I was at a friend’s 30th birthday dinner when I lost the ability to speak. I was trying to catch up with university friends whom I hadn’t seen for months when I suddenly became incredibly conscious of the process of forming thoughts, of forming words, of keeping up with the conversation. As the evening went on, the process of speaking slowly became more difficult—and no, it wasn’t on account of the prosecco. “Something terrible is happening to me,” I thought, “I am having some kind of medical event.” I did what any British person would do in the circumstances—I took a large gulp of white wine and fixed my facial features into an “everything is fine” smile.
This was not my first experience of having strange and sudden symptoms of neurological illness. As a student, I lost the feeling in one of my arms during my final exam period. A year prior to that, I had been investigated for motor neurone disease after one of my legs went weak. So, in the realm of psychosomatic symptoms, I have priors. As I sat back in my chair and surveyed the room, my blind panic softened into a pang of recognition. “Ahah!” I thought, “might this be OCD?” Contrary to stereotypes about handwashing and tidying, OCD is a slippery, slimy shapeshifter capable of generating obsessive thoughts about just about anything. Perhaps it was now attacking one of my most prized pastimes: yapping!
In less troubled times, I am such a chatterbox that I suspect people fear getting stuck in conversation with me—I’m the kind of neighbour you try to avoid if you don’t have half an hour to spare. Which means that rendering me mute was quite groundbreaking work, even for my very persistent and creative OCD. I was shocked and scared that my condition could attack something as fundamental as speaking, but a quick Google search revealed that its effects on bodily processes, such as speaking, breathing and swallowing, are actually very common. Amongst sufferers, this is known as “sensorimotor OCD”.
Treating my worries about my speech as a symptom of OCD, rather than real evidence of cognitive decline or serious medical illness, has allowed me to continue to function in my life, forcing the words out, even if it feels strange. But conversations still feel exhausting as my brain struggles constantly to draw my attention back to any completely natural pauses, ums or mistakes I make. It is rather challenging to relax and enjoy a social event when your brain is constantly scanning for evidence that you have lost the ability to think properly. But I know that recovering from this form of OCD requires the same principles as managing any other kind—accepting, rather than fighting with, the thoughts.
This recent episode has made me reflect on the nature of this strange illness. While it felt like my speech impairment came completely out of the blue, I have learnt over the years that odd OCD thoughts often serve as warning lights for real stress in my life. Six months ago, I received news that I would be embarking on a new professional project that would push me way out of my comfort zone—and, since then, those odd thoughts have been coming thick and fast. For me, OCD has an irritating way of funneling my attention away from the real challenges in my life and towards random, distracting worries, about, for example, whether I can speak, or whether I have contracted rare diseases, or whether the technology I use is somehow surveilling me.
Getting better means not only managing the thoughts themselves but puzzling out what the real source of stress is in my life and how to handle it properly. No doubt, when I begin making progress on my secret project, my ability to speak normally will miraculously come back.
