, a blaring and trumpeting, then the floor tilted, throwing me flat on my face. When I tried to get up I found that I was stuck to it, as if I’d been weighted down with stones. The blaring continued, the floor tipped this way and that, and out of my parents’ enormous wardrobe burst a huge robot, the size and shape of a fruit machine, covered in flashing lights, sent out to judge and punish me.

I woke up before the machine could get me, but even though I knew that it was only a dream, for years afterwards, every time I went into my parents’ bedroom for any legitimate reason, I found I had to sing that reason as I went in, in order to prevent the judge-and-punishment wardrobe robot from springing into action. In retrospect, it’s tempting to see this as a taste of what was to come, a little advance warning from the neurosis fairy: the robot thought as my first obsession, the singing as my first compulsion.

Children who develop full-blown OCD before puberty are, more often than not, male. Joe Wells, the teenage author of the autobiography Touch and Go Joe (2006), is a good example. He experienced his first symptoms at the age of nine, and, typically for a child with OCD, these were indistinguishable from the symptoms an adult might have: he became obsessed with dirt and contamination, and developed a compulsion to wash his hands. Another child I saw on a recent television documentary was preoccupied with harm. He said that a voice in his head which he called Idiota was telling him to hurt his family, and as a result he was terrified of knives. Idiota also had a habit of reminding him of all the ways in which he might harm himself – by choking, for example. His mother was running out of things he would agree to eat. As I watched, I found I could recognize Idiota for what he was – a wellspring of obsessive thoughts – and fortunately for this child, the people who were treating him also understood the true nature of Idiota. It’s not easy for a child to describe the experience of OCD: the capacity to recognize one’s own thoughts as one’s own thoughts is something that takes a whole childhood to develop. The consequence is that the younger and less articulate the child, the harder it is to diagnose them accurately. The same goes for childhood depression, and for a long time the received wisdom was that young children were constitutionally incapable of suffering from it. There just wasn’t the evidence. None generated by mainstream psychology anyway.4

Despite the robot in the wardrobe, I don’t believe that I met my own Idiota until much later. On the other hand, at six years old I was already well acquainted with my inner Eeyore. I can remember my teacher Mrs Chandler telling me, with some exasperation, to ‘Smile, Joanne – you won’t crack your jaw!’ It must have been around that time that I was standing in the playground one lunchtime looking such a caricature of misery that a few of the nicer girls came up to ask me what the matter was. I said I had a broken heart. This was the only way I could think of to describe the feeling I had, as if I were carrying a bag of wet sand behind my breastbone – it’s the same feeling at any age, only as I got older I came to call it ‘being depressed’.

I couldn’t say what it was that had given me the wet sand feeling on that particular occasion: sometimes it was boredom, sometimes it was loneliness, sometimes it was just that my thoughts had taken me to an intolerable place. Standing in the line for the water fountain one day, it suddenly occurred to me that I was going to die – every one of us standing in that line would die one day; everybody in the world would die, even my parents and my aunts and my cousins. Everybody. In an instant, the playground, the day, the whole planet went tiny and far away. I saw in my mind’s eye a map of the British Isles, fading to black like an image from a silent film. A few months later my grandmother died. There had been no time to explain to me and my brother that Grandma was ill, let alone that she was not going to live for much longer. None of my morbid imaginings had prepared me for the real shock of someone I loved suddenly not being there any more, and I struggled to make sense of it. I wanted to know – I needed to know – what this being dead actually meant. My mother told me, in answer to my questions, that Grandma had gone, that the body she had left behind was ‘just a shell’ and that dead people ‘lived on in our heads’. Her answers turned into the strangest pictures: one of my grandmother’s empty body as an abandoned brown carapace, resembling a Grandma-shaped woodlouse corpse; another of a cross-section of a head, with a sort of attic space in the top, in which dozens of tiny ancestors ran around like the Numbskulls in The Beezer.

