Dear... My Brother Who Has OCD
We are the same age; we came from the same womb at the same time. But our paths turned out very differently.
You are an awesome brother and I love you unconditionally. You are highly intelligent, creative, sensitive, deeply caring and have a wacky sense of humour. If only we heard you laugh more. These days you rarely laugh, or smile, or say much. But I remember your laugh when we were little, it was electric. You would throw your head back and I used to think I wish I could find everything as funny as you did.
But your OCD has taken all that away from you. Some days you are like a snail with a broken shell. Unable to move, dying from the inside. And for us, unreachable. Other days you are like a rescue dog, wary and cautious but thankfully, still following close behind us.
Most days you reside partially in our world and partially in a world of your own. A seemingly impenetrable bubble of worry, despair and desperation. I think of it as an island; an island that looks near but is far away. Sometimes our parents, siblings, friends or I will find tools to build a boat to come and see you, give you food, water, company, solace. Sometimes we even muster up the strength to physically swim over to you. Those days are exhausting. They are not comparable to the exhaustion of your everyday inner turmoil, flogged by the threat that you feel the world poses to you every minute of every day. But they are exhausting nonetheless.
I worry that others will see you standing on that island in the horizon and accuse you of being selfish. Of isolating yourself on purpose and not sharing your land or resources. After all, you have so much to offer to the world. But I know the island is not a nice place. It is lonely and dark. The weather is unpredictable and there are frightening insects and beasts that live on the island with you. You can’t stop thinking about them and how to protect yourself and what they might do to you. But we can’t see them from this far away.
You are on this island and I want you to come back to the mainland more than anything. I know you will do it in your own time. We have to be patient. You have always been a brilliant swimmer, so I have no doubt you’ll get back to us when you are prepared and ready. It will probably be the most difficult swim of your life and you may have to swim a few circuits before you find the right shore. You might get stung by jellyfish, or choke on the salty water or get pushed back by the current over and over again. But you can do it.
One day you will look back at the island as a mere speck in the ocean; a dot on the map of your life. You will have a different perspective on the world to the rest of us, but you always have anyway. You will be the quirky, hilarious, creative, adventurous person that you always have been. And we will hear you laugh again.