OCD and the need to confess things

OCD and the need to confess things

I recently posted a poll to Twitter asking people what they most wanted to know about my OCD: The fear of contamination, checking things, health anxiety or obsessions of guilt.

I started writing a post about all, but it turns out people are most interest in the latter; guilt. And so, I thought I’d write a whole post about it.

Believe it or not, guilt is a big part of OCD. I know, it was news to me at first, too.

In an article on BeyondOCD, it explained that doubt and guilt are two of OCD’s main features.

It reads: ‘While it is not understood why this is so, these are considered hallmarks of the disorder.  Unless you understand these, you cannot understand OCD.’

The author adds: ‘In the 19th century, OCD was known as the “doubting disease.”  OCD can make a sufferer doubt even the most basic things about themselves, others, or the world they live in.

‘Doubt is one of OCDs more maddening qualities.  It can override even the keenest intelligence.  It is a doubt that cannot be quenched.  It is doubt raised to the highest power.’

Doubt comes in many forms within OCD, often we just don’t realise this. When it comes to OCD, people have their own ‘thing’. Some people wash their hands multiple times, others check the doors and ovens to make sure no harm comes to their home while they’re out. These aren’t just rituals, they’re doubts. Every time we re-check that door, we’re doubting whether it was really locked. Every time we wash our hands again, we’re doubting they were clean enough the first time we washed.

However, doubt doesn’t have to be about a physical thing – and occur emotionally, too. That’s where the guilt comes in.

A big part of OCD is feelings of intense guilt and the need to confess things. I didn’t realise this until recently. I’ve been struggling with guilt and I came across an OCD forum from people living with the same thing. When I put it all in place now, it makes sense.

When I was around seven or eight, I was on a family holiday and I was in a tent with a male family member – who was a year younger than me – playing mums and dads, as you do when you’re little. Half a year later, I broke down to my dad about it. I felt it was wrong. He was a boy, I was a girl, I was only little but I understood at the time that girls fancy boys. I worried whether playing mums and dads had meant there’d been something sexual in it. Of course, there hadn’t been – I was eight, for god’s sake. But that didn’t make it any better.

Even throughout my teenage years – and now – this is a memory that makes me feel uneasy because it’s one that made me feel so dirty at the time. Like I was bad.

The problem is, this is a memory I’d even as a little girl spent time obsessing over. I realise now that this is a symptom of OCD. We forget this because we spell ‘OCD’ out by its letters. We forget that it stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. ‘Obsessive’ being the most prominent word in this case.

Just recently, at age 22, my guilt has been triggered again. I won’t go into it, but something happened a while ago that was completely out of character for me and I’ve spent the last week playing it over and over in my head, thinking about what I’d done and what I could’ve done differently. I’ve played various scenarios over in my head and it’s got so bad that I’ve actually started to convince myself of things I haven’t actually done.

Seriously, I’ve spent the evening crying because my head is telling me I’ve done something that I have absolutely no recollection of. I know in my rational head it’s not real, but my irrational head says otherwise.

In a study by Italian researchers in the journal Clinical Psychology & Psychotherapy, published in September 2016, it suggests that those with OCD may perceive guilt to be more threatening than most people do – leading them to finding it totally intolerable.

Those who feel intolerable guilt get rid of it the only way they know how: by confessing. OCD confessing is like washing your hands twenty times in a row. It’s a short sense of relief each time.

This is something I’ve been trying to control recently. I’ve been confessing and confessing and confessing to things that make me feel guilty. The guilt goes for a little while, before it hits hard once again with yet another thought to feel guilty about.

It’s a vicious cycle, and one that’s predominant in OCD – it starts with an intrusive thought, it’s followed by a ritual and it’s eased with a short sense of relief.

It’s a cycle that’s not easily broken, either.

I wish I had some advice for others going through these overwhelming feelings of guilt. But the only advice I can offer is not mine – it belongs to some wise woman on an OCD forum.

When you have an awful sense of guilt over an uncontrollable thought, ask yourself these questions:

What do you have to feel guilty about?

Is the guilt ‘real’ or is it your anxiety talking? AKA, is this a new sense of guilt that’s come out of nowhere, or have you actually done physical wrong?

Why do you feel guilty?

Assess the guilt. It’s likely you feel guilty because you have OCD and you are giving importance to your intrusive thoughts.

