Story 3 - Lille, Me & OCD

Chapter One: The Onion.

At 7:43 on a Tuesday evening in Lille, I became responsible for the possible death of a dog because of a piece of onion approximately the size of my thumbnail.

At least, that was the prosecution’s case.

The prosecution being my own brain.

I was sitting outside the Voyager at a campsite on the edge of the city, eating a burger I'd made myself. The evening was warm, the sky was still bright, and somewhere nearby a French family were having a disagreement about tent poles.

I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone.

Somebody had definitely put Pole B into Hole C.

My Ford Swift Voyager sat behind me, looking enormous and reassuring.

Seven metres of home.

My safe place.

Not because nothing bad could happen inside it. OCD had already demonstrated considerable creativity on that subject.

Gas leaks.

Electrical faults.

Food poisoning.

Carbon monoxide.

Water contamination.

The possibility that I'd somehow damaged another motorhome while reversing despite being thirty feet away from it.

Still, the Voyager was where I returned.

My bed was there.

The little plastic aeroplane Ellie had given me sat on the dashboard with YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW YET printed across its wings.

I had occasionally considered throwing it into a canal.

I hadn't.

Mostly because Ellie would probably ask for photographic evidence.

I was halfway through my burger when a small brown dog appeared beside the table.

He had floppy ears, intelligent eyes and the expression of an animal who had never been fed in his entire life.

He stared at my plate.

"Absolutely not," I said.

His tail wagged.

"I recognise emotional manipulation when I see it."

More wagging.

I moved the plate towards the middle of the table.

The dog moved closer.

"You've had dinner."

He looked offended.

Obviously I had no evidence he'd had dinner.

Perhaps he was genuinely starving.

Perhaps his owners had forgotten him.

Perhaps I should find them.

Perhaps...

No.

I ate another bite.

A woman called from two pitches away.

"Marcel!"

The dog looked around.

"Marcel!"

He gave me one final look of betrayal and trotted away.

"Goodbye, Marcel."

I finished eating, washed my plate and went inside.

Twenty minutes later, I remembered the onion.

I'd chopped some for the burger.

While carrying the plate outside, a small piece had fallen near the table.

I'd noticed it.

I hadn't picked it up.

Now I knew onions could be toxic to dogs.

The thought didn't arrive gently.

It slammed into me.

Marcel could eat it.

I stood in the middle of the Voyager.

My stomach tightened.

Go and find it.

I went outside.

The grass beneath the table was patchy and slightly long.

I looked where I remembered the onion landing.

Nothing.

I crouched down.

Still nothing.

Maybe I'd got the location wrong.

I searched around the chair.

Then beneath the table.

Then slightly beyond the table.

My search radius expanded.

I knew what was happening.

That was the irritating thing.

I knew.

At thirty-eight years old, I was intelligent enough to recognise an OCD spiral while simultaneously participating in it.

It was like attending your own kidnapping.

The original reasonable action might have been picking up the onion when I'd first dropped it.

I hadn't.

Now OCD wanted certainty.

Find it.

What if Marcel eats it?

One tiny fragment probably wouldn't harm him.

Probably?

There it was.

The word OCD hates.

Probably.

I looked towards Marcel's pitch.

He was lying beneath a camping chair.

His owner was reading.

Marcel appeared very much alive.

But what about later?

What if he'd already eaten it?

I could tell his owner.

Then what?

She might panic.

Or she might think I was insane.

Could I explain the size accurately?

What if I underestimated it?

Perhaps it wasn't thumbnail-sized.

Maybe it was bigger.

I tried reconstructing the onion.

This is one of OCD's favourite tricks with me, turning memory into forensic evidence.

How many slices had I cut?

How much had gone into the pan?

How much had remained on the chopping board?

Could I calculate the missing mass?

I actually considered going inside and inspecting the chopping board.

I wish that was a joke.

My phone buzzed.

Ellie.

