When obsession shakes certainties and challenges beliefs

What happens when questions of belief are subject to obsessive behaviours? The impact of OCD on key life moments.

Paula Duncan

Paula Duncan is a PhD candidate at the University of Aberdeen, researching OCD and faith.

A close-up of a complex clock mechanism featuring small statues within it.

The Millennium clock tower.

National Museum of Scotland.

I’m eleven years old and I’ve been given a New Testament in our school assembly. This is the first time I’ve owned a copy of the Bible. So far, I’ve only heard it read to me in school or the few times I’ve gone to church with my family. I flick through it that evening, taken by the table at the front that directs you to different verses that speak to how you might be feeling. I find myself reading Revelation. The imagery frightens me. The tone, the threat, the fear, and the condemnation… would this be me if I didn’t believe in the right way? If I didn’t believe enough? I’m terrified of this book, these words, terrified of God, even. Mostly, I’m terrified by my own doubt and uncertainty about all things religious, despite wanting to believe. What if God isn’t real? What if God is and I just don’t believe enough? God will know I’m not sure. I tell myself not to think about it. If I’m to avoid thinking about it, I can never read the Bible again. I accept this as a rule.

I’m twelve years old and I’m standing in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, listening to one of Bach’s minor key concertos playing from the Millennium Clock. To me, it looks like it depicts some sort of hellscape straight from the book of Revelation. Death, suffering, and evil are everywhere in this model with its eerie red glow at the bottom. It brings up all the thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid – “you don’t believe enough” and “this is what hell looks like.” I tell myself to forget about it. If I’m to forget about it, I need to make sure that I never talk about it and don’t tell anyone how afraid of it I am. Talking about it makes it real, I think. I accept this, too, as a rule.

I’m thirteen years old and I’m sitting in a church trying to concentrate on the service. I can’t because I keep having the thought that I don’t believe enough. I’m worrying about what the reading might be – I’m still too scared to read the Bible and I can’t prevent myself from hearing it in this space. I’m afraid of thinking that I don’t believe enough, and that God will know because this is God’s church after all. I tell myself that I do not belong in this place if I cannot control my thoughts. If I can’t do that, I can never go to church again. This too, becomes a rule.

I’m fourteen years old and I’ve started praying every evening. I’m not sure what prompted this, but I also know that I must do it correctly. If I pray and forget to conclude with “amen”, then it seems obvious that God will continue to listen to my thoughts as if I’ve forgotten to hang up the phone. I try to keep my thoughts corralled and pure when I pray. If I don’t end my prayer, God will hear all my worst thoughts – the ones I am ashamed of, the ones that scare me, the ones that fill me with doubt. I tell myself that I can no longer run that risk. If I’m to prevent this, I shouldn’t pray. Another rule.

I was scared to say these things aloud – to voice my fears or doubts in case they somehow became worse if I acknowledged them.

I’m now in my late twenties, and I have been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and I’m slowly unlearning the rules I’ve created for myself over the years. Each of them, in their own way, was designed to keep me safe from harm, safe from thinking about something that frightened me, or acknowledging difficult emotions like doubt and uncertainty.

It has been a long road to reach that diagnosis. OCD is regularly misunderstood and presented as punchline of jokes – “I’m so OCD!” is one that I’ve heard far too many times when someone simply means that they’re organised. The problem with these jokes is that it disguises the reality and makes it that bit harder for people to recognise what it is they’re really dealing with. OCD-UK, a charity to whom I owe a great deal, describe OCD as follows: “Obsessions are very distressing and result in a person carrying out repetitive behaviours or rituals in order to prevent a perceived harm and/or worry that preceding obsessions have focused their attention on.”

Obsessions could cover virtually any topic, and everyone will experience compulsions in slightly different ways. I didn’t recognise that I was living with OCD because almost all of my compulsions were mental rituals or avoidance behaviour. I would try and avoid thinking about things, check whether thoughts upset me, avoid reading the Bible… Layers and layers of compulsive behaviour in response to frightening intrusive thoughts that became associated with faith. I was scared to say these things aloud – to voice my fears or doubts in case they somehow became worse if I acknowledged them. I now know to call this “magical thinking” but I still find it difficult at times to accept that I cannot cause something to happen simply by saying it.

It can be particularly difficult for people with OCD to cope with uncertainty. I can see why anxiety and doubt about the existence of God has been hard for me to tolerate. I also know that I can never achieve absolute certainty and part of learning to live with OCD is learning to accept that and make choices despite it. Last year I attended the International OCD Foundation (IOCDF) Faith and OCD conference and was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people there. So many people with the same worries and doubts as me, and many more who had found that OCD impacted them in different ways.

But it was hard for a doctor to diagnose me until I could find the words to articulate what I was experiencing. It wasn’t until I started reading books about other people’s experiences with OCD that I started to recognise my own thought patterns, my own fears and doubts in other people’s words. Author and video creator John Green shares a very powerful video titled “What OCD is like (for me)” where he shares what his experience of having OCD and says:

“I can say what it is like more than what it is.”

This gives me a little more courage to tell people what living with OCD can be like and represent some of the diverse experiences of the condition. For someone who was too frightened to open a Bible, I think it’s a little ironic that I am now a theologian. My doctoral research project is focusing on faith and OCD, and in particular, how it might affect someone’s relationship with God. I hope to make use of some of my own experience along the way – examining my fear of not being sure enough, my worries that my intrusive thoughts would somehow offend God… I hope that by sharing this, I can raise a little more awareness of an experience that so many of us try to keep secret or just aren’t ready to speak about.

