Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  His eyes shoot open and I see the muscles in his jaw tense. I’m staring at Joe Thompson. A junior in my precal class. On this year’s homecoming court. A basketball player. And football player. He cuts his eyes from me, to his mom, to Dr. Adams, and back to me. His mouth is open. There might be tears in his eyes.

  “Well, hello there, Joseph.” Dr. Adams’s voice bursts across the tension. “Nice to see you this afternoon! You’re a bit early. Just let me finish up here, okay?” Her smile is glowing at him but there is an edge of anxiety in it. I don’t think patients are supposed to cross paths.

  I glance back once at Dr. Adams, and, pushing my head down and staring into the floor, I speed-walk across the waiting room and out into the winter. My mom stays behind, filling out a form at the checkout desk. She unlocks the car through the window and I fling myself into the passenger seat.

  Joe Thompson. I see his face again. He was terrified. “The Joe Man” was at the psychiatrist. At my psychiatrist. So I’m not the only one. I think of the stack of pamphlets against the wall. Which one is he? Bipolar disorder, depression. Maybe even the one with the orange border and black-and-white clip art.

  Maybe he doesn’t wear pajamas to school or cry during exams, but if he’s here—I look through the frost-covered windshield at the town house—he must also have something mysterious bubbling inside him. Even though we’ve never actually spoken, I’ve known him most of my life. We went to the same middle school. He was a boys’ counselor at the summer camp I went to last year. Popular, athletic. He’s so normal. Or at least he looks like he is.

  • • •

  I’ve been thinking about Joe all day. Not just Joe, but Dr. Adams and her smile and those couches. And the pamphlet with the orange border. I’m still counting around my house and starving and praying, but my thoughts are missing some of their sharpness. Like a giant eraser has gently smudged the edges of the dark hole inside me. I’m still the chosen one, the carrier of secret messages from above, but maybe I’m also—

  No. I snap the thought shut before I even know it’s coming, shaking my head hard to throw it off its path. It’s not allowed. I don’t even need to be told specifically by my protector—it’s obvious. Turning these sacred ideas and warnings into anything other than what they are feels like cheating on the Lord. A dangerous step in the wrong direction.

  But even as I turn away from the mental image of the pamphlet and Joe, a piece of it is still there. I can’t say it or think about it, but I feel its presence lingering just out of sight.

  • • •

  The next day, I rub my freezing, exposed arms with my palms after launching myself into the warmth of Dr. Adams’s waiting room. My mom greets the receptionist and moves toward her desk. As if being pulled by a magnet, I’m walking straight toward the stacks of pamphlets, almost surprised by my own actions. I hear my mom taking out her wallet, pulling out a card, signing a form. Eyes locked on the clip art of washing hands, I know I only have a few more seconds before she turns around. My heart is pounding, and I feel God watching me from heaven, shocked that I’m betraying him. He shakes his head in disappointment, regretting that he ever trusted me. The wallet zips and she is adjusting it in her purse, keys rattling gently against coins and pens. Now or never.

  In one flailing movement, I lunge toward the display, grab the pamphlet, and stuff it down into the waistband of my pants. I’m adjusting the bottom edge of my shirt as my mom turns toward me.

  She gently grabs my arm and brings me with her toward the couch. I sit down beside her, the thin paper crinkling softly under my shirt.

  “Allison, dear!” Dr. Adams appears in the doorway in what looks to be the exact same sweater set she was wearing yesterday. She smiles at me like we’re old friends and waves me over. “So good to see you again! Such beautiful weather we’re having today, right?” I stand up to walk toward her, and there is a sudden tickle on my skin. My pajama pants are too loose, and I feel the secret pamphlet I stashed in my waistband slipping down my thigh. I smack my hands hard against my leg with a small gasp, and both my mom and Dr. Adams jump slightly.

  Now they’re staring.

  “Yeah! Definitely! Weather!” I nod hard in agreement, first at my mom, then at Dr. Adams. I see them make eye contact with each other over my shoulder. Ugh, crap. Ducking my head down and waddling slightly to hold the pamphlet in my pants, I walk quickly through the door and down the hallway toward her office. I’m almost settled on the couch by the time she catches up and closes the door behind her.