How's Lille?

I stared at the message.

Then typed.

Potential international incident involving an onion.

Three dots appeared.

You've been there six hours.

A dog came near my dinner. Earlier I dropped a small piece of onion. Can't find it.

Her response came quickly.

And?

I knew exactly what she was doing.

Onions are toxic to dogs.

I know.

So hypothetically if the dog ate it and became ill...

No.

I haven't finished the question.

You have.

I stared at the screen.

I'm not asking for reassurance.

Marshall, I've known you six years.

Annoyingly difficult woman.

I looked at the grass again.

What should I do?

There was a longer pause.

Then:

What would reasonable Marshall do if OCD wasn't demanding certainty?

I hated that question because it required me to make the decision.

I couldn't outsource it.

I looked at the field.

Search every inch?

Ridiculous.

Speak to the owner?

Maybe, if I'd watched Marcel swallow a significant amount of onion.

I hadn't.

I had dropped one small piece somewhere near my pitch.

That was all I actually knew.

I'd stop searching.

Ellie replied:

There you go.

That doesn't mean the dog will be okay.

Correct.

I waited for more.

Nothing came.

That's all you're giving me?

Yes. I'm watching a documentary.

About what?

People with relaxing friends. Fascinating species.

I smiled despite myself.

Then I put the phone away.

I walked back into the Voyager.

Every part of me wanted to search again.

I didn't.

For the next hour, my mind attempted to turn dinner into a veterinary emergency.

I imagined Marcel becoming ill during the night.

His owner rushing him to a vet.

The vet asking what he'd eaten.

Nobody knowing.

Me discovering the next morning that he'd been taken away.

Me realising I could have prevented it.

The guilt felt real before anything had even happened.

That is one of the cruellest things about my OCD.

It can punish me for imaginary events with genuine emotions.

At 9:15 I made tea.

At 9:22 I looked through the window towards Marcel's pitch.

Compulsion.

I knew it immediately.

He was walking around.

Relief hit me.

Then OCD adjusted the rules.

Symptoms might take time.

At 9:40 I wanted to look again.

I didn't.

At 9:48 I did.

Marcel was asleep.

I felt disappointed in myself.

One check had become two.

I sat on the bed.

"Brilliant, Marshall."

Then I caught the second trap.

Beating myself up wasn't recovery either.

I'd checked.

Fine.

What now?

I could check twenty more times, or I could stop at two.

Progress didn't have to look impressive.

Sometimes progress was simply refusing to make a mistake bigger because I'd already made it.

I closed the blind.

Outside, somebody laughed.

A bicycle bell rang beyond the campsite fence.

The French family had apparently defeated the tent.

And somewhere across the grass, Marcel continued being a dog without the slightest awareness that he'd spent the evening starring in a courtroom drama inside the head of an Englishman.

I picked up the plastic aeroplane from the dashboard.

YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW YET.

"Smug little bastard," I whispered.

Then I put it back.

Tomorrow I was going into Lille.

Tonight I had one job.

Leave the onion alone.

Chapter Two: The Square

Marcel was alive in the morning.

I noticed this accidentally.

That distinction was important.

I hadn't gone looking for him.

I stepped outside with coffee and he happened to be walking past with his owner.

He stopped.

Looked at me.

Then looked towards my table.

Apparently surviving the Great Onion Crisis had done nothing to reduce his commitment to stealing breakfast.

"Morning."

Marcel wagged his tail.

His owner smiled.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour."

I resisted looking for signs of illness.

No studying his walk.

No checking whether he looked lethargic.

No asking his owner whether he'd had any unexplained vomiting during the night.

I drank my coffee.

Marcel continued down the campsite.

My anxiety stayed.

Not enormous.

Maybe four out of ten.

But it stayed.

That was something I'd misunderstood about recovery for years.

I'd thought success meant doing the difficult thing and then feeling better.

Sometimes you did the difficult thing and felt absolutely terrible.

