Tourette Scotland

Articles by Stuart Colquhoun, Tourette Scotland's Columnist

To Say Or Not To Say...

Letting people know I have Tourettes is something I have great difficulty doing. So much so that I have adopted the blinkers on/head in the sand approach when out in public. If I can keep moving and don’t make eye contact, I can manage to wander along almost oblivious to the sea of open mouths and puzzled looks I leave in my wake.

As I rarely venture out alone this leaves any companion (usually my wife Joanne) wilting under the barrage of stares and mumbled insults for daring to accompany such a mad-man out amongst normal human beings.
 

 

I have similar issues with my obsessive compulsive behaviours. On a first time visit to a new G.P’s surgery I busied myself lining up the chairs and sorting the leaflet display into order. Joanne made the “error” of explaining my behaviour to the puzzled receptionist – how she regretted that decision. My problem seems to be that I don’t want anyone to know my business – as if such a thing was possible for someone like me!

Of course it would be preferable in certain situations to let whoever know the reasons for my outbursts and odd behaviour, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. True, I have my little information cards I always carry, but these are really only to be produced when I am knee-deep in some confrontation;

 

 

They are of course never produced until absolutely necessary. But what about the more general situations when I am not pinned against a wall by the scruff of the neck, or I can’t just wander away into the distance?

One of the major flashpoints tends to be waiting at the till in the supermarket, corralled into a narrow passage with potentially critical voyeurs positioned on all sides. Just about anything can and does come out. Sometimes I feel like I have to leave and wait in the car it gets so bad. It makes me not want to go out of the house, especially when my tics are on the wax.

Something obviously had to be done - so after much discussion and negotiation it was decided to allow my companion to mention to any concerned parties that I have Tourettes Syndrome and am in fact not a dangerous maniac.

It is still quite early days but and it seems to be going quite well, reactions ranging from indifference to being very understanding. There have also been some quite interesting responses from well meaning members of the public. The most memorable was from a lady who when told said, “oh don’t worry, I have sinus problems so I know what it’s like”!

I couldn’t quite work out what the connection was, but as she hadn’t batted an eyelid when Mr Tourette suggested she was akin to an overweight bovine, I decided to let her off the hook, and not pursue the matter any further.

 

VOTE CHOPPER!

 Over the last few months I have only just about managed to keep in check feelings verging on dread from rising up and overwhelming me completely… why did I agree to being filmed!? What seemed like a good idea at the outset quickly became the fodder for my wild, irrational internalisations of doom and destruction – whatever negative consequence you can envisage; believe me I have toiled hours with it already. Although I understood that my contribution would amount to nothing more than a few minutes I was still nervous as hell.

 So the night came and I spent a long tormented hour on the edge of my seat with a cushion over my face waiting for the moment of shame that never materialised. As I relaxed it was the consensus of all present that it had in fact been really, really good.

 Over the last week or so, following a number of subsequent viewings that opinion remains solidly intact. I have had no negative comments from anyone; family, friends even strangers on the street are all saying how great it was, deeply moving and funny in equal measure. The only small downside is my having to convince numerous folks that the rest of my body-hair is in fact the same colour as that which remains on my head – thanks JD.

 Prior to transmission I promised myself that under no circumstances would I read anything on the internet for fear of upset at negative comments. After about an hour of honouring this promise my resolve waned and I set about frantically scrolling for any mention of Chopper with the fervour of some fame-hungry WAG.

 I found there were lots of people making comments about the “funny bits” but almost all made the qualification that it must be hell to live with and that we are all nice guys etc. etc. Even when some idiot made a stupid comment the other members were very quick to jump on them making these boards and forums almost self policing. But that said, the vast majority of comments were positive and supportive, even if they did lean more towards the humorous side of the condition.

 It also amazed me how quickly people had made compilations of the “best bits” and posted them on YouTube. I commented on one of these as it was quite clever, suggesting quite light-heartedly that the creator should stop taking the p*** – below is his response…

 If you're the real Chopper, I bloody love you. This is not a p*** take, it's a tribute. You & John are very likeable characters. The way I see it, you guys tell it like it is and there's no bull. That woman’s' dog really did have t***. Then you told her she was "very helpful", which she was. No smoke & mirrors, just the truth in its purest form. You fellas should become politicians and make the world a better place. Vote Chopper!

 Vote Chopper…does have a kind of ring to it eh?

 

 

PUT THE SPAGHETTI BACK IN THE BAG!

 

A medical procedure can be a frightening prospect for anyone – a simple trip to the dentist can strike fear deep into marrow of even the most stout-hearted individuals. For us the inability to remain still due to our motor tics catapults this terrifying apprehension onto a whole different level…

 

After much discussion and a couple of scares, Mrs Chopper and I decided that the last thing we needed at our time of life was sleepless nights caused by getting up to deal with ear-piercing screeches, projectile vomiting and sodden dung-filled nappies. And as the procedure to ensure there would be no possibility of this ever happening is a much simpler prospect than a full female neutering, it was decided that I should have a vasectomy.

