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Confessions of an obsessive

She polishes every light bulb and cleans the television remote control with a toothbruth. As Beckham admits to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a fellow sufferer reveals how it's taken over her life...

This is my routine every Saturday. I get up at 9am, and start with the fridge. I empty it, throwing away most of the food, even if it isn't past its sell-by date. I take out all the shelves and drawers, which I then wash in hot, soapy water using a new J-Cloth (I have never knowingly used one twice).

I then clean the Smeg range, which never sees a great deal of action anyway (I become very anxious when my husband uses the words 'stir' and 'fry' in the same sentence), employing obscure polishing products bought on the internet.

I then pad in my white cotton slippers (shoes are, of course, banned from my pristine temple to tidiness; I tell meter reading men to take their shoes off before entering) to the top of the house, and work my way down.

Boilwash the bedlinen

I strip the bed (the linen is boilwashed; I really, really hate the fact that laundry tablets leave tiny speckles behind), and vacuum the mattress and pillows. I polish all the windows, and dampdust light bulbs and skirting boards. I beeswax the floorboards (I don't have carpets or curtains, which I believe harbour mites).

I spend several hours in the bathroom, armed with industrial cleaners. I use a soft toothbrush to clean all the remote controls in the house, and Wet Ones to disinfect all the phones.

I Brasso the front door furniture (I have given my postman a verbal warning about smudging my letter box), throw hot water down the front steps, and hose down my wheelie bin, which I then line. By about 7pm I am exhausted, and take a hot bath, which means I then have to clean the bathroom all over again.

I do all of the above - over and over again, and not just on Saturdays but, in a slightly more diluted version, each and every morning, apart from Friday, my ostensible day off from cleaning, but which serves only to make me feel depressed and slutty - because I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

It is a much misunderstood and underrated psychiatric disorder that often goes undiagnosed. Obsessions are thoughts, actions or impulses that occur over and over again, and can take over your life, rendering some sufferers unable to function at all.

For me and David Beckham, who revealed his OCD affliction in a TV interview, it is all about orderliness and cleanliness. But OCD can manifest itself in different ways. I read recently about a mother who was plagued by the thought she was going to strangle her children in the night with their dressing gown cords. Obsessive thoughts are driven by things that matter to you. In that woman's case, it is her children.

In my case, it is the way I look (I went through a period of going to two-hour body conditioning classes each day; of late, I have become very agitated by men who leave revolting sweat marks on the exercise mats at the gym), and my immediate surroundings, which, of course, if I go out, are never pristine enough.

Constant handwashing

Hence my rituals of twice daily showering and constant handwashing (I kept Wet Ones in my desk at work in order to open the door of the Ladies). I read a book about Howard Hughes recently, in which he explained the hand-washing, a common OCD symptom, as "the only way I could be purged of sin, of the chaos and the mess of the outside world." It is a malign illness, as well, reinventing itself as you grow older, getting worse when you are under stress. I am sure lots of people had a good chuckle yesterday morning while reading about David Beckham's affliction - his obsessive counting of cola cans in his fridge, the need to place his shoes, magazines, furniture and even knife and fork in a straight line, the addiction to the pain of his visits to a tattoo parlour - but, according to the World Health Organisation, the illness is in the top ten debilitating psychiatric disorders.

I have suffered for most of my life. As a child, I would wrap my possessions in plastic to keep out the dust. My rabbit never got a moment's peace, so keen was I to clean out her hutch. As an adult, my repetitive thoughts won't allow me to relax until everything is clean; as a child, I would repeat mantras in my head, over and over again, convinced that if I didn't say certain words, my pets and my parents would die.

I became obsessed with food very early on. From the age of about 11 I would only eat mashed banana sandwiches for some reason, and was excused from even entering the school dinner hall because of the smell.

My mum just thought I was a finicky little girl who would grow out of it, but because the problem was not recognised, I didn't. In fact, it only got worse. To this day, if I want so much as a slice of toast I will weigh up my hunger versus the inevitable crumbs/dirty knife/dirty plate and will opt to go without.

Never ending rituals

It is very hard for those who don't have OCD to understand how much of a hold it can have not only on your life, but on your every thought. It can be impossible to resist. Having performed all my cleaning rituals, I sit down on my plumped sofa and, for a few fleeting moments, bask in freshsmelling order.

