“It is about my favorite place.” James paused. “But how do I tell my parents? They don’t even know that I applied for art school! My dad thinks that he’s got me convinced to go into electrical engineering because I did so well in my science courses. Not to mention the whole ‘follow in his footsteps’ thing. I don’t know that they’d support me going to college for art; I do know that they won’t be paying my tuition so I can be a ‘starving artist’ all my life.”
“All I know is that if this, if art is what makes you you,” I paused, “then you need to figure it out.”
He intertwined his fingers through mine, and we continued to meander through the exhibits. “There is one option that wouldn’t require my parents being on-board,” he admitted. He quietly told me about a scholarship competition at the Art Institute. “The problem is that they only take four finalists, and there will be a lot of applicants.”
I didn’t pause for a second before I exclaimed, “James it’s perfect! You have to!”
“Have to what? Don’t you realize that everyone in this competition has also already been accepted to the Art Institute? The competition will be steep.”
“Steep or not, it’s worth a shot. You already have a great portfolio - you have to.”
“Have to, huh?”
“You’ll never know otherwise.” My voice rang with an authority that I wasn’t qualified to possess. It seemed ironic that I was always so sure about what everyone else needed to do when I never knew what it was that I should do myself.
We stopped at a little Chinese restaurant tucked near the Art Institute campus on the way home. We were so hungry by the time we reached our booth that our stomachs were practically conversing with each other. We shared a delicious meal of sweet and sour pork with cashews. I was slowly crushing an ice-cube between my back teeth when James asked, “So what about you? You love art. You’re a fantastic painter. What are you going to go to school for?”
I finished swallowing the last of the water from my crushed ice. “To be honest, I don’t know. I thought I wanted to go into art, but after talking about it with Kat, I don’t think a career in art is right for me. I like working with people. I like solving problems. I don’t think I’d be happy painting all day. I think for me it’ll always be more of a hobby, a release. I definitely understand your love for the canvas; and I fully support you going into it professionally, but I think my calling is somewhere else. I’m just not sure where.”
“Fair enough,” James nodded, “So are you going to go in undecided then?”
“Probably. As much as I hate the sound of it.” I paused while my stomach flopped suddenly.
“What is it? Are you okay?” James looked perplexed by my sudden shift of demeanor.
“Except I have to know,” I blurted, “the scholarship committee isn’t going to choose an ’undecided’ applicant!” Heat pooled on my cheeks, and suddenly my stomach turned violently. “How could I be such an idiot?” I wondered out loud, “I spent all this energy getting into the top ten so I’d be eligible for this scholarship, and now I just have to write my essay - my essay saying why I deserve their money to go to school! The essay that is supposed to convince them that the world will be a better place if I get a degree in Undecided?! James, I’m so screwed.” I cradled my head in my hands, bewildered by my short-sightedness.
“When is the essay due?” he asked calmly.
“Not until April 21st. They are announcing the winner in May at the scholarship ceremony.” I felt sick. How could I have failed to realize that while qualifying was the first step, the second step - which was undoubtedly a more important step - was to write the best essay that I could muster? I needed to communicate what I wanted to go to school for and why. The back of my eyes burned; I breathed deeply not willing to cry on yet another date with James.
“Well,” James paused, “I guess we have about two months to figure it out.” He smiled at me, squeezed my hand, and gave me my fortune cookie as he slid cash onto the receipt tray. I took a slow deep breath and concentrated on the fact that James said “We. We will figure it out.” Focusing all my attention on the little cellophane wrapper in my hands, I slid the fortune cookie out and cracked it open. I brushed the crumbs off my lap and read my fortune. While not answering any questions about school or the essay or my OCD, my cookie contained the perfect proverb for me and my next painting. It wasn’t beautiful and flowery in the way I wanted it to be - the way I wanted my life to be. But in contrast to all the little lies I had been telling to cover my tracks, its simple truth was refreshing. I read it slowly and slipped it into my pocket. “Worry often gives small things a big shadow.” Only I would get a Swedish proverb in a Chinese fortune cookie.
Chapter Fifteen
She made herself stronger by fighting with the wind.
~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
It’s funny, you would think that having worked with Mrs. Millen that maybe things would start to get easier. Like maybe, I would be able to say to myself, “Hey you’re just worried because your brain is sending your thoughts back at you over and over like a ping pong ball being bounced against the wall. But instead of it being easier, it’s harder in a lot of ways. I started keeping a little notebook with me that I write my worries down in. The fear thoughts are growing in number, and sometimes it is hard to keep track of them. In addition to driving and germs, lately it seems like I worry if I’m telling the complete truth. Like if I accidentally omit something, it’s as bad as outright lying.
As ridiculous as it sounds, when we were at the museum James asked me which painting was my favorite, and I told him the one with the man in the rowboat on the choppy sea. But at dinner I was thinking that maybe that painting wasn’t my favorite; maybe, I liked the Monet one better. I started feeling guilty that I’d lied to him when I know that in reality, I just changed my mind! I actually interrupted him while he was telling me about his grandma to tell him that. While he didn’t seem to mind, I felt like it was so rude of me. It seems that no matter what situation I’m in, everything has to revolve around me. It’s all about making sure that I’m not panicking about something and it’s so tiring.