The family religion was Judaism, and Jews are not encouraged to meditate upon the next world, whatever that might turn out to be; our proper concern is to live a just and fruitful life in this one, but I wasn’t aware of this when I was seven. Neither did I appreciate that God was, in all his divine qualities, beyond the apprehension of any human sense. I had a very clear idea of what He looked like: He was a man of average build, with short ginger hair, a ginger moustache and round, wire-framed spectacles. He wore academic gowns and a mortar board, and stood at all times behind a giant wooden lectern which rested on nothing in the middle of space. From there he gazed out towards the distant stars, with a benign, if rather vague, expression on his face. He looked like one of the Ladybird illustrations, one of the less disturbing ones. Someone must have told me that God knew everything, which would account for the costume and the lectern. I’m unable to offer any explanation for the moustache.

So that was God, but what about heaven? Heaven was keeping me awake at night; I was desperate to figure out exactly where it was. Usually I would start with the assumption that it was at the top of the sky, maybe on the other side of the sky’s ceiling. The ceiling would then also be heaven’s floor, with God and his staff and all the good dead people walking about on it. But surely heaven had a sky, a ceiling? What was on the other side of that? How could something – the sky, for example – both come to an end and not come to an end? The more I thought about it, the more it made me feel horrible inside, as if somebody were driving me over the same hump-backed bridge again and again and again.

Back at school, I had more immediate concerns. My mother went to speak to Mrs Chandler about my bad dreams. Every night I was doing wrong things by accident and getting myself told off. Here’s one typical example: we were all standing in a line outside the Portakabin classroom. I realized that I was facing the wrong way, but before I could set myself right, Mrs Chandler shouted ‘Turn round!’ and everybody did including me, so I was still facing the wrong way. I would wake up with the hump-backed bridge feeling, but this time the sharp tug in my stomach meant I was going to be punished. It was the robot-judge machine all over again, but in its human, teacherly form. I told my mother all about the dreams. I was worried that I wasn’t doing very well at school, I described how Mrs Chandler was always telling this other girl that her work was very good; then there was another girl who had been given two gold stars just that week, when I’d only got one silver one for a whole story I wrote that was longer than hers. Obviously I was doing everything the wrong way.

My mother told me years later that she and Mrs Chandler had had quite a debate about the best use of stars as rewards. Mrs Chandler explained that gold stars were given out when a child had made an effort and done her best, not because her work was good in itself. My mother argued that a six-year-old could hardly be expected to understand this and that all I saw were other children getting stars. I think they agreed to disagree on the general issue, but Mrs Chandler did speak to me afterwards and reassure me about my performance in the classroom. ‘You’re one of the top girls,’ she said.

I wasn’t a popular one. On more than one occasion I overheard one of my classmates telling another that they didn’t like/hated/couldn’t stand Joanne Limburg. Often they would go on to talk about some annoying habit of mine. For a little while I had a compulsion to take my right hand and drag it slowly down my face. Then my hair grew long-ish for the first time, and I discovered that chewing it helped me think. ‘Don’t chew your hair, Joanne,’ said Mrs Chandler. ‘It’ll go all rats’ tails.’ But I kept on, and chewed the cuffs of my school jumper for good measure. Sometimes I wiped my nose on the same cuffs. There was an absent-minded quality to all these activities that’s never entirely left me: if I’m deep enough in thought I’ll just do what I feel like doing and only become aware of it, and any attendant shame, when I become aware of laughter – or disgust. One day I was sent to the welfare officer with a bleeding scab on my face. ‘You were picking, weren’t you?’ she said, looking at me as if she could see just what kind of revolting child I was. Maybe I had been picking, but I couldn’t remember a thing about it.

When I was quite sure that I was going to write this book, I went to my GP and asked to see my medical notes. I knew that they would come in useful for checking certain details like dates and diagnoses, but I wasn’t looking forward to reading what I had always imagined to be page after page of clinically accurate character assassination. In the event, however, they were nothing of the kind. ‘You see?’ my doctor said. ‘You’re NOT – THAT – BAD.’