But then doubt starts to creep in. Has the kitchen sink already been sullied by a tea bag? Has the towel in the bathroom been used and, if so, has it been wrinkled? Oh dear God, has it fallen to the floor? Has the fridge been opened with bare fingers? (I always use the bottom of my T-shirt.)

Has one of the cats used the cat flap and left behind a sweaty paw print? And so off I go, around the house, checking that everything is exactly as it should be.

I am, like Beckham, a typical candidate for OCD. I am a perfectionist, willing to do something over and over again until I get it right. I have impossibly high standards and huge amounts of self-discipline. I like to be in control not only of myself (I don't drink, for example) but of my environment.

My OCD stems from being brought up in a house of seven children, when my only opportunity for order was the aforementioned plastic wrapping and hutch cleaning. I wasn't raised to be a confident child; my over-anxious mother instilled in me a belief that if I strayed from the narrow path of my life, I would be murdered or run over.

Control

OCD is our way of trying to control the world around us, which as we all know is a hopeless task. Like Beckham, who is made anxious by his hotel suite, I hate to travel. It is all too unpredictable.

I hated my stay on Phuket over New Year's Eve because the grass between the hotel and the beach was hard, dry and scrubby. And then there is the suitcase. I become anxious when I pack (what if I forget something?), anxious during the flight (what if my case is lost, or bursts open?), and really anxious when I arrive and haven't yet placed my underwear in a lined drawer, or hung suits on hangers, or placed my bottles of unguent in lines in the bathroom.

I will never share a suitcase with my husband in case he rummages in it for something. Midway through the holiday (and sometimes by Day Two), I will start obsessing about unpacking when I get home, and the inevitable laundry. I am not a hugely relaxing travelling companion.

Which brings me to the worst part of OCD - it makes sufferers incredibly difficult to live with. When I got married three years ago, I thought having an unpredictable, unruly, clumsy male about the house would force me to lighten up a little. But instead, I have become even more vigilant and, consequently, exhausted. I am forever finding mates for rogue socks. I live in fear of him chopping onions because of the smell, or reading a newspaper because the ink might rub off on his fingers, or leaving spare change on the mantelpiece, or walking around the house with a cup of coffee, or walking too close to the walls (he might leave a smudge).

If he comes to sit next to me on the sofa having made a cup of tea, I have to slope off on some pretext, just to check on the whereabouts of the tea bag. I would like to be more relaxed and untidy (God forbid I ever have a child). Life would be so much easier, not just for me but for my long-suffering husband, who tries to conform to my draconian rules, but usually (and, as it turns out, thankfully) fails miserably.

He forgets, for instance, that the shopping's bottom has to be wiped (have you seen the state of most supermarket conveyor belts?) before it can enter the hallowed portals of the fridge.

Partners 'shouldn't collaborate'

Dr David Veale, a consultant psychiatrist at the Priory in London and former chairman of the charity OCD Action, says the worst thing a partner can do is to collaborate in avoidance and rituals.

"That would be like providing an alcoholic with more drink," he says. "In short, people who live with OCD sufferers should not accommodate them. Compromise if it is a means towards an end, but explain why you are compromising. It is frustrating to watch someone you love wasting their life."

He recommends cognitive behavioural therapy, which involves changing the thinking patterns that enslave the sufferer. Behavioural therapy can also be useful; treatment may involve asking a sufferer to dirty their hands and then not wash them for an increasing period of time.

I started therapy three months ago, and have been relieved to find that my repetitive thoughts are common. I have been learning to break my thought patterns. If I am in what is known as a "downward spiral", I have learned to stop myself. I now keep a notepad by my bed to write down my stupid lists of things to do, rather than recite them endlessly in my head.

I see my therapist for an hour a week, and it is only with her help that I have been able to recognise where my problem started, and to want to change. She has given me practical exercises - I am to wear a jumper more than once; I am to leave dirty dishes for an hour, then two hours - and cerebral ones too. Last week, she told me to imagine the worst that could happen if I didn't clean out the toaster. I know she is right, I know that I am wasting my life, but I am already thinking that once I have finished this piece, I will have to shut down my computer and make liberal use of my screen wipes.

I realise I have a long way to go, but I know it will, in the end, be worth it.

For more information, try reading Overcoming Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Dr David Veale and Rob Willson, published by Constable and Robinson at £9.99