Coming Clean - Living with OCD. Hayley Leitch
the fear was real and it was still there choking me. My heart thumped as bile rose up inside my throat. I tried to breathe as I lifted the burger up towards my mouth. The bread bun felt slippery, hot and greasy between my fingers. Even the smell of it made me want to heave.
You have to do this, you can’t ruin everyone’s night.
As the food drew closer to my face I could feel the heat as steam brushed against my skin. I closed my eyes and tried to focus. Blood whooshed inside my brain and I felt hot and prickly as I forced myself to take a miniscule bite. The bread crushed against my teeth and stuck to the roof of my mouth which made my stomach contract. I knew I was going to be sick. My eyes darted around, looking for something to spit my food into. I saw a red napkin and spat the burger into it.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I gasped as I ran towards the ladies loo.
Mum dashed after me. I’d just made it to the toilet when I vomited so hard that sick came out of both my nostrils and my mouth.
‘Hayley, what’s wrong?’ Mum asked holding my hair away from my face.
But I couldn’t answer. All I knew was I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my entire life. My insides twisted as my stomach muscles heaved. Finally they stopped contracting and the sickness subsided. Mum wrapped an arm around my shoulder.
‘Come on, love.’
She turned me towards her and, with a wad of toilet tissue, mopped both my face and hands.
‘Here, let’s get you over to the sink. You can splash your face with cold water, that’ll make you feel better.’
Mum’s concern was so genuine that it made me feel worse because deep down, I knew it wasn’t the food making me sick, it was me – I’d done it to myself. As the cold water hit my skin, I began to feel better. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the toilet mirror – my face was pale and pasty. Of course, Mum put the sickness down to a stomach bug, only I knew better. It wasn’t a bug or virus making me sick; it was a fear – a fear of eating out in public. Something inside my mind was making me sick. Just like the urge to jump the fishpond, now it was telling me not to eat food because strangers might be watching me. Now I’d been sick, I felt a whole lot better, if not a little confused. These things kept happening to me but I didn’t know why. Something had told me not to eat the burger, but to jump the fishpond. It wasn’t something I could see or even explain. I couldn’t tell anyone what it was because I didn’t know myself.
How could I tell anyone how frightened I felt? How could I expect anyone else to understand?
‘Maybe you were just too full up, maybe you just ate too much,’ Mum said as we returned to the table. ‘I wouldn’t eat anything else, just in case.’
I nodded. She was right; if I didn’t eat anything else then I wouldn’t be sick. I didn’t want to be ill because I didn’t want to go home. Despite the food, I enjoyed us all being out together because usually Dad was at work. He was a partner in a printing business in London, which he ran with Uncle Peter, so he was almost never home. We only ever saw him for a couple of hours each night before we went to bed. Sometimes, it was almost as though he didn’t live there at all.
After that day, whenever we went out for something to eat I’d panic every time my meal arrived at the table but I never showed my fear. Instead, I taught myself to hide it. I’d pretend to wipe my mouth with a napkin just so I could secretly spit out the food. On other occasions, I’d eat it only to go straight to the toilet where I’d be violently sick. I never ever made myself sick – I didn’t have to – my body was in such a state of panic that it did it for me. But the fear other people were watching me was always there. I’d manage to eat the starter as long as I shared it. I didn’t mind food I could pick at; I just couldn’t eat a whole dinner to myself. As long as I hid my secret then no one would find out and everything would be fine. No one would know because as soon as I was sick, I always felt better.
Back at home I was able to eat normally; I just felt intimidated in a restaurant. It was as though this new fear had stolen my appetite for food and life. I didn’t realise it then, but the fishpond and my new fear of eating in public were the beginnings of something much bigger and it was something which would slowly rule, and all but destroy, my life.
MUM HAD WORKED behind the makeup counter at Selfridges for as long as I could remember but one day she left and started at a new company, doing the accounts. With both parents at work, Nanny Linda stepped in to look after me and my sisters. I didn’t mind because to us, Nanny Linda was our second mum. Soon, Mum and Dad were passing like ships in the night. She’d cook Dad’s tea and we’d see him for a couple of hours before being packed off to bed. This pattern continued for the best part of a year until one day, Mum had something to tell us.
‘Dad’s not going to be living here anymore,’ she said wringing her hands nervously in her lap. My eyes automatically followed them and I took a sharp breath when I realised she’d already removed her wedding ring.
I looked over at Lauren and Zara but they didn’t even flinch. The sad truth was that, despite his best efforts, none of us saw Dad anymore. The business had all but consumed him until it had slowly stolen him away from us. Mum was also busy, wrapped up in her new job. I thought it was sad they’d suddenly stopped loving one another. Even though I thought about it, I never asked Mum any questions, none of us did – we just accepted it. As long as Nanny Linda was still with us, I knew we’d be okay.
In fact, in many ways, Dad leaving had its bonuses, mainly the plush new apartment he moved into. It was part of a huge block of flats in London, but he shared a swimming pool and gardens with the other residents. We visited Dad every other weekend, when we’d get to stay over. I loved it there because we’d spend endless days swimming, laughing and chatting. The swimming pool made me feel like my dad was a millionaire – no one else’s dad I knew had a swimming pool.
Back at home everything stayed the same and soon our fractured family became our new way of life. Months later, Mum introduced us to her new boyfriend, a man called Paul. They’d met at work, she told me. Meanwhile, Dad had a girlfriend of his own – a lovely woman called Carol. She was a single mum and pub landlady from Clapham, with two children – a boy and a girl. They were called Joseph and Rachel and I loved spending time with them because they were still so young. Joseph was four years old and a typical boy, boisterous and lots of fun, while Rachel was still a baby.
‘Aww, a baby!’ I squealed with delight as soon as we met.
I put out my arms to hold Rachel, and Carol let me. It made me feel important, like a miniature mum. Joseph was tiny in comparison to my youngest sister Zara, even though she was only a year older than him. He was so slight that I was able to pick him up and spin him around in my arms.
‘Faster, faster!’ he giggled until I spun him so fast that we both felt dizzy.
Despite my new family and the fact my parents were both moving on with their lives, my compulsions never left me. My fear of eating out remained but the urge to jump the fishpond was eventually overtaken by another compulsion. I was still only seven years old, but this new obsession would quite literally change my world.
One day, I walked into the bedroom I shared with my elder sister Lauren. We had a big bedroom. It was painted pale green and had a tall wooden bunk bed pressed up against the wall in the right-hand corner. Opposite stood a large dark oak wardrobe which was crammed full of clothes. Take That posters adorned the walls, although Lauren was a much bigger fan than I was. I loved our bedroom but I’d never given it or the