Who benefits from you confessing?

It may seem like a relief to you to get it all out, but it’s only temporary. Is confessing going to help you, or the person you’re confessing to, long-term?

Remember, you have OCD. OCD does crazy things, and the only way we can control it is learning to cope. Coping with guilt is hard, but it can be done. At least, that’s what I’ve heard – and what I’m hoping.

January 2018 has been the worst time for my mental health

January 2018 has been the worst time for my mental health

I’ve had a really shitty start to 2018.

I started it in A&E. I spent New Year’s Day there in crisis after struggling with health anxiety for a couple of weeks.

Long story short, I was convincing myself I was going get really sick. I was panicking about blood clots and meningitis and other illness that could have really serious consequences.

It sounds daft, I know it does. But that’s health anxiety for you. You manage to convince yourself something really bad is going to happen to you. And then you spend hours of every day checking your body for symptoms and Googling anything you come across.

I know where my health anxiety comes from. Twice I’ve been left in critical condition due to medical negligence, and so now I don’t trust anyone when I feel I’m getting sick – and I worry about the consequences.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve been to the doctors six times and had three sets of blood tests. I had an infection for a little while and I worried about sepsis. I was having nightmares every night about it, waking up shaking in cold sweats, having intrusive thoughts and visions I can’t even begin to describe because they’re too terrifying.

I was under the Crisis team for three weeks, had all of my medication upped and I spend every evening feeling like a zombie because of how much I’m taking at the moment.

Things got so bad the other night that I was in A&E because I accidentally overdosed – aka I took too much medication. I didn’t want to die, I just wanted my head to shut up.

I don’t know why or how, but my health anxiety has been pretty non-existent over the past couple days. This is because now my worries have shifted to guilt over things I’ve done in the past. I have this horrendous feeling in my stomach that won’t go. It’s making me feel sick and want to cry all of the time because I feel so horrendously guilty. I’ve been confessing things over and over to my partner, things that don’t even need to be said simply because I need to get them out of my system.

Regardless of my health anxiety or guilt, I know that they’re both part of another condition I live with: OCD. Health anxiety falls under the OCD spectrum due to its obsessive tendencies – and guilt and the obsession to confess does too. So really, over all, it’s my OCD I’m struggling with at the moment.

There’s no end to this story. It’s not even a story, really. It’s just an update as to where I’m at.

This is it.

Mental illness f*cking sucks

Mental illness f*cking sucks

I just cried for five minutes because I’m exhausted.

I only cried for five minutes because I  am tired of crying. It makes me even more tired, and I’m tired of that, too. I haven’t admitted it properly to anyone just yet, only voicing my feelings here and there in short tweets, but the last three weeks have been hell. I have struggled to cope. I’m still struggling to cope.

In fact, I’m struggling so much that I have questioned whether there’s any point continuing if things don’t get better. The scary thing is that right now, it feels like things won’t get better. The even scarier thing, however, is that for once, telling myself that nothing would be better than this was the first time I really meant it.

There’s been many a time where I’ve said ‘I don’t want to be here’ when my emotions got too much. But there was always a small fraction of me that didn’t mean it. 10% of me was just crying out for help. But that 10% has now turned to 5% and even that can feel a struggle to hold onto.

For the past three weeks, I have been suffering with health anxiety. I usually hate that word, suffering. But this time I mean it. I have suffered. Deeply.

I have been panicking every day about becoming seriously sick. I have worried all throughout the day, my body filled with nerves and adrenaline, my heart beating fast, my stomach in knots. I’ve tried to drown out the feelings with medication, but the intrusive thoughts and the images are still there.

For a while I just couldn’t get them out of my head. Normally, when my head gets too loud, I escape in my dreams. But I can’t even do that now, because every dream is replaced with a nightmare. Each night a different dream, with similar themes. They’re terrifying. I have broken sleep, waking up and falling back into a nightmare over and over again. I just want it to stop.

The problem is that no matter how many times I tell myself I’m okay, a voice in my head tells me I’m not. And I feel these false physical symptoms that confuse the hell out of me. If Google tells me a certain illness will make me feel a certain way, I’ll start to feel these symptoms. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.