You just carried on while feeling terrible.

By ten I was heading into Lille.

I'd left the Voyager after one sensible check.

Windows.

Hookup.

Gas.

Lockers.

Door.

Done.

My brain requested another inspection approximately twelve seconds later.

Request denied.

Then it requested a mental inspection.

Had I actually looked at the gas?

Yes.

But had I looked properly?

I recognised the argument and kept walking.

Lille began opening around me.

Cafés.

Bicycles.

Old brick buildings.

People carrying bread with the casual confidence of a nation that understands bread properly.

I liked France.

I liked that individual places felt different.

I didn't want to travel across Europe collecting photographs like evidence that I'd been somewhere.

I wanted to sit down.

Listen.

Eat things I couldn't pronounce.

Get lost occasionally.

Although "get lost occasionally" sounded considerably more romantic before you had OCD.

Eventually I reached Grand Place.

I stopped.

"Okay."

Sometimes architecture deserves a spoken response even when nobody is listening.

The square was alive.

Historic façades surrounded it, decorated in warm colours and details that made modern office blocks look like they'd simply given up.

People crossed in every direction.

Tourists photographed buildings.

Waiters moved between tables.

A child chased pigeons.

The pigeons appeared to be winning.

I wandered without a plan.

That was deliberate.

I used to plan travel like military logistics.

Where exactly would I park?

Which street would I take?

What time would I arrive?

Where were the toilets?

What if that toilet was closed?

What was the alternative toilet?

Could a person technically have a backup toilet strategy?

Apparently yes.

I'd had one.

Today I had a rough idea and nothing more.

I bought coffee and sat near three people eating lunch at an outdoor table.

One of them, a broad man perhaps in his sixties, noticed me looking at the building opposite.

"First time Lille?" he asked in English.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You look up too much."

His friends laughed.

"Londoners don't look up?" a woman asked.

"We do. Usually to see whether it's raining."

"I'm Alain," the man said.

The woman introduced herself as Sophie and the younger man beside her was Mathieu.

They were all from Lille.

We talked.

Not deeply at first.

Football.

Weather.

Food.

Alain told me I needed to try carbonnade flamande.

Sophie disagreed and recommended Welsh.

I thought I'd misunderstood.

"Welsh?"

"Yes."

"As in Wales?"

"Yes."

"You brought me all the way to northern France to recommend something called Welsh?"

Mathieu laughed.

"It is not really Welsh."

"Excellent. That clears everything up."

They explained it.

Cheese, beer, bread, ham.

It sounded like somebody had designed lunch while recovering from a hangover.

I approved.

Eventually they asked what I was doing in Lille.

"Travelling."

"Holiday?" Sophie asked.

"Something longer."

I told them about the Voyager.

About moving through Europe.

Not about every reason.

You don't owe strangers your entire biography just because they're friendly.

Alain asked if travelling alone bothered me.

"Sometimes."

"Good," he said.

I looked at him.

"Good?"

"If you say never, you are lying."

I laughed.

"Fair point."

He shrugged.

"Being alone sometimes is difficult. Sometimes it is freedom."

Simple sentence.

No grand wisdom.

But I liked it.

OCD often turned independence into responsibility.

If I travelled alone, every decision was mine.

Every mistake was mine.

Every risk was mine.

There was nobody beside me to say, "Yes, Marshall, that's definitely safe."

But maybe that was also why this journey was useful.

Not because travel cured anything.

It didn't.

OCD had followed me across borders without even needing a passport.

But travelling forced me to practise something I was terrible at.

Making decisions without guarantees.

Mathieu pointed across the square.

"You must see Lille at night."

"I will."

"You say that like an appointment."

"That's because I'm English."

"Do English people schedule enjoyment?"

"Usually three weeks in advance."

Sophie laughed.

For nearly an hour, I forgot to monitor myself.

Not completely.

OCD was still there.

