Obsessive (17 page)

Maybe I’ve just been looking for the wrong kind of cure. I’ve wanted to be normal, but what if I can learn how to embrace being abnormal instead? What if I can teach myself how to turn my weakness into a strength? What if I can show Gen that there’s no reason for her to be afraid?

Of course, this is real life. Not a TV show. So after I decide to start trying again, I go back to bed. When I wake up, I go about my usual rituals. I shower forever. I wash my face a bunch of times. I brush my teeth and floss and wash my hands again. Then I take my meds. The right amount, this time.

Then I get dressed. It takes longer than it usually does, because I’m not really sure where I’m going, or even if I’m going anywhere. That’s the thing about inaction. The longer you don’t do something, the weaker you get. Wanting it isn’t enough. Wishing doesn’t make it happen. Being ready to change doesn’t mean you will.

But being scared shitless, and doing things anyway, that’s how you find out what you’re really capable of.

So after about a half hour of standing alone in my room, resisting the urge to count or sanitize or do anything else until my anxiety lessens, I take a deep breath and open the door.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There are 21 steps in our staircase. I know that by heart, because I’ve counted them so many times. As long as I counted them, nobody could trip on them and fall. No one could get hurt.

As I walk slowly down them, I try to remember what the therapist on the YouTube video said. I can’t just be happy with not doing a ritual, or not comforting myself by counting. I can’t try to distract myself, or calm myself down. I need to feel the anxiety, and do the thing I’m most afraid of. If I feel like something is contaminated, I don’t just need to force myself to touch it. I need to wallow in that feeling of being contaminated, let it consume me. And if she’s right, and the anxiety doesn’t kill me, I can do it again. Only next time, it’ll be just a little bit easier. Next time, I won’t be so certain that something bad is going to happen, because I’ve done it before.

I touch the banister and walk downstairs, into the kitchen. There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter. I reach out and touch it. That doesn’t bother me enough, though, so I go over to the trash can and touch the lid. Immediately, my skin starts to crawl. My fingers itch. My heart races. I want to wash my hands. I want to count. Something. But I don’t.

Slowly, I raise my hand to my face. I can feel the sweat starting to form on my lower back. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I can’t do this. It’s too much, too soon. I can’t do it.

If I touch my face, something bad will happen. I’ll get sick. I’ll get other people sick. I’ll die. They’ll die.

Before, I would have quit right there. I would’ve said, ‘That’s enough for now.’ When I was doing all this for me, to feel normal, it wouldn’t have seemed worth it, torturing myself. But now that I’m doing it for Gen, it seems like something I have to do. It seems worth it.

For some reason, I think maybe it will all feel okay again, if I can just push myself over the edge. Like jumping into cold water, or ripping off a bandage. But the moment my hand touches my face, it gets about a thousand times worse. I feel like screaming. My ears pound. My eyes well up.

It literally feels like I’ve just stepped into hell.

There’s no coming back from this. I’m going to have a heart attack. Of that, I’m absolutely certain.

But I don’t die. And my heart keeps beating, harder than ever. So I keep doing it. And it keeps being the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Until it isn’t.

I have no idea how long I’ve been standing there, next to the trash can, touching my face. But eventually, I don’t feel like I’m going to die anymore. I’m mentally exhausted, but I can’t get over the feeling that I’m still standing. That I did something totally impossible, and no one else saw it.

Suddenly, I’m overcome with this need to prove to someone that I did it. I go in search of Gen. She’s watching TV in the living room. When she sees me, she looks scared, like something is wrong.

“You came out.”

“Yeah I know.” I motion for her to follow me into the kitchen. “Come look at this.”

I make her stand there and watch as I touch the trash can again. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. I touch my face, and she gasps.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. Even though it’s not okay. Not even a little bit. It’s not all that easier the second time, especially since I still feel disgusting from doing it the first time. But because she’s watching, I can’t let myself fail.

For the rest of the afternoon, Gen and I play this game where she dares me to do things I find really gross, and I do them. Sometimes, I have to compromise, like when she dares me to lick the toilet seat. I tell her I’m not there yet, and to be honest, I don’t think I ever will be.

