Chapter One: The Plane That Wasn't Going to Crash
At 9:17 on a Tuesday morning, I became convinced that I was about to kill 186 people.
I was thirty-eight years old, sitting in an air traffic control centre outside London, staring at several aircraft moving across my screen.
One of them was descending.
Another was climbing.
They were separated by a perfectly safe distance.
I knew this because I was an air traffic controller.
Knowing things like that was literally my job.
Unfortunately, my brain had decided to hold an emergency meeting.
What if you've made a mistake?
I checked the information again.
Everything was correct.
Then came the problem.
Had I checked it properly?
I looked again.
Still correct.
My colleague beside me was dealing with his own traffic and appeared completely relaxed.
I hated him for approximately four seconds.
Not genuinely.
He was a nice bloke.
But there was something offensive about watching somebody trust their own brain.
I issued an instruction.
The pilot acknowledged it.
Correctly.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, a horrible image flashed into my mind.
Two aircraft colliding.
Metal tearing apart.
People screaming.
News reports.
Investigators discovering that I had caused it.
Families learning my name.
It lasted perhaps two seconds.
I hated it.
I didn't want it.
I certainly wasn't secretly wishing for it.
That was the cruelty of intrusive thoughts. My brain tended to produce images involving precisely the things I most desperately didn't want to happen, then demanded that I prove I didn't want them.
I checked the separation again.
Safe.
Again.
Safe.
"Marshall?"
I looked across.
My colleague nodded towards the screen.
"You all right?"
"Fine."
I wasn't fine.
I was functioning.
There's a difference.
By lunchtime, nothing had crashed.
This was good news for aviation and slightly disappointing news for my OCD, which had spent most of the morning presenting itself as the only thing standing between Britain and a national tragedy.
I ate a sandwich in the staff room.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie.
She'd worked alongside me for six years before moving elsewhere in aviation. Somehow, despite escaping the building, she'd failed to escape me.
Her WhatsApp message said:
Still alive?
I replied:
Debatable.
Busy?
My brain has opened seventeen investigations into things that haven't happened.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Productive morning then.
I smiled.
I checked separation more than I needed to.
There was a pause.
Then:
Rough one?
Yeah.
Finish your shift. Eat something that isn't beige. Go home. Don't conduct a public inquiry into Tuesday.
That was Ellie.
Compassion without wrapping me in bubble wrap.
That evening, I travelled back into London exhausted.
My job paid extremely well.
I was good at it too.
That complicated things.
People imagine that when something is making you unhappy, it must mean you're failing at it.
I wasn't failing.
Professionally, I was successful.
Personally, I was spending enormous amounts of energy fighting a brain that treated uncertainty as a fire alarm.
When I reached my house, I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
Then I turned around.
Had I locked the car?
I remembered pressing the button.
Probably.
I walked back outside.
Checked it.
Locked.
Back indoors.
The cooker caught my attention.
I hadn't used it that morning.
Still, I checked.
Off.
I went upstairs.
Then returned downstairs.
The cooker was still off.
Obviously.
I stood there feeling embarrassed, although nobody was watching.
"Excellent work, Marshall."
I checked it again.
That was the worst part sometimes.
I knew.
I understood the mechanism.
Obsession.
Anxiety.
Compulsion.
Temporary relief.
More doubt.
I could practically give a lecture on it.
Yet there I was, staring at a cooker I'd already checked.
Knowledge isn't immunity.
That night I couldn't sleep.
London glowed beyond the bedroom window.
Cars passed.
Somebody shouted in the street.
A siren moved through the distance.
I thought about work.
Then money.
Then the house.
Then the fact that I was thirty-eight and increasingly living my life according to what frightened me least.
That thought bothered me more than the others.
I picked up my phone.
You awake? I messaged Ellie.
Three minutes later:
Unfortunately.
Can I ask you something?
Depends. Is it secretly "tell me everything will definitely be okay"?
