Tag Archive: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Group Therapy Notes


I always thought a group was something
one chose to join.  No choice here:
assigned to a multitude of strangers,
sharing nothing but our pain.
And even that we may not share;
quiet tears, perhaps, but not more.


No sharing the horror.  No sharing
the pain that rips itself from minds
and mouths in bloody gobbets.


The Group Norms poster says so:
“Such sharing may distress
other group members; please maintain
these norms for the benefit of all.”


Far better to pretend we are fine.
Making progress.  Discharge beckons.
A normal life.
Staff make Notes, discreetly.


Meanwhile we scream internally;
the gobbets well concealed.
Such things are for private consultations
with nurses, registrars, consultants,
in secluded soundproof rooms.
Notes are made, of course.


No, it would not be ‘therapeutic’
for our fellow-patients to know
we suffer just as they do.
That we too long to scream our horror.
Acknowledgement, acceptance, mutual recognition:
is that too much to ask?


For those of us unable to restrain ourselves
there are alternatives. Occupational Therapy,
where we fill blank mindless hours
with puzzles, trivia, and guessing games.
All to still the raging mind,
the seething thoughts.


Art Therapy is good.
Somehow a scream of pain
becomes acceptable when it’s
in poster paint on butchers’ paper.
Or charcoal doodles
on stiff cheap coloured card.
Pain is distanced, allowed,
Even encouraged.


The thin, thin girl with the naso-gastric tube
Draws endless stylised vaginas
in wax crayon.  They gape
as if in wordless screams.
When asked she says they are flowers.
The therapist nods approvingly,
and makes a Note.


A man spends an hour cutting card
into ever smaller pieces.
The scissors are quite blunt;
the bandages on his wrists say
he is over-familiar with sharp objects.
Another Note is made.


And me? I don’t do art. I’m a musician.
But they don’t have Music Therapy any more.
Not since the tortured boy
garrotted himself
with a steel guitar string.
That therapist no longer makes Notes.


And nor do I.





Do you remember your first drink?

I do.

Oh, not the sip of froth off Dad’s beer,

or the little glass of watered wine on special occasions:

Christmas, birthdays, wedding anniversaries.

I remember my first drink like it was yesterday,

40 years ago, or near enough.

We stole a bottle of Beenleigh Rum

from Greg’s Dad’s liquor cabinet.

He never even noticed it was gone.

Plenty more bottles in the walnut veneer bar,

with its padded leatherette stools and bullfight posters.

And we sat in the little Bondwood caravan

at the back of my house,

and drank it neat from plastic cups.  Mine was orange.

And we choked it down and felt like men,

12 years old and desperate to be older.

And as it hit, it was as if some great God

had entered me, and flaming fiercely

raised me to the sky.

For the first time to feel as others must surely always do –

or so it seemed.  I felt I was a human being.

The feeling of fellowship; of commonality: of normality.

The thoughts that crucified me vanished.

They fell from me like a feather weighing tons.

Gone the fears,

the constant thoughts,

the ceaseless shame,

the secret guilt

– hidden, always hidden –

for things I knew I had not done,

could not have done.

For that brief moment I was free,

I knew them for delusions:

the glowing God incinerated all.

Too soon the God departed.

Draped limp around a lamppost, I vomited him up.

And some Samaritan brought me home

and took me to my Mother,

who murmured “my sweet baby” as she sponged my brow;

gently held my head over the bucket as I retched

until all that was left was bitter slime drooling from slack lips.

And even as I heaved and shivered,

even as she laid me down,

even as she watched over me that night,

I knew that I would seek the God again

and steal the coruscating fire that seared my fears,

and held me pure, perfect, whole: blazing in the sky.