“That’s okay,” she says. “I probably wouldn’t do it either.”

We laugh about that for a while, and for the first time since my accident, I’m really glad I didn’t die.

###

Two days later, I borrow my mom’s car and drive to City Hall.

When I walk into the lobby, Barb the receptionist gives me a weird look, like she doesn’t recognize me. But then, she’s probably never seen me in jeans and a t-shirt, not to mention I’ve got this awesome scar now. I nod in her direction before heading toward the elevator.

This is it, the moment of truth.

Or, at least, the moment of truth before the next one. And the next.

I push the button with my finger, resisting the urge to quarantine my hands in my pockets for safe keeping immediately afterward. When the doors open, I imagine that it’s full of people. It doesn’t help, though. It’s late enough in the morning that I’m the only one around, aside from Barb. I imagine stepping in and watching the doors close, and taking one last breath of stale, pine-scented air before suddenly plummeting to my doom. Then I step inside.

As the doors close, it’s like I’m being hit with a wall of sheer panic. But it’s too late, because I’m already trapped inside. My OCD is screaming. It tells me to stand very still, to keep from moving my weight around. Maybe then, the elevator won’t know I’m here, and it won’t kill me.

But ever since I started pretending my OCD was a tangible, sentient enemy, I’ve been trying to find new and creative ways to torture it to death. This was the best thing I could think of, aside from licking a toilet seat. So I reach out, slowly, and push the button for the fourth floor.

When the doors open, I step out a little more quickly than I probably should. But it’s okay, because I did it. I’m alive.

I’m also standing in front of the mayor’s office. Which means it’s time to do the next thing I’m afraid of. The ultimate, final thing my OCD really doesn’t want me to do.

It’s time to find out what happens when I tell the truth.

The front desk is empty when I walk into the office, so I figure maybe Melody is at lunch. All the better, since she’s the last person in the world I want to see. And as much as my OCD doesn’t want her to have any more ammunition to use against me, I don’t feel like she’s done anything to deserve the truth.

I go straight to the mayor’s office and knock on the door.

“Come in.”

When I go in, Mayor Golden raises his eyebrows at me in surprise, but he smiles. “Hey Grant, I didn’t expect to see you back in here so soon. How are you feeling?”

At the tone of his voice, my stomach deflates a little. He’s usually nice, but it’s not usually this forced. He’s talking to me like I’m a little kid.

Or a crazy person.

My bravado fails, as I realize my plan to come clean was naively based on the fact that people still believed I was Mr. Perfect. In retrospect, I guess my almost DUI kind of shot that horse in the face. I look down at the floor, too ashamed to make eye contact with the man who was my hero, just a few days ago.

“I guess my dad told you what happened.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s okay, he explained everything.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” My OCD wants me to make an excuse and flee the room—or maybe it’s just my own shame, I’m not really sure—but I take a deep breath and stand my ground. “I should have told you about my…problem, before. I’ll understand if you don’t want me to work for you anymore.”

“Of course I do!” The sudden change in tone makes me look up. He’s got that look on his face, the one from the campaign posters that say ‘Mayor Golden is Tough on Crime.’ “In fact, I think it’s even more impressive how much you’ve accomplished. If you’re willing, I’d like to have you come with me to speak at a conference this fall on after school programs for kids with learning disabilities. That is, if you can take a break from Stanford for a day or two.”

My smile is grateful, but thin. Okay, this reaction is not what I expected. But I still don’t think he really gets it.

“That’s uh…” I clear my throat. “That’s really nice of you, but…I don’t really know if I’m still…if that’s something I’ll be able to do.”

His smile wilts a little, and I realize he’ll never look at me the same way again. The pride is gone now, and I’m guessing I no longer seem like the perfect son he never had. Also, I just realized he didn’t correct me earlier when I called him ‘sir.’ I try not to miss that casual familiarity, because really, the whole thing was based on a lie.

“Okay, well. Give it some thought, why don’t you, and take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about finishing up the internship, if you’re not ready.” Finally, he stands. “But please know that I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation, or anything you need.”

