My world is the written word. My childhood can be marked out in paper milestones: the pride I felt when, at six years old and having exhausted everything available, I was allowed to choose books from the class above me. Stealing novels from my parents’ bookcase and reading them under the sheets at night. Clean, crisp pages. Words.
When I was eleven, reading saved my life. Having moved out of primary school and finding myself totally bewildered by the web of social intricacies I was thrust into, I sought protection in the library every spare moment I had. Desperately unhappy, but lacking the maturity to understand what was happening to me, I found a way to express myself in other people’s language.
Many people have a false perception of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do not feel compelled to wash my hands any more than is normal, nor do I shower three times a day. While the rituals carried out vary between individuals, my own have always been quite devious: they seek out something I gain pleasure from, and then try to destroy it.