I stared at the screen.
Annoyingly perceptive woman.
No.
Then I deleted it.
I typed:
Maybe.
She replied:
Thought so. Try again.
I lay back.
Eventually I wrote:
Do you ever think you can build a life that's technically good but completely wrong for you?
Her reply took longer this time.
Yes.
Then another message appeared.
And I don't think you're actually asking about your house.
I wasn't.
The next morning I went to work.
Then I went again the morning after that.
Weeks passed.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No breakdown.
No cinematic moment where I threw my headset across the room and marched into freedom.
Real decisions are often much less impressive.
They happen while you're brushing your teeth.
On trains.
At 2:00 in the morning.
While staring at supermarket shelves.
The thought grew quietly.
What if I changed my life?
OCD immediately responded.
What if you ruin it?
That was the beginning.
Not certainty.
Not bravery.
Just one question fighting another.
And for once, I became curious about the first one.
Chapter Two: The Spreadsheet
Once I'd decided I wanted a different life, I approached the matter with calm, sensible moderation.
That's a lie.
I created a spreadsheet.
Then another spreadsheet.
Then I created a spreadsheet comparing the spreadsheets.
Within three weeks I had researched motorhomes with the intensity normally reserved for missing nuclear submarines.
I'd made the decision to sell the house and combine the money with my savings.
That decision had taken months.
It wasn't purely about OCD.
I was tired of the job.
Tired of London.
Tired of feeling that my entire life was built around managing pressure.
I wanted to travel.
Not a two-week holiday where you take photographs, buy a fridge magnet and return home more tired than when you left.
I wanted time.
France.
Belgium.
Germany.
Italy.
Spain.
Small villages I'd never heard of.
Mountains.
Coastlines.
Badly pronounced menu items.
Conversations with people whose lives looked nothing like mine.
The idea excited me.
Naturally, OCD attempted to turn it into an administrative hostage situation.
Which motorhome?
How reliable?
What if it leaked?
What if the brakes failed?
What if I bought the wrong model?
What if another model was safer?
What if I regretted spending the money?
I bought magazines.
I watched reviews.
I joined forums.
I read arguments between motorhome owners that appeared to have begun during the Cold War.
Somebody would write:
"I've had mine six years. Excellent vehicle."
Then somebody else would reply:
"WORST MOTORHOME EVER MANUFACTURED."
This wasn't helpful.
I investigated layouts.
Engines.
Heating.
Water systems.
Payload.
Storage.
Dimensions.
Security.
Insurance.
Servicing.
Tyres.
Gas.
Solar panels.
Battery systems.
Beds.
Toilets.
Fridges.
By week four, I knew more about cassette toilets than any human being should.
Ellie watched the deterioration through WhatsApp.
How's the motorhome search?
Progressing.
How many are you considering?
Technically eleven.
Technically?
Realistically four.
And emotionally?
Thirty-seven.
She sent a laughing emoji.
Eventually, one kept returning to the top.
A brand new 2026 Ford Swift Voyager 574.
About seven metres long.
Comfortable fixed beds.
Good storage.
A proper kitchen.
A bathroom that didn't require me to perform gymnastics around a toilet.
It felt substantial without being ridiculous.
I went to see one.
The salesman was called Martin.
"Take your time," he said.
Dangerous words.
I sat in the driver's seat.
Then the lounge.
Then I opened cupboards.
Not compulsively at first.
I was genuinely looking.
"This is the 574," Martin said. "Popular layout."
"I've done some research."
"Good."
"Quite a lot."
He smiled politely.
I didn't tell him I'd downloaded the technical manual eleven days earlier.
I walked around the outside.
The vehicle was beautiful.
White bodywork.
Clean lines.
Huge windscreen.
It looked like possibility with wheels.
Then I noticed a tiny mark near one storage locker.
My stomach tightened.
Damage?
Manufacturing defect?
Evidence of something worse underneath?