  She is looking at me, eyes a little wider than usual, but her smile still seems genuine. “Well, yes. Okay, then. Like I said, so very nice to see you today, Allison.” Her head tilts slightly forward for emphasis. “How have you been since I saw you yesterday?”

  She actually sounds interested. She actually sounds happy to see me. I crunch my lips to the side and she waits patiently for me to respond. I like her. And I don’t really know why, but I trust her.

  I think about Joe. Even though he sees Dr. Adams, even though he’s also a psychiatric patient, he still has friends and wears normal clothes and takes precal finals without crying. I could have that too. Maybe. Possibly. I could talk to Jenny and Sara. I could wear blue jeans and tennis shoes and a polo shirt. My heart swells in my chest. I could be me again.

  Isn’t it worth it? Isn’t my life, my future, worth it?

  Dear God, please forgive me.

  Shifting to my left on the couch, I reach my arm down into my flannel pants. As I pull out the slightly crinkled, warm pamphlet, I look down at the words across the cover. OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER. When I glance up at Dr. Adams, she is still waiting patiently, watching me from across the carpet.

  I clear my throat and roll my head once on my shoulders. A deep breath. Do it.

  Dr. Adams and I make eye contact for a few moments and I extend the pamphlet toward her, my arm shaking slightly. “I think I have this.”

  CHAPTER 18

  She tilts her head softly to the side, scoots up in her chair a bit, and takes the wrinkled pamphlet from my hand. “Hmm,” she says to herself, readjusting in her seat. Her eyes look up at me, and they are somehow softer than usual, like I’ve just told her a heartbreaking story. She is trying to hug me with her expression. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Allison. I’m very proud of you.”

  My heartbeat is pounding through my body, just as strong down in my fingers and toes as in my chest. I did it. I can’t believe I did it. I give her a small nod, only because she is staring at me.

  “Could you tell me a little bit more about why you picked this pamphlet up?” She moves forward in her chair, leaning toward me. “What in here sounds like you?”

  My entire body is tingly. In a tiny voice, barely opening my lips, I say, “Bad thoughts.”

  She nods at me with her whole body. “Yes, good. Very good.” Smiling across the carpet, her eyes are encouraging me to go on, but what is there to say? Apples. Pencils. Cracks. Calculators. Notebook paper. Cancer. Hairbrushes. Television. Cell phones.

  “So, when you say bad thoughts, do you mean scary? Do you mean angry? Sad?”

  “Scary,” I peep in a cloud of rancid breath. “And sad.”

  “Scary, sad thoughts. Very good.” She nods at me, barely looking down at her paper as she makes a small note. Pausing a few seconds, she is waiting for me to elaborate. But there are no words for this. No real explanation that anyone would understand. And I’m betraying the Lord. I’m picking at the hangnail on my thumb, and a fat drop of blood grows out from under the skin. “Tell me a little more about these scary thoughts, hmm?” She shifts in her chair. “What are they about?”

  The word feels dangerous even as it forms in my mouth. It comes out like a puff of tobacco smoke. “Cancer.”

  Her eyebrows crease briefly, almost immeasurably, before bouncing back into an interested smile. “Yes, yes. Okay. Cancer, hmm. Who does this cancer affect?”

  “My . . .” I can’t believe I’m doing th
is. I concentrate on shoving the anxiety into a corner of my mind. My left temporal lobe is pounding at the site of the tumor. “My . . . mom . . . and dad. And me.” She nods at me and moves her hand in the air, wordlessly asking me to elaborate. Deep breath. “I’ll . . . we’ll . . . get cancer. From doing certain things or being near certain things.” I hesitate here, and she opens her mouth slightly to speak, but I’ve got more. “Or they’ll get hurt or die because of something I do.”