I know deep down where my fears stem from. I’ve had bad health a couple of times, and both times have lead me to critical condition because symptoms had gone dismissed, unrealised and ignored. And now, when my mind is at its worst, I panic that I’m getting sick but nobody’s seeing it, and that nobody will realise until I’m at my worst. This is terrifying.

It’s fucking awful spending every day worrying about bad things happening.

I have bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, OCD and health anxiety. The last two are somewhat the same thing. Obsessive, intrusive thoughts. I’ve felt all kinds of emotions due to my mental illnesses, but nothing like I feel with health anxiety.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Perhaps I want to get across that health anxiety is a real thing. I do. But perhaps I also want to get things out of my system because I feel it’s what I need.

Regardless of the reason, all I know right now is that mental illness fucking sucks.

What I wish people knew about mental illness

What I wish people knew about mental illness

According to Mind, one in four people in the UK suffer with mental illness. I am one of those one in four.

I live with a number of mental illnesses. Bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, OCD and health anxiety. And so, as you can probably guess, I’ve experienced mental illness from a number of angles. I know what it’s like to be high and what it’s like to be low. I know what it’s like to be psychotic, obsessional and anxious. But most prominently: I know what it feels to feel like there’s no way out.

I’ve recently been so mentally unwell that I’ve really struggled to cope. To be honest, I haven’t wanted to. I’m terrified of admitting this to the outside world but for the first time in my life, I said that I didn’t want to be here anymore and I meant it. The words themselves felt threatening. I was scared. I’d never felt this way before, and the fact I was actually feeling it, like, really feeling it, made me realise just how much help I needed.

Luckily for me, I’ve felt these feelings while being under the care of the Crisis team, who are currently coming out to my house every other day to check on me and carry out risk assessments. I am not a risk to myself. But other people aren’t so lucky.

Other people don’t have the support. Instead, they suffer in silence. I know, it’s an over-used phrase, but it’s one that rings true. So many people living with mental illness don’t have anyone to talk to. They feel nobody will understand; that nobody will care. They worry they won’t be believed if they speak out. Some people simply don’t have the energy to do so. And this is devastating. People in a time of crisis should not feel as though they have to deal with it alone.

But some feel like they must do so – and I feel a big part of this is because there is still such a stigma attached to mental illness. So many people who haven’t lived with it don’t understand, and this is still so obvious when people suggest things like going for a run, drinking more water or just ‘getting over’ the likes of depression and mood disorders. I just wish the people without mental illnesses would attempt to understand the people with. In fact, there’s so much I wish for in regards to mental illness.

I wish people saw mental illness like they would a broken leg. No doctor would turn around and dismiss a broken leg or expect it to get better on its own. They’d treat it immediately, they’d take it seriously. And mental illness deserves the same treatment.

I wish people would acknowledge mental illness for what it is – an illness. It’s not a personality trait or a lifestyle choice. It’s something that affects and consumes the lives of millions.

I wish people would stop offering unhelpful remedies for mental illness. That they’d realise that while they can be beneficial, healthy diet and exercise is not a cure.

In turn, I wish people would respect those who need medication for their mental illness. That those who don’t get it would stop dismissing people for taking it, as though it makes them weak or something. Taking medication isn’t weak. It shows strength in that you’re doing what you can to cope.

Most importantly, I wish everyone with a mental illness felt comfortable enough to speak out about it to a family member or friend. I wish these people didn’t worry they were going to be judged or not believed. I wish these people realised themselves that their illness is worthy of help. That they are worthy of help. That there are people out there who do care and will support them through a dark time.

But the people who are meant to be there as a support need to prove this themselves.

Whether you know someone with a mental illness or not, be kind, always. Be the person others can reach out to in a time of need, and never turn your back on someone who does so.

You never know you’ll be helping – or just how much.

If you are currently struggling in silence – don’t. Reach out to Samaritans, on 116 123 or by email,  jo@samaritans.org.

What it’s really like to live with real OCD

What it’s really like to live with real OCD

I have lived with OCD for years.

It first started when I was a lot younger, and I became obsessed with the number four.

There was something about the number for that made me feel at ease. Comfortable. Like if I did everything four times, things would be okay.

My obsession with the number 4  occurred because of my fear of the number three.