One of the older items in the file is a letter from a speech therapist, addressed to a consultant paediatrician; copies had been sent to my GP and my junior school headmaster. It proved me wrong on one count right away, when I looked at the first paragraph and saw that that I’d first been referred to her in early 1978, when I was still only seven and in my last year of infant school. All this time I’d been assuming that I didn’t develop the stammer until junior school, a place I’ve always found easy to demonize. The letter was written a year after that first referral, part way through what seems to have been a rather spasmodic course of treatment, and describes me on presentation as ‘an extremely bright particularly verbally, insightful and shy girl’ who ‘severely lacked eye contact, and on a number of occasions turned her head to one side’. None of that surprised me, but I was rather taken aback to read that at my initial assessment, I was ‘completely fluent’, only demonstrating ‘hesitancy, initial sound and syllable repetitions, and very occasionally mild initial sound blocks’ halfway through the second session.

What emerges most clearly from the letter is that, in the therapist’s opinion, it was not my speech as such that was the problem, but rather my anxiety about my speech.

For a girl of Joanne’s age she is extremely aware in a precise way of which people and situations cause her stammer to develop from a very mild dysfluency to what she considers [my italics] as a moderately severe dysfluency . . .

The dysfluency is very fluctuating. Neither her class teacher, nor her headmaster, with whom I have spoken at some length have ever detected even the mildest stammer.

Joanne’s feelings towards her stammer include embarrassment and anger. Joanne is over-conscious of her speech, in general, and very aware when she makes a ‘slip of the tongue’. She responds by stumbling and the form the stammer takes will then depend on the person(s) or situation.

Mrs Limburg is concerned about Joanne’s great anxiety about her speech, and is very wary that too much self-pressure regarding academic success (Joanne is a tremendously high achiever) . . . may exacerbate her daughter’s stammer.

She discharged me six months later, writing to the consultant of my increased ‘confidence’ in dealing with my stammer. When I checked the date of this second letter, I saw that it was written during the long summer holiday. That makes sense.

When we moved up from the infants’ to the junior school, the classes were shuffled. I found myself with a new group: there was Donna, my bully-to-be. Our teacher, Mrs Bowson, claimed a special interest in those of us she considered particularly bright. ‘I’m interested in the professors and prime ministers,’ she declared, ‘not the road-sweepers and the shop girls.’ I was one of the only two girls destined, in her opinion, to avoid the checkout at Tesco’s, and we were moved, with a slightly larger handful of boys, to a separate, special table in the middle of the classroom. We were the ‘Alpha Group’, so named because, while the others did their maths out of the green Beta textbook, we had privileged access to the more difficult problems in the red Alpha Maths book. It was streaming by another name, and the headmaster didn’t approve. Towards the end of the year some of the children in the class claimed that they’d heard shouting in his office, and then seen Mrs Bowson come out crying. They might well have been telling the truth.

They may remember it differently, but I think the Alpha males had an easier time with their peers than we did. They could still help to make up the numbers in football and cricket teams, and one or two of them were even very good at games, which helped a lot. To be accepted by other boys, a boy has to do as the others do; to be accepted by other girls, a girl had better be as the others are, and my all-too-obvious cleverness was something that set me apart. I felt disfigured by it.

The other Alpha girl was Deborah. She had an autumn birthday, so her cleverness had got her put up a year. Being cleverer and younger would have been enough to have marked her, but these were her least obvious differences. Deborah had spina bifida and hydrocephalus. This was a time when children with far less to contend with were still being shunted off wholesale into ‘special’ schools, and her mother had fought a hard battle to keep her in mainstream education. At that point in her life she was in the middle of a long series of operations, and her scalp was shaved. She had to stay out of the sun, so at lunch she would go straight into the hall with one of the dinner ladies and then spend the rest of the break in the corridor outside the headmaster’s office, playing chess with whichever nice charitable girl had agreed to accompany her. I joined her, but not out of charity: we had interests in common, we were fellow outcasts, and it was the only legitimate way of avoiding my lunch queue problem. When she was in Toronto, having more operations, I was eating behind the prefabs.