I guess the good thing about meeting with Mrs. Millen is that she is helping me get some clarity on the situation, and just sharing my troubles with her each week is like having weights taken off of my chest. It’s like if she doesn’t say, “Amy! Why would you use the water fountain without washing your hands first? You could kill someone!” then it’s almost like her saying the opposite of that, that I have no need to worry about using the water fountain without washing my hands first. I almost imagine myself stepping into a confessional, but instead of a priest sitting on the other side of a dark curtain, it is Mrs. Millen and her cup of tea sitting in a purple Barnes and Noble chair patiently waiting for me to unload. The assignment she gave me was to try and identify the triggers for my fear-thoughts. I didn’t tell her, but the list would probably be shorter if I listed the things that didn’t trigger them.
…
My fortune cookie quote repeated itself in my head all week long. I knew it was the perfect quote for me, but I couldn’t paint it in class; I didn’t want to explain it to anyone - especially James. Despite Mrs. Millen’s prodding, I wasn’t ready to share my OCD. James was my first boyfriend, and the last thing I wanted to do was scare him off only a couple of weeks into the relationship. I knew deep down that he should like me for me - the good with the bad; and I knew I eventually needed to tell him about my anxiety, but for now I just wanted to give us time to get to know one another. I wasn’t ready to lose him.
Friday afternoon, I headed to the art room and stretched a long rectangular canvas to take home. I loved sinking the staples into the solid frame, watching the blank slate emerging, the canvas perfectly taut. I had already started a painting to work on in class, but it was a mock-painting…something light and happy. My real painting would need to be done at home in the privacy of my room, brought in to share with Mr
s. Ropert after it was complete. I hoped that I would be brave enough to share it with James too. As I loaded my palette, I mentally prepared for the painting retreat I was about to have. Lucky for me, Dad would be well occupied by March Madness basketball, and I wouldn’t have to explain what I was doing.
Over the weekend I carefully set down the first layers of paint. As usual, my favorite part of starting a new painting was allowing my hands to take the lead. I’ve found if I don’t think too much, I get better results. In this case, my hands led me straight to the familiar weathered boardwalk around the lake. The surrounding trees were bare, and seeding cattails added softness to the parameter. November sprang up from the white of the canvas, bringing with it shades of bronze, amber, and gray. A girl faced away from me. The edges were dark and the unkempt brush looks menacing. I still needed an object to represent the worry and of course I had to add the shadows, but I had a start and for that I was relieved.
As early March pivoted between dropping cold buckets of rain and blowing blustery snow flurries, I carried on. I felt like I was split between two different people. The Amy that had it all together hugged James and attempted to keep up with Kat. She worked on a painting full of flowers and butterflies, was not bothered by her “undecided” status, nor the impending scholarship essay that still needed to be written.
But the other Amy was more twisted-up inside than ever. She went to Mrs. Millen’s office and cried. She worked on the gloomy canvas in the secrecy of her room. She felt farther away from James and Kat than ever, because her new "best" friends were the fears in her mind. That Amy wasn’t sure that she should even go to college. She didn’t want to face years of anxiety surrounded by new faces. That Amy didn’t care if she had anything to say to the scholarship committee, because maybe not getting the scholarship would be the easy way out. The fearful me began to take over the happy me. And surprisingly, my reaction to it was not sorrow or anger, it was numbness.
As I walked into Mrs. Millen’s room on Tuesday, she looked me square in the eye.
“Amy, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Well you look terrible for starters…are you not sleeping well?”
“Not really,” I sighed.
“Amy, you have to talk to me. We were making some pretty good advances for a bit there. Are you struggling again?”
“I’m just starting to feel kind of numb,” I admitted
“As in you don’t care?”
“To be honest, yes.” Exhausted, I plopped into the chair.
“Be straight with me Amy; have you talked with your dad about any of this yet?”
“No.”
“What about Kat or James?”
“Uh uh.”
Mrs. Millen shifted slightly in her chair. “Alright Amy, so you’re feeling numb, not caring about much of anything, and haven’t told anyone in your life what’s going on?”
“That would pretty much sum it up. Yep. I don’t think you missed anything. Honest.” I sounded sarcastic. I sounded rude. I was tired. And I was sorry; Mrs. Millen didn’t do anything to deserve my attitude. “It’s just that…” and I paused.
“Go on,” she urged.
“I’m so tired. I’m so tired all the time. I’m so sick of constantly being on my toes trying to avoid my triggers. I’m careful to not touch anything that I might contaminate so I don’t have to worry about it later. I’m excruciatingly careful in my conversations with people so I don’t have to go back and correct “lies.” I literally talk out loud when I’m driving and for instance say ‘green’ when passing through a green light so I don’t wonder later if I ran a red – As if saying it aloud will make me remember better or something. And all the while I feel like a crazy person! I have to be the same light hearted Amy around my friends because I’m not ready to tell anyone yet - I’m just not.”