I was so used to hearing people say ‘Third time lucky’ that something in my head said ‘But what if it’s actually unlucky?’ and alas, every time I did something in threes – be that wash my hands, turning off a light switch or something as minuscule as brushing past something, I felt unnerved. I had to escape this feeling by repeating whatever I’d done a fourth time – to know I’d escaped my imaginary curse of the number three.

As I grew older, my OCD worsened. I started having intrusive thoughts.

They were awful. They left me feeling like the worst person in the world. They made me feel evil.

My intrusive thoughts included awful things about my loved ones. Thoughts about them being hurt, attacked, abused. Disturbing images of mutilated people. Wishing it on others.

Even writing this now terrifies me, as though putting my thoughts to paper makes them even more real than they already feel in my head.

Of course, these thoughts aren’t real. I would never wish bad on anyone – let alone my family. But the thoughts can be so much that they leave you feeling like the most horrendous person in the world.

These intrusive thoughts are the ‘O’ in OCD. The obsession. They’re unwanted, debilitating thoughts or images that trigger intensely distressed feelings.

That’s how they make me feel, distressed. Angry. Frustrated. And often, they trigger further outbursts because they make me feel so awful. As though I’m a disgusting person; a bad person.

The only way I can combat these thoughts is with compulsions. And that’s where the ‘C’ of OCD comes in.

Compulsions are acts you play out in attempt to rid yourself of the obsession – aka the intrusive thoughts.

Often, these compulsions are acted out in fear.

‘If you don’t wash your hands four times, you are going to get sick from contamination. And then whoever you go near will be contaminated too. And then you’ll get sick. They’ll get sick. So sick that they’ll develop an infection, which will lead to septicaemia and they will lose all of their limbs’, is one of my most frequent, horrendous thoughts.

When I read it back I know my thoughts are irrational. I know that someone can’t develop septicaemia from me not washing my hands more than once. But the thoughts are so overwhelming that at the time, it’s a struggle to believe they won’t do harm to anyone else.

And so you act out the compulsions until you finally feel at ease.

And you can feel at ease, for a while. Say if you’re sitting in front of a film for an hour, distracted. But there’s no escaping them coming back when you’re put in a situation where you feel you need to wash your hands again.

Perhaps I flick a light switch that someone’s touched beforehand. How do I know their hands aren’t dirty? How do I know they’re not contaminated? How do I know it won’t make me sick? And so I wash, and wash again.

Sometimes I wash so much that my hands bleed from the rawness. They sting and they’re dry, but it’s often worth it to know I’m not hurting anyone in the process.

But my obsessions don’t just come in terms of washing my hands.

In fact, all in all, they take up a lot of my time.

When I go to leave my car, I will walk back and check, and check, and check over, and over again that my doors are locked. Because if they aren’t, someone could break in and steal my belongings.

I have to take a memorised photo in my head of my bedroom before leaving it, to know I haven’t left any plugs plugged in, that none of my medication has fallen on the floor or that my straighteners – which I haven’t touched in days – aren’t plugged in. It doesn’t matter that I know in my heart I don’t want to cause a fire. I haven’t even used my straighteners – there’s the risk that maybe I have used them, and I’ve just forgotten.

I can’t leave my house without running back to the door several times to check it’s locked. Going back in to check the oven’s off, that the taps aren’t running or that the windows aren’t wide open. Sometimes I end up not leaving the house at all, cancelling plans because the fear is simply too much.

OCD makes me feel on edge at all times. It’s like I’m constantly waiting for something bad to happen. And even if nothing bad does end up happening, my thoughts will tell me otherwise. I spend a good few hours a day just trying to do everything I can to escape my thoughts, because more often than not they’re intensely overwhelming.

I wish people knew how debilitating OCD can be. It has caused me to self-harm, hurting myself, feeling as though I deserve it because of how disgusting my thoughts can be. it has triggered awful episodes of anxiety and of the bipolar disorder I’m also diagnosed with. It has left me spending evenings crying because the thoughts and images in my head are terrifying. It prevents me from going about my normal day-to-day life without panicking and avoiding situations simply in hopes of not worsening the thoughts any more so.

I wish people understood how serious OCD is. That it’s not arranging your cupboards or liking things colour-coordinated. That choosing a colour-scheme for your entire house does not make you ‘OCD’.

If people knew this, and stopped using the term to describe their everyday personality traits, I feel it would be taken more seriously – as the serious mental health condition it is.