It commented on whether I'd left my phone on the café table.

It wondered whether I'd accidentally offended Alain when I'd made a joke about football.

It questioned whether the coffee cup I'd been given had been properly washed.

But those thoughts were background noise rather than instructions.

Eventually I stood.

"Thanks for letting a random Englishman interrupt your lunch."

"You did not interrupt," Sophie said.

"You improved Alain's English."

Alain looked offended.

"My English is excellent."

"Your English is terrible."

They immediately began arguing in French.

I walked away smiling.

At the edge of Grand Place, I looked back.

Travelling hadn't made me brave.

It hadn't transformed me into some fearless adventurer in a motivational poster.

I was still the man who'd spent an hour worrying about a fragment of onion.

But I was also the man who'd sat with three strangers and laughed.

Both things could be true.

I didn't have to wait until OCD disappeared before something else was allowed to happen.

Chapter Three: The Wallet

I found the wallet at 3:17 p.m.

Brown leather.

Men's.

Lying beside the pavement.

I wish I'd never seen it.

That's unfair.

I was glad I'd seen it.

I just wish someone with a less complicated brain had seen it first.

I picked it up.

Mistake number one, according to OCD.

Should you have touched it?

I looked around.

People passed.

Nobody seemed to be searching.

I opened it carefully.

There was cash inside.

Several cards.

A driving licence.

The name was Thomas Declerq.

There was an address.

Excellent.

A straightforward problem.

Return wallet to owner.

Except my brain doesn't do straightforward problems.

What if the address is old?

What if I take it there and give it to the wrong person?

What if someone claims to be Thomas?

What if I post it and it gets stolen?

What if I remove the cash before posting it so the cash can't be stolen?

No, then I'm carrying somebody else's cash.

What if somebody sees me with the wallet and thinks I stole it?

Police station.

Obviously.

Take it to the police.

Then OCD developed objections to that too.

What if the officer doesn't record the cash correctly?

What if money goes missing after I hand it over?

What if I'm later accused?

Should I photograph the contents first?

That sounded sensible.

Or did it?

Photographing somebody's cards could create another problem.

Should I count the cash?

If I counted it, I'd know what I handed over.

But then if my count was wrong...

I stood on a Lille pavement holding a stranger's wallet while my brain created an administrative system more complicated than NATO.

A woman walked around me.

I realised I was blocking the pavement.

"Sorry."

I moved aside.

I considered messaging Ellie.

I knew what I'd ask.

Found wallet. Should I take it to police?

Perfectly reasonable question.

Except I already knew the answer.

The real question would come afterwards.

And that's definitely enough, right?

Then another.

You don't think I should...

No.

I put my phone away.

Police.

Find police.

Hand over wallet.

Leave.

Simple.

I started walking.

Every few minutes I checked my pocket to make sure the wallet was still there.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

By the fourth urge I stopped myself.

"It's in your pocket."

Then immediately realised I'd reassured myself.

OCD is annoyingly adaptable.

I kept walking.

Eventually I found a police officer near a busy junction.

He looked about my age, maybe slightly older.

Dark hair.

Calm face.

The general appearance of a man who had actual crimes to think about.

"Excuse me."

He turned.

"Yes?"

His English was good.

"I found this."

I held out the wallet.

"On the pavement. About fifteen minutes ago."

He took it.

"Okay."

Okay?

That was his response?

Okay?

I waited.

He looked inside.

"Where did you find it?"

I explained.

He nodded.

"My name is Jeroen."

"Marshall."

He asked me a few basic questions.

Where exactly?

Approximately what time?

Had I seen anyone drop it?

No.

That should have been the end.

Instead I said, "There's cash inside."

"Yes."

"I haven't counted it."

"Okay."

"I considered counting it, but then I thought that might complicate things."

Jeroen looked at me.

"Okay."

"I haven't removed anything."

"Good."

Pause.

"What happens now?"

"We record it."