Through advocacy and research, I’d like to share a little of, as John Green says, what OCD looks like (for me). I’d like to add my voice – now that I’ve found it – to the discussion in the hopes that someone might read this and recognise what they’re going through. And if that’s you? You’re not alone. There is help and there is hope.

Article

Character

Comment

Film & TV

12 February 2025

5 min read

Traitors reflects an age of deceit and disappointment

Behind the game play, we're yearning for authenticity and connection.

Alex Stewart

Alex Stewart is a lawyer, trustee and photographer.

A montage shows a Scottish castle, the host of the V show the Traitors and a dark scary scene.

BBC.

‘What a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.’

Some people, it seems, are not cut out to be liars. I felt for Freddie, one of the last contestants to survive on The Traitors, who found out the hard way. A fumbled recounting of a fabricated conversation with fellow Traitor Minah was enough to seal his fate, and soon he too was banished from the castle. The sad irony was that until his last-minute recruitment as a Traitor, Freddy had in fact been a Faithful for most of the show, insistently proclaiming his innocence and now cruelly denied his chance of vindication. But that’s all part of the game: shifting identities and alliances mean nothing is at it seems, and trusting is fraught with risk.

Part of the success of The Traitors is that it has very successfully tapped into a pervasive national mood: the feeling that we are constantly being deceived, misled, spun or manipulated. This is hardly surprising. Trust in politicians and institutions is at an all-time low, eroded by scandals, misinformation and truth dodging. From the Post Office and the contaminated blood scandals to the manipulation of unpalatable facts to the non-apologies of the guilty, the British public has become increasingly sceptical of those in power.

The 2024 British Social Attitudes survey, conducted by the National Centre for Social Research, revealed that public trust in the UK's system of government has reached a record low, while a similar survey by the OECD reported that only 27 per cent of people in the UK reported high or moderately high trust in government, well below the OECD average of 39 per cent.

But it’s not just politicians and institutions that we distrust. The new world of deep fakes, misinformation, and AI-generated content seems also to have had a corrosive effect on our ability to trust one another. A recent CREST Insights report indicates that only 41 per cent of respondents now trust their neighbours, while the Edelman Trust Barometer tells us that this distrust has, for some, moved from resignation to outright hostility, with one in two young adults approving of hostile activism as driver of change - including attacking people online and intentionally spreading disinformation.

With this backdrop, it is hardly surprising that the contestants of The Traitors are susceptible to high levels of paranoia, and see Machiavellian deceit and betrayal as their only way to survive and have any chance of winning.

But the human cost of betrayal is high and psychologically taxing. The constant need to fabricate stories, remember lies, and manage the stress of potential exposure requires huge cognitive and emotional effort. The effects are tangible as the contestants suffer variously from anxiety, paranoia, and emotional exhaustion.

Meanwhile the building paranoia is stoked by regular invocations of the dark supernatural as cloaked figures and effigies shift the atmosphere from wink murder to The Wicker Man, and Claudia presides over proceedings with the authority of a pagan high priestess. Even the game operates within a quasi-religious framework of sin, confession, and punishment. Players who lie and deceive will eventually face judgment, from their fellow contestants and the millions watching at home

What appeared to be crocodile tears turned out to be genuine tears of despair as the demands of the game took its toll on her conscience and integrity. “I hate it. I hate how I was.”

Although everyone knows it’s just a game, the prolonged deception has real world repercussions that continue beyond the show's end. Many of the contestants struggled to reintegrate into their daily lives, facing challenges in rebuilding trust with loved ones and grappling with their actions during the game. The vicar, Lisa, told of the discomfort of having to explain away her absence on the show as a ‘retreat’, while the winners, Jake and Leanne, both said how difficult it had been to adjust post-show, pointing to a lingering paranoia and the strain of having to keep their victory a secret.

And yet, while betrayal and deceit define the show, it is often the genuine friendships and moments of trust that resonate most. Few will forget the ‘mother to mother’ pact made by Frankie and Leanne in the kitchen and the emotional final banquet when the suspicion and distrust were briefly lifted. Behind all the game playing, the yearning for authenticity and connection as an antidote to isolation could not be suppressed.

There are also inspiring moments of hope, vulnerability and redemption. Alexander, the charming diplomat, tells his heartfelt story about his late brother, who had developmental disabilities, which prompted his fans to donate over £30,000 to Mencap. Jake, who suffers from cerebral palsy, overcomes great odds to become one of the winners, and Leanne and Charlotte open up about their struggles to conceive. Each contestant had a back story that humanised them. Even the aloof high priestess herself shed tears, albeit in unaired footage, over her contestants’ traumas.

But it was Charlotte’s struggles that I found most inspiring. As the final Traitor, she seemed at first to relish her role with a very convincing series of lies, even turning on her fellow Traitor Minah. But it became apparent towards the end that, inside, she was in turmoil. What appeared to be crocodile tears turned out to be genuine tears of despair as the demands of the game took its toll on her conscience and integrity. “I hate it. I hate how I was,” she said later. “I felt so cruel. How I had to be to stay in the game – it was an immense pressure.”

Catharsis, when it came, was through forgiveness, especially from Frankie, the contestant who perhaps more than any other had reason to be hurt by Charlotte’s betrayal; they had after all been best friends within the confines of the castle. Charlotte later admitted to badly needing her forgiveness, which gracious Frankie was only too happy to give.

In an age of deceit and disappointment, Charlotte’s honesty, vulnerability and willingness face up to her actions and be reconciled with her victims, rather than justify them or offer a hollow non-apology, and Frankie’s willingness to forgive - offer us the hope that there can be a way out of the doom loop of deceit and broken trust.

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