  She is looking me straight in the face now, nodding and writing. “Good. Hmm. Okay.” She lets out a powerful sigh. “Thank you for telling me this. I know it wasn’t easy.” My mouth feels suddenly dry and tight. I never thought I would speak these words. But they came out so easily, almost like they’ve been waiting to be shared all along.

  I think Dr. Adams is talking to me, I can hear her voice somewhere in the background, but I’m too absorbed within myself to listen. So are my thoughts not from God? Have the past few months really been some bizarre mental illness, instead of secret messages of survival? Has all of this been completely wrong?

  Of course they’re from God, I hiss at myself, angry and offended. I cower slightly, half expecting a lightning bolt to strike me dead. This is blasphemy. God has been trying to save me and my family for months now, and with a few sentences on a piece of paper and eager head nods from a stranger, I’m just going to throw it all away?

  But the pamphlet! And Dr. Adams. And persistent, unwanted thoughts and incessant or repetitive actions. The tiptoeing, the standing on one foot, the counting. Even as I deny it to myself in an effort to please the heavens, a warmth inside me tells me that there’s something here.

  “Now, besides illness, cancer, are there other repercussions to your actions? Or do you feel like that’s your main concern?”

  “Yes.” That’s a big question.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I worry about other things.” I know I’m being difficult, peeping out these short responses, but God is listening. My eyes are busying themselves, looking at everything in the office besides her face. Is this really the best idea? It’s like I’m walking to the end of the diving board but I’m not sure if the pool below is filled with water or if, after a graceful swan dive, I’m going to crunch into a pile on its dry concrete floor. I’ll only know the truth once I’ve jumped, and then it’s too late.

  Do I jump?

  Should I jump?

  Dr. Adams is nodding at me. I can tell by the calm half smile on her face that she has practice in coaxing information out of timid patients. “Okay, let’s try this. I’ll list out some common fears or rituals associated with OCD, and you just nod if I hit on one that seems familiar. How about that?”

  I nod once at her. Good idea.

  “Hmm, okay, let’s see.” She flips to a clean page on her lined legal pad. “Do you ever worry that you will be contaminated by germs? Like if you don’t wash your hands or body you may get sick or get others sick?”

  I move my head left, then right. Nope. My tongue runs over my fuzzy, plaque-covered teeth.

  “What about a concern that something you do will negatively affect others? Outside of cancer, I mean. For example, someone might get in a car accident or be injured as a direct result of your actions?”

  Without realizing it, I’m shaking my head vigorously at her. Yes, yes, yes. That’s me! Every day. Every minute.

  “Okay, good! Good. Can you tell me a little more about that?”

  I clear my throat a little. Something close to excitement is rising in my stomach. This could actually be . . . real. “Well, like, sometimes I worry that my parents will get in car wrecks or be murdered. And I try to not do certain things to prevent it from happening.” Basically, I’m single-handedly saving my parents’ lives multiple times a day. I gently give myself a mental pat on the back.

  Dr. Adams makes another small “hmm” noise and scribbles on her legal pad. “How about unlucky numbers or colors or words? Have you experienced anything like that?”

  The word “green” appears in my mind, taking up my entire brain. It buzzes like a neon sign against the darkness. I don’t know if I respond. I’m staring intently at the glowing word and imagining my chemistry answer sheet, and the trees and grass outside. Taking a giant breath in, I hold it in my lungs like a balloon. Just to be safe. Looking up, I see her scribbling and I know she’s gotten the message.

  “You are really doing great, Allison. I have to tell you that. I’m very proud of you.” We make eye contact but she doesn’t skip a beat. “What about concern about offending a religious figure? Do you worry about angering Jesus or God?”

  My muscles jerk tightly and I’m clenching myself against her words and the strange wave of fear or excitement or anxiety breezing through me. I mean, yes. One thousand times yes. That’s the whole point of . . . that’s why I’m doing all of this. . . .

  Holy crap.

  By the time I’m back from my thoughts and look up at Dr. Adams, she is scribbling. It must be written on my face.