"And contact the owner?"

"If possible."

"What if the address isn't current?"

"We have procedures."

Procedures.

Lovely word.

OCD disliked it immediately because procedures were not guarantees.

"What if he says there was more money inside?"

Jeroen looked at the wallet.

Then at me.

"Was there?"

"I don't know."

"Then you don't know."

I almost laughed.

"Yes. That's sort of the problem."

He waited.

I realised I was trying to make him understand something much bigger than the wallet.

"I have OCD."

His expression softened slightly.

"Ah."

"It tends to make responsibility difficult."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"A little. My cousin has it."

That surprised me.

I looked at the wallet again.

"So I hand it to you."

"Yes."

"And then it's your responsibility."

He thought about that.

"It becomes a police matter."

Not quite the reassurance my brain wanted.

Excellent.

"So technically there could still be a problem."

"There can always be a problem."

I stared at him.

Jeroen smiled.

"You want me to tell you there cannot be?"

"Very much."

"I cannot."

"You're terrible at customer service."

He laughed.

Then he placed the wallet safely away.

"Thank you for bringing it."

I stood there.

Leave.

My body didn't move.

Ask him to count the cash.

No.

Ask for a receipt.

No.

Take his badge number.

Absolutely not.

What if he forgets to record it?

Not my job.

What if...

I stepped backwards.

"Right. Thank you."

"Enjoy Lille, Marshall."

I turned.

Walk.

Ten metres.

Twenty.

My anxiety climbed.

Go back.

Make sure he has your details.

He had my details.

Did he write them correctly?

I didn't know.

Maybe I'd given my phone number incorrectly.

Had I?

I mentally replayed myself saying it.

That was rumination.

Stop.

I crossed the road.

My brain screamed that I was abandoning responsibility.

I kept walking.

It felt wrong.

That was the difficult part.

People sometimes imagine resisting a compulsion feels empowering.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes it feels like you're deliberately being reckless.

Every step away from Jeroen felt irresponsible.

But I kept going.

A few streets later, I messaged Ellie.

Found a wallet. Gave it to police officer.

Good deed for the day.

I want to go back.

Why?

Check he recorded everything properly.

Her reply took ten seconds.

Whose job is that?

I knew.

His.

Then keep walking.

I put the phone away.

OCD wanted an endpoint only if the endpoint came with certainty.

Life didn't work that way.

Maybe responsibility could end somewhere else.

Maybe it could end after a reasonable action.

Not because nothing could go wrong afterwards.

Because I had done my part.

I walked towards the campsite.

Behind me, somewhere in Lille, a wallet was now somebody else's problem.

My brain considered this unacceptable.

I considered it progress.

Chapter Four: The Missing Wallet

At 5:26 p.m., I discovered that my wallet was missing.

This was inconvenient because I was approximately ninety seconds into congratulating myself for how well I'd handled somebody else's.

I had returned to the campsite tired but pleased.

The Voyager was exactly where I'd left it, which was fortunate because losing a seven-metre motorhome would have been difficult to explain.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside and put my phone on the table.

Then I decided to buy something from the campsite shop.

I reached for my wallet.

Left pocket.

Nothing.

Right pocket.

Nothing.

Jacket.

Nothing.

I froze.

No.

I checked again.

Left.

Right.

Back.

Nothing.

My stomach dropped.

I'd lost my wallet.

Of course I had.

I'd spent half the afternoon responsibly returning somebody else's wallet and had celebrated by losing my own.

There was probably a Greek myth about this.

Marshallus, God of Administrative Irony.

I emptied my jacket pockets onto the table.

Keys.

Receipt.

Earphones.

Two coins.

A packet of chewing gum that had apparently survived several governments.

No wallet.

Think.

I'd used it in Lille.

Coffee.

Had I put it back?

Yes.

Probably.

There was that word again.

I checked my day bag.

Nothing.

Then checked it again.