I crouched down.
Martin came over.
"Something wrong?"
"What's this?"
He looked.
"Bit of adhesive."
He rubbed it with his thumb.
It disappeared.
I felt ridiculous.
Then relieved.
Then suspicious of the relief.
I walked around again.
By the time I left, I loved the Voyager.
Which made everything worse.
Now I had something to lose.
For six days I researched alternatives.
I compared specifications I'd already compared.
I watched reviews I'd already watched.
At 1:12 one morning I found myself reading a discussion about motorhome door hinges posted in 2021.
I stopped.
The room was silent.
I looked at my laptop.
Twenty-three tabs were open.
I knew what was happening.
This wasn't research anymore.
It was a compulsion wearing glasses.
I messaged Ellie the next morning.
I think I've chosen the Voyager.
You said that nine days ago.
I was still researching.
Were you learning anything new?
I hated that question.
Not really.
Then you weren't researching.
I put my phone down.
Picked it up again.
What if there's a better model I've missed?
Her reply:
There might be.
I stared at those three words.
There might be.
No reassurance.
No promise.
Just uncertainty sitting there in plain clothes.
I drove back to the dealership.
Martin recognised me immediately.
"Marshall."
"Hello."
"Back again?"
"Apparently."
I walked through the Voyager.
My heart was pounding.
OCD demanded one more comparison.
One more night.
One more review.
One more check.
Instead I found Martin.
"I'll take it."
His face brightened.
"Excellent."
Immediately my brain screamed:
Wrong decision.
I nearly withdrew the offer.
Instead, I signed.
My hand actually trembled.
I'd spent years thinking courage would feel powerful.
It didn't.
Sometimes courage feels like signing your name while your brain calls you an idiot.
Chapter Three: The Motorhome Incident
The house sold.
The money arrived.
The Voyager became mine.
That sentence makes the process sound wonderfully straightforward.
It wasn't.
There were forms.
Insurance.
Registration.
Documentation.
Bank transfers.
Identity checks.
More forms.
At one point I became convinced I'd entered the wrong account number during a transfer and checked it so many times the numbers stopped looking like numbers.
Eventually I collected the Voyager.
Martin handed me the keys.
"Congratulations."
"Thanks."
"Big adventure?"
"That's the idea."
"Where are you heading?"
"Europe."
"Anywhere specific?"
"Eventually."
He laughed.
I wasn't joking.
Driving the Voyager through London for the first time was terrifying.
Not because it was difficult to drive.
Because my brain had suddenly become responsible for seven metres of expensive machinery.
Every cyclist became a potential catastrophe.
Every parked car seemed three inches away.
Every low branch looked capable of removing the roof.
I reached my street without killing anybody.
An encouraging start.
Moving my belongings into the Voyager felt strangely emotional.
Clothes.
Books.
Laptop.
Kitchen things.
Photographs.
A ridiculous amount of tea.
I kept less than I'd expected.
The Voyager gradually stopped looking like a showroom vehicle and started looking like mine.
My safe haven.
Not because nothing bad could happen there.
I'd learned enough about OCD to know that turning anywhere into a guaranteed safe zone was dangerous.
It was home because I chose it.
There was a difference.
The main funny incident happened three days later.
It began with a fitted sheet.
I'd bought bedding for the fixed rear beds.
I was determined to put the sheet on properly.
This proved more difficult than directing aircraft through congested airspace.
I hooked one corner.
Moved to the other side.
The first corner came off.
I replaced it.
The opposite corner escaped.
I climbed partly onto the mattress.
The sheet twisted.
I attempted to rotate it.
Somehow I ended up kneeling inside the sheet.
At that exact moment someone knocked on the motorhome door.
I froze.
Another knock.
I tried to stand.
The sheet caught around my foot.
I fell sideways onto the mattress.
"Everything all right in there?" a voice called.
"Yes."
I attempted to free myself.
"Absolutely fine."
