My Obsessive Survival Mode

Note: Deals with OCD themes. OCD is usually ego dystonic meaning it goes against one’s morals and values.

   I am going on a date today. I am going on a date today. I am going on a date today. Legs feel restless so I might as well jump around a bit and shake out all The Heebs. Something about telling myself I was to meet a potential mate made me feel out of control. This was unknown territory. Sex was a sin but I loved the idea of it so much that one time I did it in the back of this guy’s car just for the mere experimental reason of pleasure. Don’t tell mom that. She probably already knows. Oh shit, Oh shit! If I call her right now, can I tell by the tone of her voice? It was awhile ago, wouldn’t she have pried already? She probably is waiting for the right moment to ruin my life. 

     I am a huntress looking for my mate. In the wild. She definitely knows. She probably knows I’m going on a date today. I am going on a date today. I am going on a date today. I am going on a date today. What if mom forbids me from going? I didn’t fully tell her of my plans—the reason being she might give me a lecture about sin and how sex makes you go to hell. Something like that. I can’t be lustful. It is against god’s plan. “Mom, if that is what you believe, so be it. I will join a Nunnery and swear my heart to the lord. But you have to come along with me.” I tell her, hoping sly manipulation skills will be my winning. 

    For god’s sake, I’m in my early twenties and I want to be free! I can plan to change in the bathroom of the restaurant so she has no reason to suspect anything. She probably knows. You need to have a backup plan if this falls through. Wait— a backup plan? Why would a guy even go on a date with the likes of you? Yeah. He probably just wants to touch your boobs. He probably will leave once he finds out you have a lush forrest of a bush down there. So how do I dress tonight if that’s the case? How do I blend in? Or, should I blend out the colorful chalk pastels of my wardrobe? 

    Don’t be lustful, Lyla. I want to be lustful. I am lustful with myself late at night when nobody is around. “That is also distasteful!” An image of my great great grandmother stirring in heaven gives me The Heebs. She knows. She knows I am lustful. 

     The Heebie Jeebies. I am lucky that my dad doesn’t follow the faith, but that created issues for my parents when I was growing up. Because he slept with another woman. Maybe mom is a bit too hard on me because of that. She probably thinks, “At least Lyla doesn’t sleep with other women.” That there is a truth because I have never tried. I try not to tell my mother or the nearest person in the vicinity no matter where I am and what it pertains every thought on my mind. But it does happen. I seriously have to though, I had to do that thing in that certain way otherwise I feel like I might die some weird death and then my family and the whole entire world will find out said silly way of dying and then uncover some weird scary secret that I have that isn’t true, and then I will be forever remembered for all eternity as the girl who died because she was like, cleaning her ears or something reading a smut book and the dog flew into the room and knocked her over and the q-tip that she was using to clean her ear canal gave her a lobotomy. The smut was of underage children.

   Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Okay. How is that relevant in any way? I don’t even like children like that. That is disturbing. But what if you did? What if someone framed your death and made it look like you had that dirty secret. Then people would have no choice to believe. It would ruin your family’s reputation. This is why your parents got a divorce isn’t it, because you died and people found you reading guilty criminalistic smut.

   I should call my dad and tell him I’m not a pedophile. That way when he gets the news of my death he can be prepared for the backlash on his company. My dad worked the weather channel. The place to be that didn’t really talk about political weather, so most were in the clear. He did sleep with his co-host. I guess it was a wonderful place to be because they are currently secretly dating. But I wont tell anyone. Maybe he stopped believing god because god didn’t have big boobs and a pretty face like Shelly. Or he wasn’t getting it from mom. 

   “Lyla you need to remember to take you meds!” My mother screams from down the stairwell. 

    She likes to point out quite often when I am late on a dose. I guess to make sure she gets her chill pill, I can take mine. Metaphorically for her of course. Mom is lucky that Jesus takes away all her mental illnesses. Or so she says. 

    I have to get ready for the event tonight, which looking at the time, means I am really late on my meds. I at least take them every day. I just worry I will choke on them or break out in a rash. But she makes sure I don’t choke because we take them together, and then we wait 10 minutes of my stupid time, on my request of course, to make sure I don’t break out in a rash. I can get ready right now with that in mind. 

   Do dates like catfishing makeup? I am not one for a lot of makeup every second of every day, but I do occasionally wear it. I do my makeup. Looking in the mirror it, it gives me the The Heebs so I wash it right off. It doesn’t feel right. Maybe less is more? But now my face feels tainted with that energy, so I make sure to wash my face twice. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad of a feeling, as I was drawn to a natural pink lipstick. I used it for blush as well. 