In fact, it’s so serious that the World Health Organisation once ranked it in the top ten of the most disabling illnesses of any kind, in terms of loss earnings and diminished quality of life.

I love that it’s 2017 and people are becoming more aware of mental illness, reducing the inevitable stigma surrounding it.

But I feel we still have a long way to go in terms of understanding OCD. And this is because we have this silly misconception that OCD is an organised personality trait, and not a real mental health condition.

I hope this posts starts the conversation, and spells out to people who don’t understand just how severe an illness it really is.

Because hopefully by just educating a few, they can go onto educate others.

It’s important that we do so, not just in terms of exposing the condition, but to show other sufferers of it that what they’re living with is very real. That it’s very serious, and that they’re not bad people. They’re just ill people, who with the right support, can learn to control and stable it.

But to tell them this, first we need to understand. We need to listen. Starting now.

A friendship that made me forget my worth

A friendship that made me forget my worth

I haven’t really blogged that much recently because I didn’t want it to be like my old blog, where I felt forced to write all of the time because it was what I was doing for a living.

With this blog, I just want to be able to write when I feel able to so that it doesn’t become tedious. But recently something happened that I feel I need to write not just for myself but for anyone going through a similar situation.

Last night, I had to step back and re-evaluate my worth. It may sound silly, but there was a sudden moment when I realised that I wasn’t happy with the way I was being treated by someone very close to me.

I realised that the person I was close to, I wasn’t close to for the right reasons. Our friendship was very one-sided, and to tell you the truth I was getting nothing out of it. I don’t want to go too into detail because I’d like to respect this person, but I feel this is something important I’d like to write about for myself.

I was in a friendship with someone for two years. We had a great time together, we were always very close and we could go months without talking and then pick things up again like we’d never been apart. There was only one problem. I was contributing most things to the friendship.

They gave me their time, their positivity and their entertainment – and in return, I funded it.

Now, a friendship should work equally. You should both be able to enjoy your time together without one person falling shorter than the other. But that wasn’t the case. I was often left with a hefty dent in my bank account from consistently footing the bill for this person. And at first I accepted it, after all my money was going towards memories with this person, and I was having fun – but it wasn’t so fun afterwards when I had to be a lot stricter over necessities, simply because I was never just paying for me, it was always for the both of us.

I excused it for so long, telling myself ‘it’s just what friends do’, but recently I realised that’s just not the case. Because it wasn’t just the aspect of paying for things. I read back through my messages and realised that every time we’d met up, we’d make plans only to be told just before they had no money. Most people, surely, would let a person know before making plans – but this person did it because they simply expected me to accept it, and continue with the plans despite them being unable to contribute to them themselves. As a one-off, this is fine. But as a regular occurrence? It’s not okay.

If I wasn’t able to pay for it, we wouldn’t hang out. And for most people that would be fine, but because I’d become so used to funding our time together I started feeling obligated to do so and would actually feel guilty about not being able to do something because I didn’t want to foot the bill.

It was like the friendship wasn’t free – I either bought it or I was left with nothing.

I’ll admit it, much of it was my own fault. I could’ve said no on so many occasions but as I mentioned above, it felt obligatory – as though we’d have no friendship if I didn’t just suck it up.

And for me, that was a big deal. As someone who’s chronically ill, I don’t get to go out much. I only see a few close friends because going out more publicly and meeting new people makes me nervous because I am constantly worrying about my stomach. Ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you that immediately, before any plans commence, I will ensure we are close to home so that I can come back if needs be. That they’ll remind me to take my medication. That they’ll be there if I begin to feel poorly so I’m not left alone.

And that makes you feel like a burden.

So, to have someone around me who I could enjoy my time with, and felt 100% comfortable with, was a pretty big deal – even if it was taking a chunk out of my bank account.

But a recent occurrence showed that I couldn’t go on like that. I won’t go into detail but the gist of it is that I put a lot of effort into this person to get them through a bad couple of days, putting them first and leaving me having to take a chunk out of my savings.

Two weeks after I’d done so, and I hadn’t heard from this person. Not a peep. Not even a message of thanks.