“Alright.” Mrs. Millen said. “You’re telling me you’re not ready to tell people yet. Not your dad, not James, not Kat?”
“Right,” I said stubbornly while praying silently that she wasn’t going to give me an assignment to share yet.
“Have you done the exercises from our book?” she asked gently.
“Well…” I paused not wanting to lie. I read them over and started documenting some of my triggers, but I was so busy pretending that I was fine that I honestly hadn’t done it. “Not really.” I was reeling with worry, afraid that she would drop me from our sessions saying that I wasn’t doing the work so she couldn’t help me, when out of nowhere she threw a curve-ball.
“What about coming to small group?”
“What’s small group?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. Every day after school I run different small groups. Each group is comprised of four to eight students, and they have all signed a confidentiality agreement. We get together and get it done. We role play conversations that we need to have, we practice our coping techniques, and mainly we are there for one another. I think it would do you a world of good to come and unload. It may be easier than you think and perhaps give you the confidence to share with your friends.” She paused. “Amy, once they know, they may be able to support you better than you can even imagine.”
I tried to picture telling James. James, James, James. The boy that I’ve fallen for, that I’m fundamentally broken. That my brain sends negative thoughts back at me over and over, and that I’ve been hiding this from him. And that while I’m not the carefree girl I’m pretending to be, he should forgive me because I’m only pretending to be who I used to be, not some totally new person. I tried to picture talking to my dad - that seemed even worse. And Kat? Kat would be the easiest, but she’d insist that I fess up immediately - at least to James - and I just wasn’t not there yet.
“Well,” I paused “I don’t think it would make anything much worse…so I guess I’m in.”
Mrs. Millen flipped open her calendar. “Your group will meet this Thursday and every Thursday thereafter until you don’t need the group anymore. Group members shift slowly as people graduate out of the program, but the idea stays pretty much the same.”
We spent the remainder of the session discussing the fears I faced this past week. Mrs. Millen gave me a new word for my repetitive thoughts: “ruminations.” I like this term much better than obsessions because I don’t feel as if I’m obsessed with any of my particular thoughts; it’s just that they re-play. To me, obsessed means totally enamored with and maybe even by choice. So “ruminations,” while it means the same thing, feels like a better fit.
We also talked about upcoming small group. She prepared me for the feelings of anxiety that I would likely experience sharing my “secret” with strangers, but assured me that part of the process of managing my anxiety, was to be able to express my feelings, challenges and personal situation to someone other than her.
As the week stretched on before me, Thursday was the giant gorilla lurking in the corner. Part of me was relieved that I was going to be forced to make progress. Another part of me was terrified. Who was going to be in my group? Would I know anyone? If I did, was it going to be someone rather innocuous or someone that would stress me out like Kassandra? The thought of someone like Kassandra in small group made me want to vomit. The anxiety made my stomach whirl around and around to the extent that Kat thought I was actually sick when we were riding the bus on Thursday morning.
“Whoa Amy, are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied and curved my lips up to form a smile.
“You look like you’re really…distracted or something. Stressed?”
“Of course I’m stressed,” I confessed, “I have a lot going on this week, but I’ll catch up soon enough,” I reassured her. “How’s Nolan?” I asked, changing the subject. It worked - I was getting to be a pro at the avoidance dance.
When we walked through the lobby, my eyes searched immediately for James. Happiness washed through me when he looked up with a big grin and approached
us.
“Hey - I know it’s not Tuesday, but the Track Team is doing a bake sale this morning. Can I treat my two favorite ladies?”
“I’m not going to turn down sugar,” Kat laughed. As we headed down to the cafeteria, Kat texted Nolan asking him to meet us there.
“You can’t have both of them, you know,” Nolan complained at James as he jogged up from behind us.
“Oh no worries man, one is plenty for me,” he nudged me and motioned toward the table.
“Just get me whatever you’re having,” I requested.
“Just pick something - I want you to get your favorite,” he said.
I glanced at the table. All the treats were positioned ridiculously close to one another. There was no way I could pick anything up without touching something else.
“You know…I’m good,” I lied. The other students were closing in behind me, and all I wanted was to step back from the table - get away from the crowd and the food. From the rising volume of excited voices and the glare of the fluorescent lights.
“Amy turning down sugar?” Kat asked dramatically, “Are you sure you’re not sick?” I knew she was teasing, but I felt trapped. I couldn’t touch anything - if I did I’d worry all day that I got someone else sick. And I couldn’t ask them to pick it up for me. It was too weird - they would know something was wrong.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. My eyes burned. I kept them open wide and glanced around looking for an exit point. I wove between my classmates trying to look normal. Choosing a cookie should never end in a moment of panic.
I leaned my head against the wall, begging my heart to slow down. As I took deep breaths, the conversations around me faded away. Only one voice cut through, “Amy?” James asked. The expression on his face broke my heart. Utter confusion etched across his face. “Tell me,” he pleaded softly.
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