It was my neighbour, Graham.
"Marshall?"
"One second."
I eventually emerged from the rear bedroom sweating, carrying half a fitted sheet around my ankle.
I opened the door.
Graham stared at me.
I stared back.
"You moving in?"
"Yes."
He looked down at the sheet.
"Going well?"
"Exceptionally."
He nodded.
"Only asking because your outside storage locker is open."
My stomach dropped.
I looked past him.
The locker door was indeed open.
Instantly the humour disappeared.
Had I left it open?
How long?
Had anything fallen out?
Could something have fallen into the road earlier?
Could someone have taken something?
Had I driven with it open?
I rushed outside.
The locker was empty except for two levelling ramps and an electrical cable.
I counted them.
Then checked behind the vehicle.
Nothing.
I looked along the road.
Nothing.
"Probably just forgot to close it," Graham said.
Probably.
That word.
I wanted to walk the street.
Check whether anything had fallen out.
Maybe something dangerous.
A tool.
I didn't even keep tools in that locker.
But perhaps I'd put one there and forgotten.
Memory distrust arrived fast.
Graham went home.
I stood beside the Voyager.
The urge to search the road was intense.
So I searched.
I walked fifty metres.
Nothing.
Then another fifty.
Nothing.
I reached the junction.
My anxiety said continue.
I stopped.
I knew exactly what was happening.
I'd performed a compulsion.
Now OCD wanted interest.
Another hundred metres.
Another road.
Another check.
I turned around.
I hated myself on the walk back.
You failed.
You were supposed to resist.
You checked.
You haven't learned anything.
That voice sounded almost reasonable.
That was another trap.
Recovery perfectionism.
Apparently I wanted to perform recovery flawlessly.
Very modest ambition.
Back inside the Voyager, I sat at the table.
The fitted sheet was still half attached to the mattress.
I messaged Ellie.
I checked.
What happened?
I explained.
She replied:
And now?
I feel like I've messed up.
You did a compulsion. That's not the same thing as destroying all progress.
I read that twice.
I should have resisted.
Probably. You didn't. What are you doing next?
That was irritatingly practical.
I looked towards the rear bed.
Apparently fighting a fitted sheet.
My money's on the sheet.
Twenty minutes later, the sheet was finally attached.
Crooked.
Wrinkled.
But attached.
I left it like that.
Strangely, that felt like another kind of practice.
Not fixing everything.
Not making everything feel right.
Sometimes good enough had to remain good enough.
Chapter Four: The Maps
Planning Europe became the next challenge.
I bought a large road atlas.
Then another because the first didn't show enough detail.
Then guidebooks.
France.
Belgium.
Netherlands.
Germany.
Switzerland.
Italy.
Spain.
Portugal.
I spread them across the Voyager's table.
The possibilities were enormous.
That was wonderful.
It was also horrifying.
Where should I go first?
Which route was safest?
Which campsites had the best reviews?
Which roads were suitable for a vehicle of this size?
What about tolls?
Low-emission zones?
Weather?
Breakdowns?
Theft?
Medical emergencies?
OCD took the entire continent and converted it into a risk assessment.
I created a route.
Then another.
Then another.
The first involved France.
The second also involved France but differently.
The third was basically the first route except I'd moved one overnight stop eleven miles east.
I stared at the map.
"This is absurd."
The Voyager offered no opinion.
One reason I liked it.
I spent several evenings sitting inside while London carried on outside.
Rain tapping the roof.
Kettle boiling.
Maps spread across the table.
The Voyager had become more than a vehicle.
When I closed the door at night, I felt settled.
Not perfectly safe.
Settled.
There were still compulsions.
One evening I checked the gas.
Then checked it again.
Then stood halfway down the aisle arguing with myself.
You didn't look properly.
I had.
But maybe you saw what you expected to see.
I returned.
Checked again.
Three times.
I felt furious afterwards.
The next morning I checked once and walked away.
