John – Humans of Avon and Somerset

“The moment I accepted that I needed help – that I couldn’t power through this alone – was the moment things began to change.” 

John, Neighbourhood Inspector

For the first five months of 2025 I had been fighting a battle that’s invisible to most but completely consuming on the inside. It wasn’t an injury that took me off the frontline, it was something far less visible but just as real, a combination of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and a lesser-known form of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) called purely obsessional OCD, or “pure o”.

Now after recovery and being back at work for five months, I want to share my story.

Because in policing, we face trauma. We’re trained to manage it, to stay composed, to carry on. But sometimes, the job leaves scars that aren’t visible, and it’s in those quiet, internal battles that many of us suffer in silence.

Like many officers, I’ve witnessed and absorbed my fair share of trauma. At first, I thought I was managing. But over time, certain incidents began replaying in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I’d feel constantly on edge, always scanning for danger, always preparing for the worst. This combined with lack of sleep, and continued exposure to trauma in my role as a roads policing unit lead investigator eventually took its toll, and I hit a wall.

I needed some answers and so I gained a diagnosis; I was suffering with PTSD, a condition many of us are familiar with in theory, but few talk about in reality.

But what I didn’t expect was what came next. As my mind tried to process and cope with the trauma, something else crept in, intrusive, disturbing thoughts that had nothing to do with what I’d experienced. Thoughts that felt alien, terrifying, and completely out of character. 

That was the beginning of me realising that ‘Pure O’ had been part of my life, without me knowing it had a name.

Pure O is a type of obsessive-compulsive disorder that’s hard to explain and even harder to live with. There are no visible compulsions, just a constant barrage of unwanted thoughts, and mental rituals trying to disprove or suppress them. It’s a loop that feeds itself, driven by fear and shame. 

For me, these thoughts hit the most sensitive parts of who I am, my morality, my identity, my integrity. Thoughts I didn’t want and didn’t understand would appear out of nowhere, and I’d spend hours trying to analyse them, reassure myself, and “make them go away.” 

But the harder I fought them, the stronger they became. The anxiety was overwhelming. And because it all stayed hidden in my mind, nobody could see just how much I was struggling. 

Eventually, I couldn’t function. I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t sleeping. I’d lost my appetite and my confidence. I felt detached from the job, from myself, and from life. 

But the moment I accepted that I needed help, that I couldn’t “power through” this alone, was the moment things began to change. 

I started cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT) and acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT) with a psychotherapist who understood both PTSD and OCD, particularly the Pure O subtype. These therapies became a lifeline, helping me face the intrusive thoughts without trying to neutralise them. I also began medication, which helped turn down the volume of the anxiety and allowed me to fully engage in the therapy. 

Recovery wasn’t just about therapy and medication. I had to rebuild my routine with intention. Regular sleep, exercise, reducing screen time, eating properly, these weren’t just extras. They became part of my recovery plan. 

Coming back to work was a big step. I was worried I might not feel ready, or that I’d somehow be different. And while I’m not the same as before, I’m more grounded. More self-aware. And most importantly, I know how to manage what I’ve been through. 

Some days can still be challenging but I now feel happier than I have in years. I’m here. I’m doing the job. And I’ve proven to myself that this illness doesn’t define me, it’s just a part of my journey. 

Since returning to work, I’ve shared my story openly with colleagues to show that recovery is possible and that no one should suffer in silence. By speaking up, I hope to encourage more officers to come forward, seek support, and know that they’re not alone. 

Mental health challenges don’t make us weak, they make us human. And the more we talk about them, the stronger we become as a team.