He reaches toward me across the desk, then stops in mid-movement. I watch as it dawns on him that I probably don’t want to shake his hand. But then, I have this sudden urge to prove him wrong. So I reach across the desk and shake his hand, firmly.

“Thank you, Sir. I really appreciate the offer. And I’ll definitely consider it, once I get a few things figured out. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Have a good day.”

I leave his office, and the urge to wash my hands is overpowering. Not so much because I just rode the elevator, or touched the mayor’s hand, but because I know it would make me feel better. Correction—it would make my OCD feel better.

Well, not today, bitch.

“Oh! Hi, Grant.”

 
And speaking of bitches
….

I turn to see Melody standing behind me. She must’ve just come out of the bathroom. Either that, or she was eavesdropping on our conversation through the office door.

“Hello, Melody.”

Today, she’s wearing a white dress, with a polka dot collar. Her hands are folded demurely in front of her, and her posture is stiff. There’s not even a hint of flirtation in her voice. She won’t even look me in the eye.

“So, I guess your dad told you that I’m mentally unstable,” I say. My tone comes out ruder than I meant it to, but then again, it still isn’t as bad as half the things she’s said to me.

But instead of snapping back, she laughs nervously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right.” I turn to leave.

“Hey um, you left your backpack here.”

“What?”

She skirts past me—making sure not to brush against me, like maybe she thinks I’m contagious, too—and goes to her desk. I follow slowly, watching her move. Unlike before, when she would sashay everywhere swinging her hips and flipping her hair, now her movements are muted. She seems…guilty.

But is she guilty for sexually harassing me all this time, or something else?

When she hands over my backpack, I notice the zipper is on the left side. Which means someone opened it. Because my OCD likes it when I zip things left to right.

I do a quick mental inventory, trying to think if there was anything valuable in my backpack that someone would’ve wanted to steal. My calculator was at home. My phone was strapped to the dashboard of my car when it got totaled, so that’s gone. The only thing that’s really in there, besides a water bottle and a few granola bars…is my therapy journal.

The one with all the intrusive thoughts about pushing my family members down the stairs, or running over Trent Gibson with my car. Or stabbing Melody in the neck with a letter opener.

Well, damn. No wonder she’s not flirting with me anymore.

As we stand there in awkward silence, I consider asking her if she told her dad about what she found. But then I realize she probably didn’t, because now she feels sorry for me. She’s disgusted by me, but unlike before, I’m not worth tormenting.

I’m beneath her now.

Shaking my head, I turn to leave. Because really, there’s nothing else I could ever want to say to her. Except….

“Hey Melody,” I turn in the doorway. “Why did you tell my mom I was fighting with Tash, the day I got into an accident?”

I watch carefully, as her pale skin blushes at least three shades darker. She shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess I assumed. I mean, you were acting really weird that day, like you were mad about something. And I knew it couldn’t be at me.”

She’s lying, that much I know for sure. But I don’t visualize harming her, because at this point even my OCD realizes she’s not worth my time. The one person who is worth my time hates me, and I have a feeling Melody knows why. I thought it was me, because everything else seems like my fault. But now I’m not so sure.

“Did you say something to Tash, too?”

Her eyes dart up to mine for a second, before she looks away again. “I don’t really remember. That was a crazy day—I mean, it was really busy. And you weren’t really helping, so….if she called, I probably just told her you were busy working.” She sniffs, and for a brief second I get a glimpse of the old Melody—too self-absorbed to believe she could ever really be guilty of anything. “But like I said, I can’t really remember. A lot of things have changed since then.”

I laugh. “You’re right. A lot of things have changed. You haven’t, though. You’re still a spoiled, immature brat with daddy issues.”

I’m not sure if I meant to say that much, but it’s all true. On some level, I think I’ve wanted to say it since the first time we met. Today has been a day for pushing the envelope, anyway. So instead of apologizing, or even letting myself feel bad over the appalled look on her face, I just heft my backpack over one shoulder and head for the door.