You mentally undress your friends,Tony Blair, the lollipop lady. Your thoughts are X-rated. You wonder whether you're a paedophile – or just losing your intellect. A sufferer describes the nightmare – and shadowy comedy – of living with pure OCDOn a spring night when I was 15 the mental image of a naked child entered my head and the corners of my world folded in. I put down my cutlery. My throat was closing over. Dad sat across from me, or 10000 miles away,and Mum was hunting draughts at the window.
Stoned and smiling, my brother sat next to me, and resting his elbows on teenage knees too high for the table. He looked sidelong at Mum and Dad to check they weren't watching as he teased the dog with a tiny piece of meat. She patted a furry paw on his leg and let out a exiguous squeak,and he looked at me for my surefire grin of complicity. I knew it was funny. It was definitely funny. But the giggles didn't reach, this time.
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Source: theguardian.com