  I’m sure he only likes pretty girls. I don’t know if I should dress sexy, but I also don’t know if what I am looking at is formal or not. Some girls dress like they’re going to a funeral and rock it all the time. I could, but I don’t want my mom to get suspicious about my mental health.

   I still like weird clothes, so maybe I can just throw some manic pixie clothes into my bag and call it good! That way mom won’t see. I can wear pants on my way out so nobody suspects. They can also be pants that don’t draw attention, if you know what I mean. No rhinestones on the butt. 

  So I do just that, weird colorful, patterned clothes that semi go together from all sorts of different eras. Yes. But make it sexy. Chunky knit colorful sweater, Long and Flowing. Cute velvet dress. It hugs my thick curves in a way mom wouldn’t approve. Combat Sketchers Jammers. And patterned lacy tights with long silly socks. I throw a nice perfume into my bag that gives seductive. It’s DKNY’s Delicious Night. 

    I can wear my long black curls down, guys like that. 

I pack up my bag, and wear the outfit I am in down to the kitchen. “Remember, Remember, Remember, mom,” I say, taking my meds one at a time with apple juice, “I am going to the library tonight, so I will be grabbing a bite to eat on the go.” 

   We sit for 10 minutes, and I try to think of library books to distract me in front of my mother. She knows, doesn’t she. Well, I am beginning to quiver, so I tell her its just my nerves from taking the medicine, and I thank her for sitting with me because I did—thankfully not break out in a rash. 

  I have to take public transit to the date spot, so mom won’t find out, and so I don’t have to deal with driving the car. Yesterday I felt like something bad was going to happen if I chose to take it to the date spot. Public transit was better than worrying about the possibility of a hit and run.

    I have to deal with the weird smells and strangers and sticky substances on public transit. Last time I was on public transit we all watched this hobo guy do Whip Its on the bus. You could tell it was Whip Its because every time you heard the sound of a whipped cream can, you got an unexpected cold draft. There was no way he was hiding whipped cream under his jacket. 

   The guy across from him was your regular drunk, and the people wanted to time how long his loogie got, and it didn’t break until 7 inches. It was thick. We all silently swapped looks with each other like it was a scene from Ocean’s Eleven, all nonchalant and desperate like. And I couldn’t think straight for the rest of the day. The sound it made as it hit the dirty floor. I didn’t have access to a sink to wash my hands so I just used hand sanitizer thrice. To get rid of the feeling. The feeling stuck to me like a cold draft and a gooey loogie. The feeling was a memory in my nostrils for the rest of the day. Hoping the remnants would pass. 

    Once a homeless person hit me with an orange. I assumed they were a baseball pitcher in their previous life. The bus was definitely something to get used to, but I rode it with confidence today because I was going on a date. I am going on a date. I am going on a date. I am going on a date. I pull up my music and listen to each song in order 3 times. I liked the steady transition and build to the next song. I wondered if my date would understand the complexities of being an Album Listener. 

   I can’t stand the loud engine, screeching breaks and the doors squeaking open. The chatter of people was nice to drown out. My headphones helped. My ritual helped of music listening helped, otherwise I’d constantly have my hands on my ears, visibly in pain and people would point it out. I arrive at the spot and my smart phone said that he should be here soon but I am too busy reading articles on whether the guy likes me or not and how to tell, and then going over our previous messages to decipher it all. 

Date: Should be there soon, just parking! :-)

 God I hate people who type the noses like that. He arrived at an uneven time so I didn’t feel too good about that. I don’t know how to shake out The Heebs of this situation, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I lied to my mom about going to the library. I knew something bad was going to happen. Date came into the restaurant, where I awkwardly stood by the doors because I told the nice waiter I didn’t know how to wait at a table alone. Date went in for a hug and I went in for a handshake. And then I felt like that might’ve been the wrong move because he frowned like he didn’t like me. He gave a gesture they talked about in the article. 

    “Well, are you hungry?” Date asked me. 

  “Why would I be going to dinner if I wasn’t?” I said in response. 

   Date did not know how to answer so I wondered if I said something off putting. We were dragged to our table under low lighting, and I felt like I forgot how to walk and hold my posture for a second. The low lighting made me feel too intimate. But I went along with the vibes, showing a sleeve of my dress and my cleavage, trying to act just a bit more flirty. The girl who was our waitress was this goth badass. She had such a beautiful witchy style. She would have definitely given my mom The Heebs. For me, it gave me a spark of excitement. She set us at our table and winked at me as she went to go get us refreshments. 