Deborah’s friendship made school a little more bearable, but whether she was there or not, I would begin most of my weekday mornings by announcing to my mother that I had a headache or a tummy ache or a sore throat and couldn’t possibly go. Then one day I sat down on the edge of my parents’ bed and sobbed that I didn’t want to go ever again. She told me that she was going to take me to see a nice man who could talk to me about it.

The nice, talking man was an educational psychologist recommended by Deborah’s mother. I remember being taken to a set of rooms in a town house in some expensive, more central part of London, where I did puzzles and played games. It was fun. The first puzzles came in a booklet and featured things called ‘matrices’ which each had a piece missing. I had to choose the missing pieces. The puzzles got harder as I turned the pages but I worked quickly, and had managed to finish the last one before the man came back and took the booklet away again. When he had marked it he brought it back to me and pointed out my mistakes. ‘You could have got those right,’ he said. ‘Try not to go through things so quickly – it makes you careless.’ I nodded; it wasn’t the first time a teacher had said that to me.

After I’d finished the tests I sat by myself outside the man’s office while he talked to my parents. The diagnosis was giftedness and the best cure was removal from the state system to some more ‘academic’ establishment. My mother started phoning around. There were no places available anywhere for my school year, and I wouldn’t be able to sit the exams for secondary school for another two. In the meantime, the best she could do was to take the report to the headmaster, Mr Vickery, and see if he could find some extra support for me from somewhere.

Mr Vickery was not sympathetic, either to my mother or to me. He waved the report away and told her that as far as he was concerned, I was ‘an average intelligence child with a personality problem’. He complained to Mrs Bowson, who called me up to her desk and berated me about my mother’s coming up ‘moaning to Mr Vickery’. Then I was called into his office to account for myself. I stood in front of his desk trying not to meet his eye while he spoke to me sternly: I should not pretend to have headaches and stomach aches to try to get out of school; I went through my work ‘like a robot’ and didn’t pay enough attention to it; I was to go and write an extra essay to prove to him and to Mrs Bowson that I was so special and clever. Most of all I was to stop making a fuss about things, put a smile on my face, and join in.

Some ten years or so later Mum told me that Mr Vickery had died. He had suffered a heart attack and fallen down the stairs at his house, where he lived alone. I started to say something conventional like ‘oh, how terrible’, but found I couldn’t stop the huge grin that was spreading itself across my face. It was quite a shock: I don’t allow myself to hate people, as a rule.

My father joked that I was ‘an intellectual’; he found my vagueness endearing. ‘Joanne’ll be late for the end of the world,’ he’d say, and I would imagine an apocalyptic scene, all red skies and toppling columns. A huge gate stood at the edge of this picture. It was wide open and everybody in the world except me was escaping through it. I was sitting on a broken pedestal with my nose in a book. The gate was about to close and I would be left alone in the burning, toppling, broken world, all alone.

I loved books, and by the time I left primary school I knew that I wanted to write them myself. In my second year I wrote a poem which impressed my teacher. ‘You’re lucky,’ she told me. ‘You’re talented.’ Talented. I breathed the word in; it filled me up like helium in a balloon and lifted me clear off the floor. I was talented, and maybe one day I was going to write something as good as The Once and Future King. In the meantime, I could live in it. I was Sir Gareth: they thought I was only a smelly kitchen boy but really I could beat them all.

Imagination can comfort, or it can terrorize. My husband recently told me that between the ages of nine and ten he slept with a Lego crucifix under his pillow to protect himself from vampires. He has since grown up into an utterly and infuriatingly rational adult. I sometimes wish I could say the same for myself, but I can’t. I was and remain suggestible in the extreme: if I picture someone vomiting I feel sick; if I think about multiple sclerosis the little and ring fingers of my left hand begin to go numb. If I’d been born a hundred years earlier I could have had a promising career as a hysteric.