Still nothing.

I felt the familiar surge.

Retrace everything.

Immediately.

Call the café.

Cancel cards.

Check banking apps.

Could someone already be using them?

How quickly could they empty my account?

What identification was inside?

Could someone steal my identity?

My brain accelerated from misplaced wallet to financial ruin in under fifteen seconds.

World-class performance.

I grabbed my phone and messaged Ellie.

Problem.

How big?

Wallet missing.

Your wallet?

No, King Charles's. Yes, mine.

Where did you last have it?

I tried to remember.

The café?

No.

I'd bought something afterwards.

Hadn't I?

Maybe.

Memory became foggy the moment I demanded certainty from it.

I don't know. Somewhere in Lille.

Have you checked normally?

That irritated me.

Define normally.

Once.

I looked at the bag I'd already searched twice.

Then no.

Marshall.

I'm going back into the city.

Before you do, stand still for thirty seconds.

Why?

Because you're panicking.

I nearly ignored her.

Instead I stood beside the table.

Thirty seconds.

I hated all thirty.

My mind produced images of my bank cards being passed around criminal organisations.

Apparently losing a wallet in Lille instantly transformed the city into Gotham.

I breathed.

Not as a ritual.

Not to make the anxiety disappear.

Just because humans generally benefit from oxygen.

Then I made a plan.

One ordinary search.

Voyager.

Bag.

Jacket.

Trousers.

Then decide.

I checked the table.

Cupboard.

Floor.

Bed.

Bathroom.

Nothing.

I checked the bag properly.

Nothing.

Jacket.

Nothing.

Trousers.

Front pockets.

Nothing.

Back pocket.

Nothing.

I sat down heavily on the bench seat.

"Brilliant."

My phone buzzed.

Found it?

No.

I typed another message.

I'm going to retrace my route.

Then I shifted position.

Something pressed against my backside.

I stopped.

Slowly, I stood.

There, on the seat beneath me, was my wallet.

I stared at it.

The wallet stared back.

Obviously wallets don't have eyes, but if this one had, they would have been smug.

I'd been sitting on it.

For several minutes.

I picked it up.

Opened it.

Cards.

Cash.

Everything there.

Relief flooded through me.

Then embarrassment.

Then laughter.

I laughed so hard I had to sit down again, carefully checking that I wasn't sitting on any additional financial documents.

Ellie was waiting.

I typed:

Found it.

Where?

I considered lying.

I could say under the table.

Inside the bag.

Dropped beside the bed.

Anything preserving a small amount of dignity.

But Ellie would know.

She always knew.

I was sitting on it.

There was no response.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

Then:

I'm going to need some time.

Be mature.

I am trying very hard.

It was under me. Easy mistake.

You reported your wallet missing while physically in possession of it.

Technically the chair was in possession of it.

Marshall.

Yes?

You are the only man I know who can conduct a search operation without standing up.

I laughed again.

I hate you.

No you don't.

She was right.

I put the wallet safely into my bag.

Then OCD arrived.

Check the cards.

I had already seen them.

But had I checked every card?

What if one had fallen out?

I opened the wallet.

Stopped.

I'd already looked.

Close it.

I closed it.

Anxiety flickered.

Then another thought.

What if I'd somehow picked up the wrong wallet?

I actually stared at my own wallet for several seconds.

Same scratches.

Same cards.

My driving licence.

My photograph.

Unless the criminal underworld had developed an extraordinarily specific cloning operation during the past hour, it was mine.

I laughed.

Not at OCD.

Not really.

There wasn't anything funny about the fear itself.

The funny part was being human.

I'd spent years wanting perfect control over uncertainty while regularly doing things like sitting on the object I was searching for.

That evening I walked around the campsite.

Marcel was there.

He trotted towards me.

I had no food this time.

He looked disappointed.

"You caused enough trouble yesterday."

His owner smiled from her chair.

"He likes you."

