Numbers

      Threes. I count my steps in threes as though I’m waltzing through the halls. I tap in threes, think in threes. On particularly bad days, I speak in threes.

           There are two-hundred ninety-three lockers in the band room and instrument storage room, not including those used by orchestra students. Two-hundred seventy-one marbles in my collection. I know because I counted them. Three times. And then I spent hours covering every inch of my arm in the number. I didn’t get much sleep that night.

           Sometimes people notice. Notice the writing on my arms and that I tap in threes and shake my leg and separate my M&Ms from the cookie. I make light of it when they do, pass it off as another one of my quirks.

           I was just bored.

           I don’t tell them that the counting makes me shake so badly I can barely hold a pen. Or that even the thought of not doing it sets me off in threes for the rest of the day.

           I don’t broadcast the fact that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I don’t want people’s pity; I don’t want to be treated strangely just because my brain works a little differently.

           I wish to god I was normal. The pitying glances I get from people I know fill me with a mixture of heat and nausea that makes me want nothing more than to hide. It’s almost worse than the thoughts themselves. Almost.

           People think that OCD is counting and washing your hands and tapping a certain number of times and perfect organization but it’s not. It’s so much more than that. It hurts in such a strange way when people refer to their perfectionism or preference for neatness as OCD.

           Because they don’t understand.

           They don’t understand what it’s like to hold a knife and feel the bile rise in your throat as images flash in your mind. They don’t understand the disgust you feel of yourself when impure thoughts force their way, unwanted and uninvited, into your mind. They don’t understand the racing heartbeat and tightness in your throat as you picture millions of germs covering every surface, floating in the air, waiting to be breathed in and wreak havoc on your body. They don’t understand.

           My mother once came into my room while it was messy.

She laughed at the state of it, saying, “How can you have OCD if your room is such a mess?”

I hid the ache in my chest and laughed along.

I didn’t tell her that I didn’t have the energy to clean my room. I didn’t tell her that I couldn’t do it because there might be Something hiding in the mess. I didn’t tell her that I was sorry I wasn’t even good enough at being broken.

I’ve given up by now, on explaining. I let people think what they want. It doesn’t matter.

People will always view the world the way they choose to see it. Sometimes it’s not within my power to change that. And I don’t have the energy to try.

Two months later and I’m walking into the Psychiatric and Behavioral Health office that Seattle Children’s has set up in a hospital near my house.

I put my arm out, exposing my wrist. Nodding that it’s me before the receptionist can even open her mouth. Going through the motions.

Six weeks into treatment.

I take my seat next to the other kids. Wait with them, nod hello, smile, laugh. We’ve become friends over the course of this rollercoaster that is exposure therapy.

One of the girls is reviewing her treatment homework.

“I still have to make a socially acceptable complaint…”

We smile at each other, and I shake my bracelets as loudly as possible.

It takes her a few moments to get it, but then the light goes on in her brain and she laughs.

“I don’t like that you’re shaking your bracelets,” she says, marking down her level of anxiety.

“Whoops.” An apology hovers at the tip of my tongue, begging to slip out, but I bite it back. I already have sixteen tallies today.

We’re a strange group. Six of us, sitting on a crescent couch. White binders on the coffee table.

Another girl pulls a jar out of her bag. A ripple of fear passes through a few kids; we all know what it is.

“I caught this last night,” she says. She’s not pleased.

The spider just spins its web, content to live in a glass prison.

The door opens, and a clinician welcomes us in.

We file in, one by one, laughing and talking as if we’re not here to crush our greatest fears. The click of crutches sounds behind me, and I turn to her, the girl in the boot.

“Do you want me to get your bag?” I reach out to grab it. She doesn’t stop me. A week ago, she would have grimaced at inconveniencing me. It’s good to see how much progress everyone is making.

Even if it feels like I haven’t changed.

I still cringe when someone coughs, still apologize for things that aren’t my fault. I still hold my breath on airplanes and in my own home. I still burn my hands washing every dish before I can use it.

My mother says I’m happier, that she notices the change in me. But I don’t know if I can see the same.

I’m working with a doctor today, not one of the practicum students from UW.

I know what that means.

I hesitate in the elevator, finger hovering over the button for the first floor. The emergency department.

She stops me when we get off.

“Stand on the threshold.”

My throat tightens, and visions of being crushed between the doors flash in my mind.

She only lets me step away when the elevator screams its dissent.

We walk into the hospital, and I count the tiles to my doom.