  She gives two hard nods and closes her folder with finality and a sigh. “Well, Allison, I think I’m going to have to agree with your self-diagnosis.” The pamphlet is folded on her side table, and I feel it smirking at me. “You seem to have hit the nail on the head, my dear.” She beams at me across the carpet like it’s a good thing. And even though I’m tempted to agree with her, even though there is an unfamiliar sense of lightness in my chest, I’m hesitant to embrace this whole thing with as much enthusiasm as she does. I still can’t be sure the pool is filled with water.

  “And, you know, it’s actually quite typical for symptoms to start presenting themselves right around your age, at the start of puberty.” Even though she is a medical doctor, I blush self-consciously at the awkward word. Puberty. It makes me cringe.

  After a few more questions, a small bell chimes from the clock on the wall, telling us our time is up, and Dr. Adams’s smile reaches its beaming climax. “Allison, thank you again for today’s session. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for talking with me. You’ve really done something amazing. It’s only going to get better from here.” She holds eye contact for a few seconds longer than I’m comfortable with. “Now, before we head back to the waiting room, I do need to talk with you about something.” I look up at her, unsure what’s coming. That kind of intro doesn’t typically lead to anything positive. “Now, this is completely up to you. I’m your doctor and this is your information. But I would like to talk to your parents about what you told me today.”

  My head snaps up, almost offended at the suggestion. My parents? Uh, isn’t the whole purpose of us talking in this private room to keep things just that—private? To prevent my parents from finding out, to prevent anyone from finding out? I’m opening and closing my mouth like a gasping fish. And again, it’s like she expected this.

  “Look, look”—she waves her hands in the air, trying to dismiss my concern—“I’ll keep it very vague, very high-level. I won’t tell them anything specific, no actual fears or thoughts you’re having, but they’re your parents, Allison. And whether you realize it or not, they’re very concerned about you. I think it would be the right thing to do to keep them in the loop. At least a little bit. Hmm?” She leans toward me and actually puts her warm, squishy hand on my kneecap. I can feel her happiness through my thin flannel pants. “I think they would really appreciate it”—she leans back in her seat—“but of course I won’t do it without your permission.” The room is silent for a few seconds. I’m pulling at the hangnail on my bloody thumb. “What do you say?”

  I know she’s right. I hear my mom’s screaming voice when she found me curled up on the den floor. I think about her sitting on the edge of my bed and the way she whispered that everything would be okay, her soft hand running against my hair. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

  • • •

  That night, I’m pushing kernels of corn individually around my plate, hiding them one by one under my dinner roll. Hunger sears thro
ugh my body—my hands are shaking slightly—but somehow the sharp pangs sting a little less than usual. I’m still starving, still eking my way through the day on a few gobbled bites of food, but since my first appointment with Dr. Adams, it’s like a match has been lit in what was previously a lonesome, pitch-black room. I can’t eat, can’t wear my clothes, can’t brush my teeth or use towels or soap, but a weight has been lifted. These thoughts are blessings from God, but they are also inexplicably tied to that pamphlet. Dr. Adams, with her medical degree and years of experience, has agreed with me. It seems like there could be a chance. Of something. I’m just not exactly sure what.

  “So, sweetheart”—my mom’s voice is pleasant, like for the first time in months she doesn’t notice me swirling my food around my plate—“we spoke with Dr. Adams this afternoon.” I don’t take my eyes off my corn. Like the “becoming a woman” talk and the birds-and-the-bees talk, I don’t want to be an active participant in this conversation. No eye contact. “She told us a little bit about the pamphlet you found in her office and the talk you two had about obsessive-compulsive disorder.” I flinch at her last words and accidentally drop my fork, and it clatters loudly against my plate onto the table. There are a few seconds of silence while we all recover. “Um, so, right. She told us about your talk and she suggested that we”—I feel her look at my dad—“talk with you about what you think is the best kind of treatment.” There is another bout of silence. I don’t look up, so I’m not sure if she is waiting for me to respond or hesitating before she continues.

  “She explained that OCD is most effectively treated with a combination of medication and therapy. We would start with a low dose of a drug called an SSRI, like Paxil or Lexapro, and you and she would work together to find the balance that works for you. It all—”