The psychiatrist really believed he knew
When he said my OCD was all about poo
But actually he didn't have a clue
Because the theories were untrue.
A potty training so severe
had left my mind in mortal fear
So every thought or sight of faeces
would shatter my nerves into pieces.
And so he prescribed my therapy
Up to my elbows in poo and pee
Yet still a cure eluded me
A prisoner to my OCD.
And so he looked at his books again
In a vain attempt to ease my pain.
If he couldn't cure me with pee and poo
Freud's theory of sexual repression should do.
So an innocent girl became enlightened
Wanting to say no but far too frightened
Indoctrinated that sexual expression
would send the OCD into regression
So morals and conscience took a back seat
in the quest for OCD to retreat.
And the guilt will be with me the rest of my life
A human guinea pig sacrifice.
Now my son lies six feet under
Once again a psychiatrist's blunder
When I went on the inquest stand
The NHS barrister raised his hand
This lady's evidence can't be heard
No qualifications back her word
Her experience and knowledge of OCD
Is only from life's university.
Tess, November 9, 2010