"I'm beginning to suspect he likes carbohydrates."

She laughed.

I kept walking.

The onion thought returned.

What if he still became ill?

I felt the familiar pull.

But something was different.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

I'd spent the day learning that responsibility didn't require me to personally supervise every possible outcome.

The onion.

The wallet.

Jeroen.

My own wallet.

Life kept moving after I stopped checking.

Sometimes badly.

Sometimes brilliantly.

Sometimes directly underneath my backside.

When I returned to the Voyager, I sat outside until the evening cooled.

Lille had given me something I hadn't expected.

Not certainty.

I'd received almost none of that.

Instead I'd met people who seemed comfortable letting a conversation simply happen.

Alain hadn't planned our meeting.

Sophie hadn't needed to know where the afternoon would lead.

Jeroen had accepted a wallet, followed a procedure and moved on.

Nobody seemed interested in solving seventeen imaginary versions of the future.

Maybe responsibility wasn't about predicting every outcome.

Maybe it was about responding to what was actually in front of you.

That idea scared me.

Which probably meant it was worth practising.

Chapter Five: Keep Walking

My final morning in Lille began with rain tapping gently against the roof of the Voyager.

I stayed in bed longer than usual.

Not because of OCD.

Because the bed was warm and I am not an idiot.

Eventually I made coffee and sat near the window.

The campsite looked different in rain.

Grey sky.

Wet grass.

Bright jackets moving between pitches.

Marcel appeared briefly, inspected the weather and immediately returned beneath his owner's awning.

"Finally, a sensible decision," I said.

I thought about the previous few days.

It would have been tempting to turn them into a neat recovery story.

I arrived struggling.

I faced uncertainty.

I learned something.

I improved.

The end.

Except that wasn't what happened.

I'd searched for the onion.

I'd checked Marcel through the window twice.

I'd checked the stranger's wallet repeatedly while carrying it.

I'd mentally replayed my conversation with Jeroen.

I'd searched my bag twice for my own wallet.

I'd nearly launched a city-wide emergency while sitting on it.

Messy.

That was closer to the truth.

I had resisted some compulsions and performed others.

I'd recognised some reassurance-seeking before speaking and walked straight into other examples.

There were moments when I felt proud of myself.

There were moments when I felt like I'd learned absolutely nothing.

Recovery wasn't a staircase.

Mine certainly wasn't.

Mine looked more like somebody had dropped the staircase down another staircase.

I made breakfast.

No onions.

Not because I was avoiding them.

Because onions at breakfast are disgusting.

There are limits to exposure therapy.

After eating, I packed slowly.

Not compulsively slowly.

Just normally.

Chairs away.

Table stored.

Cupboards secured.

Water checked.

Hookup disconnected.

I completed my usual departure routine once.

Then the questions began.

Did you secure the outside locker properly?

Yes.

Are you sure?

No.

Check.

I stood beside the driver's door.

Rain landed on my jacket.

I wanted to walk around the Voyager again.

The urge was strong.

Seven out of ten.

Maybe eight.

I could picture the locker opening while I drove.

Something falling into the road.

Another vehicle swerving.

Crash.

Injury.

Responsibility.

My OCD could build an entire motorway disaster from a cupboard latch.

I put my hand on the door handle.

One sensible check.

Done.

I got inside.

Anxiety came with me.

Fine.

Passenger seat available.

I started the engine.

My phone buzzed before I pulled away.

Ellie.

Leaving Lille today?

Yes.

Did France survive?

Barely. One onion incident and two wallet emergencies.

There was only one wallet emergency.

There were two wallets.

Your wallet wasn't an emergency. It was furniture.

I smiled.

I learned something here.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Dangerous.

I can do the responsible thing without guaranteeing the outcome.

There was a pause.

That's a good one.

I waited.

Then:

Doesn't mean you'll always manage it.

That was Ellie.

Give with one hand, slap you lightly with the other.

I know.