   You know those times where you feel like you’re looking at the world through a fishbowl? You were always someone’s specimen. Well, I felt that at this moment. I had to move my rituals and such to a smaller portion of my brain. I couldn’t shake out The Heebs in the way I had wanted, as Date might find it a little weird. I channeled all my jitters into tapping patterns with my fingers, trying to barricade the thoughts in my brain. All while trying to stay interested in what my date was saying. I kept nodding and smiling. Though I would get fixated on things he said, and I didn’t want to pry or interrogate him. 

   Our food arrives and I’m soon twirling spaghetti on a dull fork. 

   “So anyway, down to business, I hear you’re looking to settle down? Start a family?” Date asks, grinning. I stop mid twirl, and my fork screeches. Everyone in the room has eyes on us, as I had just broke the calm silence. 

   “Excuse me? What makes you think that?” I question, clearly appalled that he would even bring up procreation on the first date. 

   “Well, it’s what your mom told me.” He said, matter of fact. 

   I slide back in my chair forcefully, silverware flying to the sides of my plate. 

  Our waiter comes up to the table ready to fill our waters. She looks at me and only me, and flips her hair at date. I can’t stop spiraling. 

   “My mother? I haven’t even told her about this date. She knew all along.” I fumed. 

  I clearly made Date feel nervous. His smolder was withering away. “Yeah… she was the one who gave me your Fakebook profile.” He said. 

Watch what you say. 

  “I don’t know what makes you think I want to have babies with the likes of you, but I guess you really are only interested in my boobs—I am not some cow for you to inseminate. I’m calling this date off.” I declare, getting my things together to leave the restaurant. 

  I decide to grab my spaghetti, because I’m no food waister, and as I head to the front, I try not to look back. There’s nothing more embarrassing than leaving the table because something went wrong. 

    I have tears in my eyes at this point because I feel like I can never leave my mom’s grasp. I’m not able to push the thoughts back this time. I am flooded with the “You’re no good” and the “You’ll never find love” thoughts. I bring myself to the bathroom, it’s the kind with the fancy waiting room. I have to spin in circles and blink a lot to stop The Heebs. Because it makes me feel calm when I do. I don’t feel calm. 

   “Are you okay?” A girl’s voice asks. I’m still spinning. 

  She then puts a hand on my shoulder, briefly stopping my circles. “Wait, no!” I yelp. I was going to have to start my ritual over. 

  “I’m sorry, I just, I have to start over now.” I said, feeling like a fool.

  “Bad date?” She asks, looking me up and down, and eyeing the plate of spaghetti that was half eaten on the counter by the chairs. 

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. That’s why I’m hiding in the bathroom like it’s high school. Has he left yet?” I say, shaking my head 10 times. 

   “Yeah, he has. He sulked out with his tail between his legs. It was pretty funny.” My waitress laughed. Then I take a closer look. This woman was drop dead gorgeous in that avant-garde way. She almost made me stop shaking my head, so I just looked like a bobble head. 

  “Are you okay? You can’t seem to stop moving.” She asks, laughing a bit. “The name’s Iris.” 

   “Lyla.” I say back. 

   I finish doing my thing while she waits patiently. 

  “Sorry, I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. OCD. I just, I can’t handle today. My mom set me up on a fucking date and then the pig she set me up with wanted my babies. Fucking weird religious freaks.” I huff in anger. 

  She looks me over, and then at her nails, which were short and painted black with cute little cat faces one them.

   “Ah, I see, intrusive thoughts stealing your brain for the night?” She smiles. 

  My eyes lit up once I heard her say that.

  “Oh, so you know. You know what it’s like.” I say, excited, not feeling as alone. 

   “Yeah, my friend had it. Definitely made it hard for him, so they homeschooled. Anyways, if your date was so awful, why don’t I take you on one? There’s a park near by that we can walk around. I’m off my shift basically.” She said.

  She took my hand in hers, and smiled a devilish grin. She wants to go on a date? With me? This gorgeous woman that kept stealing glances with me? My mind had too many thoughts thrown at it. 

I no longer care what mom thinks. Fuck her. 

  “That sounds lovely.” I said confidently. My cheeks blushed crimson and my heart skips even rhythmic beats.