It’s early January, late evening, and I’m terrified by the thoughts in my head. Graphic thoughts of violence towards those closest to me. I can’t make them stop. I feel like I’m being tortured by my own mind. It’s horrific.

It’s 2014, I’m living with my parents, but tonight I’m home alone. What’s happening to me? I decide to get rid of all the knives – and any other dangerous implements – from the house. I don’t want them here. I find an old hold-all and carry it through to the kitchen. I open the cutlery drawer and start filling the bag with anything sharp. I take the poker from the fireplace too. I zip up the bag, put on my coat, step out into the cold night. This is my hometown. This is where I grew up.

I walk down to the bay area. It’s not far from the house. The sea is a fury and the wind bites at my face. I unzip the hold-all and dump everything into the black water. The rocks are wet and I slip over, gashing my knee. It’s very dark. I can’t see what I’m doing. My knee hurts. I manage to stand up and get myself off the rocks. I limp home, bloody and tired.

I’m a shy, bookish, 37-year-old woman who feels bad if they ever have to flush a spider down the drain. How have I become someone so terrified of harming those I love that I’ve dumped a bag full of knives into the North Sea at night like a gangster disposing of evidence? Things have gone too far. I need help. I don’t yet know that I’m suffering from a common subset of obsessive–compulsive disorder, called Harm OCD. With no outwardly observable compulsions, it’s often called Pure OCD, or Pure O. I won’t have this diagnosis – or the tools to help me get better – for a long time.

“OCD made me terrified I would hurt people – but now I’ve learned not to fear my thoughts”