 

At the G.P.’s surgery I was taken through the pros and cons and finally given the option of local or general anaesthesia. Not wanting to appear a wimp (and giving no thought to the potential problems my T.S. may cause) I opted for the local, much heartened by the Doctor’s approving nod at my manly choice.

 

So the day came and I was quickly ushered into the small treatment room by the consultant himself. He kindly suggested that Joanne might like to come and watch which pleased us both, she because of her gruesome voyeuristic nature, and me simply for the morale support her presence would provide. I stood waiting as he quickly scanned my notes then said over his shoulder, “Oh, I see you have Tourette’s – proper Tourette’s?”

“Is there any other kind?” I answered. He then turned to me with a sympathetic smile, “I have Tourette’s too!”

 

“Really?” I stuttered. Now what are the odds of that! For a brief moment I was overwhelmed with joy…how lucky was I…a kindred spirit…the person performing this delicate operation had intimate knowledge of the this condition, our condition, he would know how to deal with me, yes, everything was going to be O.K….WRONG!!!

 

“No not really, I just swear a lot…according to my wife that is… guffaw guffaw!” Oh how we laughed… So here I am, already a bloody bag of nerves for all the aforementioned reasons and I discover that I will shortly be allowing David Brent’s backward half-brother loose on my scrotum with a very sharp instrument!!

STRESS!

PRESSURE!

SUPPRESSION!

STRESS!

PRESSURE!

MEGA-SUPPRESSION!!

 

Well, as you can imagine all that pressure had to go somewhere…

 

As soon as he started the examination, “THERES A GAY MAN TOUCHING MY TESTICLES!”

Injecting the anaesthetic, “HELP!! HAROLD SHIPMAN’S TRYING TO KILL ME!”

Numerous times as he moved around, “OW! OUCH!”

“Oh sorry” says he, “Tic” grinned I. He stopped and started so many times I am sure it must have taken twice the normal length of time.

 

Now Joanne and I were both quite familiar with the ins and outs of the op’ as we had watched it on the internet. So just at the point when he pulled the tubes outside to be cut I roared “PUT THE SPAGHETTI BACK IN THE BAG!” Joanne, I and the nurse burst out in hysterics. As I lay vibrating on the table, tubes open to the elements he actually got up and went into the other room I presume to compose himself. When he returned the sweat was visibly rolling down his big, ruddy comedian cheeks.

 

After that it was completed with no further problems and I shuffled away with a warm glow, feeling quite relaxed under the circumstances. Something I could not say for our good Doctor friend. Hopefully he will have learned from his interaction with me how to better deal with someone with T.S. or at worst, we at least made the bugger work for his money!

 

AH DIDNAE MEAN IT MAMMY!

 

I have chosen the above title in an effort to encapsulate the angst-ridden nature of my youth in a few, brief words.  How many times I whined the above just prior to a good slap on the bare legs (or bum) being administered, I can't even begin to imagine - it was and remains the haunting mantra of my troubled childhood.  A close second to this would be the riposte of, "Think before you do the thing!" that always accompanied these physical chastisements.  The problem was I really didn't have the option - I was so naturally impulsive, never ever considering the consequences of my actions over the instant, snap of compulsive desire to just DO IT!  And IT always seemed like such a good idea at the time.

 

As a four year-old holding my next-door-neighbour's 10p while she swung on some bars, delighting in the 'plop' it made as I dropped it down a drain, "AH DIDNAE MEAN IT MAMMY!"

The numerous occasions throughout the years that I found myself with my trousers at my ankles, grinning from ear to ear, always at the most inappropriate time possible, "AH DIDNAE MEAN IT MAMMY!"

Enjoying the delicious 'whoosh' of the net curtains as I tickled the corner with a lit match, "AH DIDNAE MEAN IT MAMMY!"

Suffering the indignation of having to visit the educational psychologist because of my inability to stop interfering with the bra-straps of my fellow pupils in secondary school (not that the boys at my school wore bras - but I'm sure you get the gist), "AH DIDNAE MEAN IT MAMMY!"

Then as a teenager with a developing obsession for vandalism, with no pre-planning or thought I would boot in shop windows, attack phone boxes, destroy litter bins.  It wasn't long before this little hobby found me standing on a platform in a room full of frowning strangers whining, "AH DIDNAE MEAN IT YOUR HONOUR!"

 

The list really is endless, from the mildly inappropriate to the downright dangerous, if you can think of something asinine, I have probably done it.  It wasn't until much later that I realised that this wild impulsivity was actually related to my condition(s).

 

Although I am somewhat better placed these days to moderate my outbursts/actions, anyone who knows me would concede that I am still very unpredictable.  I have had to make changes to minimise the possibility of upset.  I now no longer post on any of the many on-line discussion forums I was a member of.  I have also curtailed my activities on Facebook due to my inability to prevent myself from posting 'offensive' status updates without thinking.  I also don't go out much and on the rare occasions I socialize it is with folks who understand in advance what they may be letting themselves in for.

 

I am actually OK with it now; things are arranged so that the likelihood of my actions causing difficulties is greatly minimized.  That said it would have been much, much easier if I had had even the slightest inkling as to why I was such an unpredictable nut-job as I was growing up.  Hindsight is such a wonderful thing though, eh?