And when you don't manage it?

I knew what she was asking.

I looked through the windscreen at the wet campsite.

Try again.

Exactly.

I put my phone away.

Before leaving, I walked into Lille one final time.

Not because I needed closure.

I just wanted coffee.

Grand Place was quieter in the rain.

The buildings still looked magnificent.

People sheltered beneath awnings.

Delivery bicycles moved across wet stone.

A waiter wiped tables that were immediately being rained on again, which seemed like an excellent metaphor for human existence.

I bought coffee and stood beneath an awning.

I thought about Alain, Sophie and Mathieu.

People I'd probably never see again.

That used to bother me about travelling.

Brief connections.

No guarantees.

No certainty that you'd meet again.

But maybe something didn't have to last forever to have value.

I had spent so much of my life trying to secure things.

Memories.

Decisions.

Safety.

Relationships.

Responsibility.

Certainty.

OCD whispered that if I just thought hard enough, checked carefully enough and anticipated enough possibilities, I could prevent regret.

It was a lie.

Not an evil lie.

OCD wasn't a separate creature plotting against me.

It was part of my mind trying far too hard to protect me.

The problem was that protection had become imprisonment.

I finished the coffee.

A man hurried past carrying a paper bag above his head to protect himself from the rain.

The bag split.

Three baguettes fell onto the pavement.

He stared down at them.

A woman beside him burst out laughing.

After a second, he laughed too.

They gathered the bread and continued walking.

There was something wonderfully ordinary about it.

Things went wrong.

People adjusted.

They carried on.

Back at the campsite, Marcel was outside again.

I gave him a wave.

"No onions."

His tail wagged.

His owner waved too.

I climbed into the Voyager.

The motorhome smelled faintly of coffee and the air freshener I'd bought weeks earlier because it supposedly smelled like Alpine Forest.

It smelled nothing like a forest.

It smelled like somebody had described a forest to a chemist over the telephone.

Still, it was home.

I looked around.

The bed.

The tiny kitchen.

Cupboards.

Maps.

Books.

The plastic aeroplane on the dashboard.

YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW YET.

I still didn't particularly enjoy that message.

But I was beginning to understand it.

Not knowing wasn't a temporary problem I needed to solve before living.

Sometimes not knowing was simply the price of admission.

I pulled out of the campsite.

Immediately:

Did you disconnect everything?

Yes.

Could something be loose?

Possibly.

Should you stop?

No.

The anxiety stayed.

I drove.

At the first junction I had the urge to turn back.

I didn't.

At the second, the urge weakened.

At the third, I started thinking about breakfast tomorrow.

Then I realised what had happened.

For nearly two minutes, I hadn't been thinking about OCD.

I smiled.

Not because two minutes was miraculous.

Because it was two minutes.

I would take them.

I drove beyond Lille.

The city gradually disappeared behind me.

My next destination waited somewhere ahead.

I knew roughly where I was going.

I knew the road number.

I knew where I hoped to sleep.

There were dozens of things I didn't know.

Whether the campsite would be good.

Whether I'd like the place.

Whether I'd get lost.

Whether the Voyager would behave.

Whether OCD would give me an easy day or drag me through six hours of doubt.

I couldn't guarantee any of it.

A year ago, that sentence would have sounded terrifying.

It still did, if I was being truthful.

But terror and movement could apparently exist at the same time.

That was new.

My phone remained silent beside me.

Ellie was living her own life.

I was living mine.

The Voyager rolled steadily along the road.

I thought about Jeroen.

"There can always be a problem."

Possibly the least comforting sentence anyone had ever said to me.

Also, strangely, one of the most useful.

There could always be a problem.

And if one appeared, I could deal with the problem that actually existed.

Not seventeen imaginary ones.

Maybe that was enough.

OCD immediately asked:

But how do you know?

I smiled at the road ahead.

I didn't.

I kept driving.

©️ James Michael 2026