Page 4 of Devoted

That’s right, folks, I’m a bundle of fun on any given day. I took mental health conditions and levelled that shit up to the max.

Hey, if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do itfully.

Dark humour and sarcasm was how I got through my life. If you didn’t laugh, you’d end up crying.

It wasn’t like every day was a bad one though. Thanks to the medication I was on and the therapy I’d had a long time ago, most days were good. The impact it had on my daily activities had been significantly reduced. Most people who met me wouldn’t know there was anything wrong.

Until they spent longer than a day or so with me. Then it’d become pretty fucking clear. It was why the vast majority of my interactions took place over the internet. I could be me, minus all the other baggage I carried.

For the most part, anyway.

Realistically, I needed more therapy, something specifically tailored for OCD. I’d had cognitive behavioural therapy on the NHS—all ten sessions I was entitled to—and it had helped a bit. The second and third times I was put through the programme again by my GP had helped a little bit more. But there was always a point where the usefulness just…stopped.

My GP had tried. He’d referred me for everything he could. The issue was that every time a service evaluated me, they said my needs were “too specialised for what they could offer.” But my needs weren’t drastic enough to qualify for the next level up of intervention. I wasn’t a danger to myself or others, so they weren’t interested either.

Whatever. It was what it was. Unless I suddenly won the lottery and could go private, nothing would change on that front.

Instead, I used the limited toolkit I had. I took my medication daily. I made concessions to my lifestyle to avoid triggers. I worked remotely from home. I lived alone. I didn’t have any friends. The little family I had lived hours away, our visits limited to once a year.

All in all, my life was safe. Contained. Predictable.

And so fucking lonely.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want friends. I’d had them in the past, but they’d gradually faded away. I couldn’t blame them. Who’d want to be friends with someone who always cancelled last minute? Who might need to leave somewhere because it was too noisy? Who would suddenly go radio silent because they just couldn’t fathom responding to one more message?

I didn’t blame them. I didn’t even blame me. The main thing that had come out of the therapy I’d had was that I understood that this wasn’t my fault.

Despite what my OCD might tell me.

As for a boyfriend? Forget it.

I’d dated in the past, but as with my friends, I was too much for anyone to put up with for long. I’d never forget the parting words my ex, Jason, had said to me before walking out of my life for good.

“You’re just too much hard work, Sam. I want to live a normal life with a normal bloke. I hate waking up never knowing what kind of day you’re going to have.”

I couldn’thate him for it. How could I when I felt the exact same way? At least he got to walk away.

It wasn’t like I could walk away from my own brain.

I hadn’t bothered to date since him. What was the point? They all said they could cope with what I needed, but when the novelty wore off, they left. The most I’d managed to continue with was the most basic of friends-with-benefits situations. And I mean ‘friends’ very loosely. We rarely spoke outside of arranging sex.

It was okay. I’d learned to find pockets of happiness where I could. I hooked up occasionally, always controlling the environment to avoid all triggers. I loved my job, organising the lives of busy authors from the comfort of my own home. Reading their work in the early stages before creating beautifulcovers and graphics gave me a satisfaction I’d yet to find in any other job. I enjoyed building Lego, with many complete and half-built sets covering the shelves in both my living room and my bedroom.

And, recently, I’d got really into this online game calledCreator,where you worked with another online player to build and maintain a civilisation. Honestly, I didn’t know what had possessed me to even download it in the first place. It wasn’t like I knew anyone I could play it with.

Fortunately, there was a solution for that. Single players were paired up together, a chat box available so you could plan and discuss what your citizens might need to not die of typhoid or get eaten by wolves.

The game itself was fun, but nothing groundbreaking. Usually with this kind of game, I’d play it obsessively for a couple of weeks before my mind moved on to a new fixation.

That hadn’t happened yet. It had been six weeks of almost all of my free time being occupied by the same thing. It was the longest I’d fixated on anything this hard since I’d discoveredModern Family. To be honest, my longest fixations were usually TV shows. There was something about American sitcoms in particular that was comforting. They were funny and predictable, and, while they might dip into darker waters, they never stayed there long.

But a game? None of them had ever held my interest for this amount of time. The truth was, it wasnothingto do with the game.

It was my partner. Zeke.

I knew very little about him. I didn’t know what he looked like, what he did for a living or even his age, but what I did know, we had in common. We both lived in London. Both stayed up way too late playing onCreatorwhile the rest of the world slept. We shared a love of Jelly Babies and dark humour.

And we were both gay. It had come up in a discussion about Jonathan Bailey and how attractive he was. I kind of wished I didn’t know that about Zeke.

---