Tuppence Middleton was 11 years old when her parents realised something wasn’t right. It was 1998 and they had told their daughter – who was just emerging from a four-month bout of chronic fatigue – that it was time for bed. Half an hour later, her mother went to check on her and found her still dressed and standing in her bedroom doorway. Asked why, her daughter replied: “I’m doing my routine.”
Middleton – who would grow up to become an actor known for her performances in Mank and Downton Abbey – had developed obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), a condition that affects 2% of the global population, and left her convinced that if she didn’t complete certain rituals, something terrible would happen: her parents would die, the house would burn down or she would vomit (one of her greatest fears). Her compulsions entailed silently tapping and counting to eight at specific points around the house: doorknobs, doorframes, the corners of rooms, the edges of mirrors.
In Scorpions, Middleton lays out what it is like to live with OCD, skilfully and often poetically articulating the mental distress that comes with the condition. The scorpions of the title are how she characterises the illness, creatures that “wield their own special power over my brain, shaping the architecture and rhythm of my thoughts … Small armoured bodies scuttle along an intricate web of neural pathways, disturbing the delicate flow of logical thought.”
We are not short of books about OCD: Rose Cartwright’s Pure, Bryony Gordon’s Mad Girl and David Adam’s The Man Who Couldn’t Stop. Middleton’s is a worthy addition to the roll call, throwing more light on the impulses and cycles of thought that many people with OCD strive to keep secret out of fear of judgment.
Middleton has had OCD for 30 years and, in that time, public understanding has increased. But with that, she warns, has come a tendency to simplify and trivialise the illness. Years ago, she recalls receiving a coffee mug as a Christmas present with the words OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE emblazoned on it in pink letters. “It is hard to imagine a line of gift items with ANOREXIA or PTSD boldly stamped across them for all to see,” Middleton writes. “So why is OCD continually used as shorthand for lighthearted craziness?”
There is nothing cute or whimsical about Middleton’s absolute certainty that she has left her front door open after leaving the house, despite having gone back to check multiple times, or her mortal fear of being around people she suspects – usually on scant evidence – may be coming down with a virus. When this happens, social niceties go out the window, and friendships, particularly new ones, are easily destroyed. Middleton describes a typical conversation between her and the scorpions in the dead of night, a time when her senses are heightened and fears easily stoked. “Trust us, we can help you,” they say as she becomes convinced she is going to throw up. “All you have to do is count. It’s so simple. We’ll do the rest.”
As a memoir, Scorpions is unusual in telling a strikingly personal story while revealing comparatively little of its author’s everyday life. This is clearly deliberate: the book is no celebrity tell-all, and readers hoping for glimpses of Middleton’s life as an actor will find precious few. What they will get, however, is an unusually immersive, candid and often bleakly funny account of a mental health condition. Middleton offers no theories as to the cause of her illness, and presents no easy cure. Instead, her aim is to provide comfort to others living with OCD and to show that “life with [it] is not a hopeless one. It is surmountable, with the right guidance and medical help, and whether my scorpions are hibernating or voraciously present, I have learned to live alongside them.”
• Scorpions: A Memoir by Tuppence Middleton is published by Rider (£18.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
