Page 61 of The Promise of Tomorrow
Okay. Focus. I need to firm up the party details and will email them straight to Elena. I won’t be expecting an acknowledgement tonight. Maybe she’ll never reply. But I hope the message will prod her to not consider cancelling Saturday.
*Sigh*. Our fallout is going around and around in my head. I’m sure she’s got False Memory OCD. It all adds up. Speaking with Julian confirmed my view. The research pointed to it being such a devastating illness. A few facts I’ve stumbled across, although they vary a little from article to article:
Sometimes there is no clear cause for OCD.
It’s not just handwashing or being super tidy; the sufferer often hides it.
It can run in families. Most sufferers realise their fears are not logical, yet that powerful phrase kicks in – ‘but what if?’.
Prior to the 18th century, OCD was considered the work of evil spirits, and the treatment was exorcism.
The average age of onset is 19, but 50 per cent of sufferers have symptoms before then.
It affects men and women equally.
OCD affects 1 per cent of the worldwide population – that adds up to 70 million people.
That last fact takes my breath away. Elena must feel so alone at times – if only she knew she really wasn’t. But I’ve said all I can to her. It’s none of my business any more. I never want to hurt her like that again. It’s her prerogativeabout if and when she gets help. Now may not be the right time. So I’ll keep my distance and definitely keep hiding my feelings. Elena could never love such a Jurassic-sized twat as me.
Right, the party:
11 guests – Elena, her parents Don and Melanie, Gayle, Tahoor, Gary and Diego, Caz and Derek with their respective partners. I won’t include me, my dad, his girlfriend Jenny and Julian – not now.
Ingredients for the Christmas punch the two of us talked about – Prosecco, vodka, cranberry juice, orange juice, limes, oranges, pomegranates.
Festive nibbles from our favourite supermarket. Even though the celebration is for her birthday, Elena wanted to enjoy more Christmas fare – in case she never quite got to the 25th of December – so that would be those turkey stuffing crisps we tried, chestnut sausage rolls, sage and onion cheese-stuffed croquettes, cranberry and brie filo parcels, and a cheese board with black pepper crackers and olives.
Pizza takeout – we kept the main easy. I was even prepared to eat pineapple on mine again.
Dessert – Diego has insisted he’ll provide that.
Party poppers, paper napkins, table glitter, balloons.
I can’t face typing anything else – like the plans we had for board games, and charades once everyone got a little tipsy, perhaps even getting out her old childhood game of Twister. We were going to create a Spotify dance list together as well.
There’s no more together now – not for us.
But this isn’t about how sad I am. Saturday is about her. Elena is the most incredible, strong woman I’ve ever met, who’s held her own against what may well have been adebilitating illness for years, who’s always done her best for other people. I couldn’t respect and admire her more.
Despite what I’ve learnt from Julian, and the internet, despite the solid evidence, I’m worried about the weekend. That’s what I should have said to Elena tonight. Sometimes the facts, the logic, they aren’t enough for anyone.
My worry about her turning thirty is nothing to do with an obsession or compulsion; it’s nothing as extreme as what Elena’s been through. But even if it was, it wouldn’t mean I was nuts or loony, or that I’d got a screw loose, or that I was a basket-case or a psycho. None of those offensive, old-fashioned insults that used to be bandied about apply just because someone believes in something that can’t be explained, or has suffered any other mental illness. So often the people who come out the other side are the most resilient amongst us… like Julian with his own OCD, and Dad who brought me up with such care, despite his depression after losing Mum; like Gary, who’s suffered an eating disorder and told me once about a terrible time after he was scammed about his looks – yet you’d never guess, with all the banter; like my childhood neighbour who suffered from agoraphobia after being mugged, yet always had a smile when she saw me through her window; like Caz, who’s told me about the social anxiety she suffered at uni, even though she now enjoys the office outings as much as anyone. Then there’s her husband, suffering from stress with his family in Ukraine. Like Pete at work, too, having panic attacks because of his increased mortgage payments, and Sanjay hardly sleeping thanks to his son’s online bullies. Like Tahoor, whose grief made things slip after Isha died, but who has found the strength, recently, to turn things around.
Like Elena, for a long list of reasons.
Being led astray by unhelpful thoughts is simply called being human – even if they are completely false and have no solid grounds whatsoever.
With one caveat – not if you’re a flat earth believer like Carl.
(Elena would laugh at that last line.)
40
ELENA
Elena pulled up on her drive. Friday. She exhaled, impatient to get inside and spend the evening escaping into fiction. Last night she’d finishedThe Light We Lost, the story of a couple continually brought together, then torn apart. Elena rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. She’d taken Rory’s belongings to work in bin liners on Wednesday, the day after their argument, and gave them to him, from the boot of her car, at lunch. Neither she nor Rory had mentioned their fallout. Thankfully everyone in the office was too hungover to notice the lack of banter between them, and the rest of the week, with Christmas imminent, and all the preparation that entailed, took the others’ attention. She’d batted away Gary’s questions, saying she was still thinking about what he said.
Rory had come over to her desk after she’d handed his stuff to him in the car park. She was reading. ‘Elena…’