That felt almost suspiciously easy.
The afternoon was terrible.
I spent twenty minutes wondering whether I'd accidentally damaged somebody's parked car while manoeuvring.
I hadn't felt an impact.
Heard an impact.
Seen an impact.
There was no evidence of an impact.
OCD still wanted me to walk back and inspect every car.
I resisted for ten minutes.
Then gave in.
I checked.
Nothing.
I returned to the Voyager angry with myself again.
Progress was apparently drunk.
It staggered about.
Sometimes forwards.
Sometimes sideways.
Occasionally directly into a hedge.
Ellie called that evening.
"How's international exploration going?"
"I've travelled approximately zero miles internationally."
"Impressive."
"I've planned seventeen thousand."
"Even better."
I looked at the maps.
"I keep thinking I need the route completely sorted before I leave."
"You don't."
"I know."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because knowing something intellectually has never once stopped my brain behaving like a frightened solicitor."
She laughed.
"Where do you actually want to go?"
"Europe."
"That's quite broad."
"I want coastlines. Old towns. Mountains eventually. Food I can't pronounce. Places I wouldn't normally see."
"Then do that."
"That's not a route."
"No."
"What if I choose badly?"
"You might."
I smiled despite myself.
"You really are terrible at reassurance."
"I work hard at it."
We talked for another half hour.
Not entirely about OCD.
We talked about her work.
A terrible television programme she'd started watching.
The price of coffee.
A mutual former colleague who had apparently become obsessed with cycling.
My life contained OCD.
It wasn't required to occupy every conversation.
After we finished, I sat quietly.
Rain had stopped.
I opened the side door.
London air came inside.
I thought about the years I'd spent directing aircraft.
Thousands of people heading somewhere.
Business trips.
Holidays.
Funerals.
Weddings.
New lives.
Old homes.
I'd never known their stories.
I'd simply helped them move safely through a small piece of sky.
I realised I'd spent much of my own life waiting for permission to move.
Permission from anxiety.
Permission from certainty.
Permission from the imaginary future where every possible risk had been resolved.
That permission was never coming.
I looked at the map.
Then I did something that would have horrified Spreadsheet Marshall.
I folded it.
I didn't finalise the route.
I didn't choose every campsite.
I didn't research another destination.
I made tea.
For that evening, planning was finished.
The uncertainty remained.
So did I.
Chapter Five: One Sensible Check
The morning I was due to leave London, I woke at 5:43.
I'd set the alarm for seven.
OCD had apparently arranged an earlier appointment.
My first thought was:
Tyres.
My second was:
Gas.
Third:
Insurance documents.
Fourth:
What if you've forgotten something important?
I lay beneath the badly fitted sheet staring at the ceiling.
The Voyager was silent.
I could hear rainwater dripping somewhere outside.
For several minutes I considered postponing departure.
One day.
That was all.
Use today to check everything.
Leave tomorrow.
It sounded sensible.
OCD often does.
I got dressed.
Made coffee.
Couldn't drink it.
At 6:20, I started my departure check.
I'd written the list beforehand.
A sensible list.
Windows.
Hookup.
Cupboards.
Gas.
Lockers.
Tyres.
Doors.
Documents.
One check.
That was the agreement I'd made with myself.
I checked the windows.
Closed.
Hookup disconnected.
Cupboards secure.
Gas correct.
Lockers closed.
Tyres looked fine.
Doors secure.
Documents present.
Finished.
Then I stood beside the Voyager.
Check the gas again.
"No."
My voice sounded very small in the morning.
You might have turned it the wrong way.
I hadn't.
But could I prove that?
Not perfectly.
I walked around to the locker.
My hand touched the handle.
I stopped.
Then I checked it.
Once.
Immediately relief arrived.
Followed by another doubt.
Did you pull it hard enough?
There it was.
Proof that the first extra check hadn't solved anything.
I stepped away.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie.
You gone yet?