And last night, I decided enough’s enough. Why should I constantly put effort into a friendship with someone who refuses to put effort in with me? Why should I feel it’s okay for someone to take and take and take from me when I’m getting nothing in return? It’s not an equal friendship. It’s relationship of power – one where I never had the upper-hand. And friendship shouldn’t be about that. You should never feel obligated to do things just to keep a friendship going. It should’t be one-sided. It should be a mutual agreement of respect and understanding – and you should never, ever feel taken advantage of by someone who is meant to be promising that.

As I mentioned above, I was naive, and I only wish I’d taken a step back to evaluate the situation sooner so I didn’t have to learn such an expensive lesson, but alas, here we are.

Of course, these feelings within a friendship won’t always occur for financial reasons – but they send the same message. If someone is repeatedly taking you for granted to the point you expect nothing less and come to expect it, put an end to it. Don’t be that person, like me, feeling guilty because you don’t want to give something to the friendship that your ‘friend’ isn’t giving you in return.

Take some time to evaluate your own feelings and ask yourself whether it’s worth it. Whether the friendship is worth it or whether that friendship will only last depending when you finally decide enough is enough.

Know when enough is enough.

Know your worth.

I only wish I’d known sooner.

Why people are so afraid to speak out about their mental health

Why people are so afraid to speak out about their mental health

Lots of people care about mental illness, I know that.

But it’s a sad truth that many of these people either suffer with mental illness themselves or care about someone who does.

Because really, if something doesn’t affect you or the people around you, you don’t understand it – and therefore you find it hard to empathise with.

But it’s not empathy people with mental health issues are looking for – it’s respect and understanding, which is completely lacking because of people who refuse to want to take time out of their day to believe that people can struggle mentally.

The issue is that so many people with mental illness are afraid to speak out because they’re worried they’ll face judgement. They worry that they won’t be believed or that they’ll have to attempt to justify their feelings just so that they’re acknowledged.

While it’s so easy to tell someone to ‘speak out’, seeing someone actually speaking out can be a whole other story.

Take Sinead O’Connor, for example. In a recent viral video, she sat in an empty motel room crying for help, screaming out for her family to look at how lost she was, struggling so badly that she’d even contemplated taking her own life.

Immediately, people commented on the video telling Sinead how wonderful she was and how they wanted to help – but alongside the copious amount of postitive messages lay the few comments from people who make those people struggling with mental illness afraid to speak out.

‘What have you got to cry about, you’re rich?’ seemed to be a common theme amongst the negative comments.

Apparently, people don’t quite understand that mental illness doesn’t only apply to those who may not be as financially stable.

People don’t choose mental illness, mental illness chooses you – rich or poor, it doesn’t matter.

But because of the common misunderstanding, people are actually afraid to talk about their illness because if they’re not homeless, living a bad home life or look okay from the outside, they should have ‘nothing to cry about’.

The funniest thing of all is that the world is full of a bunch of hypocrites.

If you go through your social media, most people are too busy posting selfies of themselves or tagging their friends in memes to step back and talk about mental health.

The odd post you do see about mental illness is often ignored, with people assuming that person must be ‘seeking attention’ to have posted it online for all to see. Yep, we assume they’re ‘seeking attention’ instead of ‘crying for help’.

But it’s a whole different story when someone actually takes their own life.

Take Chester Bennington for instance. He devastatingly took his own life and instantly people took to social media to share suicide hotline after suicide hotline.

While this was great and hopefully helped some people, I couldn’t help but ask why it took someone actually ending their own life to want to help.

Why had it taken something so extreme for people to want to do something about it?

Why don’t we realise how serious mental health is until it’s too late?

Most importantly: Why is it that it takes something visual to make people realise how dangerous mental health can be?

And this, this is exactly why people are too scared to speak out. Because they’re afraid of what people will say. Because they’re afraid that because people can’t see it, people won’t believe you’re sick.

Because they’re afraid that instead of receiving help, they’ll be mocked or judged.

Because people don’t realise. People don’t realise how badly mental illness can affect you.

How lonely it can make you feel. How empty you can become inside and ultimately how easy it is to lose yourself to feelings of nothing but negativity.

People don’t realise, because they don’t want to take the time to understand – even though understanding could make those living with mental illness so much more at ease in terms of seeking help from those around them.

Because, the bottom line is, the people who don’t want to understand would rather assume.

Because, sadly, it’s easier that way.