No.
Problem?
I considered lying.
Checked a locker twice.
Okay.
That was it.
I waited.
That's all you're saying?
What would you like, a tribunal?
I smiled.
I feel like I'm already messing up the first day.
Her reply came quickly.
You're still leaving, aren't you?
I looked at the Voyager.
Yes.
Then leave.
I climbed into the driver's seat.
The dashboard looked familiar now.
I'd sat there dozens of times while parked.
Today felt different.
I started the engine.
Immediately:
Is the door properly closed?
I looked at the warning lights.
No door warning.
Good enough.
Then another thought arrived.
What if the locker opens while driving?
An image followed.
Locker opening.
Equipment falling into traffic.
A motorcyclist swerving.
Crash.
Death.
Police.
My fault.
I gripped the steering wheel.
The image was vivid.
Horrible.
Unwanted.
My body reacted as if I'd witnessed something real.
Heart pounding.
Hands damp.
The urge to get out and check was enormous.
I nearly did.
Then I remembered something I'd learned slowly, painfully, repeatedly.
Feeling responsible wasn't proof that I was responsible.
Feeling uncertain wasn't evidence of danger.
I had completed a sensible check.
That didn't guarantee anything.
Nothing could.
I pulled away.
For the first few streets, every noise mattered.
Rattle.
What was that?
Bump.
Did I hit something?
Movement in the mirror.
Was that locker open?
I kept driving.
London was waking around me.
Buses.
Cyclists.
Delivery vans.
People carrying coffee.
A man jogging with the expression of someone being pursued by tax authorities.
At a red light, I almost laughed.
My anxiety was still high.
That surprised some people when I talked about progress.
They imagined success meant feeling calm.
It didn't always.
Sometimes success meant being terrified and continuing to drive.
I stopped later beside the Thames.
Not because of OCD.
Because I wanted to.
That distinction felt important.
I made tea inside the Voyager and sat looking through the windscreen.
London had been my home for years.
Complicated.
Loud.
Expensive.
Brilliant.
Exhausting.
I wasn't escaping it.
I wasn't escaping OCD either.
That would've been convenient.
Drive far enough and leave the disorder somewhere around the M25.
Unfortunately, my brain had booked a permanent passenger seat.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie.
Well?
I sent her a photograph through the windscreen.
I've moved.
How far?
Not telling you. It sounds less impressive if I provide mileage.
Did you check anything?
I hesitated.
Yes.
Then:
And I still left.
Her reply took a moment.
That sounds more useful than pretending you didn't struggle.
I looked around the Voyager.
My books were in the cupboard.
Maps in the drawer.
Clothes stored away.
Coffee cooling beside me.
The fitted sheet was still crooked.
I had no intention of fixing it.
I thought about who I wanted to become.
Not fearless.
That sounded exhausting.
Not somebody who never checked again.
Not somebody who never had intrusive thoughts.
I wanted to become somebody who could have those thoughts and still choose where his feet went next.
Some days I'd manage it.
Some days I wouldn't.
There would be mornings when I drove away after one check.
There would probably be mornings when I checked four times and hated myself afterwards.
There would be strange roads.
Wrong turns.
Bad campsites.
Excellent campsites.
People I'd remember.
People I'd never see again.
There would be things I couldn't control.
That last part frightened me.
It also sounded suspiciously like life.
I finished my tea.
Then I opened the road atlas.
There was a destination I'd been considering.
I didn't know much about it yet.
That was unusual for me.
Normally I'd have researched the population, parking regulations, crime statistics, road widths and possibly the mayor's blood type before setting off.
This time, I knew enough.
I closed the atlas.
Started the engine.
My brain immediately offered several reasons to wait.
I listened.
Then drove anyway.
London slowly began to disappear behind me.
Ahead was somewhere I had never been.
OCD was coming too.
Fine.
It could come.
But it wasn't choosing the route.
©️ James Michael 2026
