“I’m good,” I lied, “I had a bigger breakfast, and nothing really looked appetizing. Thanks for the offer though.” The look of confusion on his face didn’t fade. He knew I was holding out on him. I slipped my hand into his, lacing our fingers together. I looked down at our hands, our fingers woven around one another. A perfect visual of what a relationship should be. Two people whose lives were perfectly intertwined - whose truths ran seamlessly together.
I felt seconds away from having my mask ripped from my face. Seconds from someone calling my front. I felt as if I were living just above the surface of my life. It was lonely and utterly exhausting trying to make sure that everything was perfect all the time. No truth left unsaid, no hand or surface unwashed. Whoever said that high school was the best time of our lives definitely did not have OCD.
Chapter Sixteen
I had the blues because I had no shoes until upon the street, I met a man who had no feet.
~ Denis Waitley
During the final hour of class on Thursday, I imagined how small group would play out. I was caught completely off-guard when I was called on and managed a weak but not altogether incorrect answer. I made another promise to myself that I would focus better in class and stop worrying so much, a promise that seemed rather empty given current circumstances. Flushed and a bit sweaty, I stopped at my locker to drop off my backpack before heading to Mrs. Millen’s room. Leaning with his back against my locker stood James.
As I approached him, he smiled at me, his eyes searched mine carefully. “Feeling better?” he asked.
Feeling pressure to acknowledge that I hadn’t been myself earlier, I lied and nodded yes. He leaned forward to wrap his arms around my back and pulled me close for a quick kiss. “I’m glad…I was worried about you this morning.”
“No need to worry,” I said looking up through my lashes.
“I can’t help it,” he said staring back down at me. “I’m kind of smitten,” he admitted while touching the tip of my nose with his finger. His adorable grin made my heart dance. I felt so incredibly lucky to have him waiting for me at my locker - caring about my life.
“I came across the perfect quote for my painting,” James changed the subject with quiet excitement.
“And what’s that?” I asked eager to hear what he had chosen.
“Aristotle,” he said letting me go and reaching for my hands. I quickly wiped them on my jeans and allowed his hands to cradle mine. Looking deeply into my eyes he recited, “‘What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ Fitting huh? Mrs. Ropert gave me permission to use two canvases to represent the two bodies, so I’m going to take my first academic stab at abstract art.” He beamed, and while I was still filled with anxiety over small group, I did my best to return his enthusiasm.
“That’s awesome!” I encouraged. I hadn’t told him my painting theme - not even the one for my fake painting. “I can’t wait to see what you do with it.”
“Well I’m staying late tonight. You want to hang out? I have to stretch the second canvas and gesso over my first one again because I’m changing my whole approach.”
“You’re staying tonight?” I gasped half-smiling.
“Yeah, I really need to do some catch up or I’ll never be done for critique circle.”
I peddled through all the thoughts in my mind searching frantically for a good but honest answer. “I can’t tonight. “I have a meeting with some of my classmates…but maybe tomorrow?”
“I’ll ask Ms. Ropert if we can stay again tomorrow. I’m going to need several days to make up for lost time. We can have a Friday afternoon date in the art room,” he winked.
“You don’t have to make us sound like such nerds!” I retorted. “On second thought, I will only stay late tomorrow if you agree to take me out to dinner afterward.”
“Man…you drive a tough bargain,” he said one corner of his mouth curved up higher than the other, “But you’re on. That is if Mrs. Ropert is.” He grinned, leaned down and gave me one last kiss on the lips. “Have fun at your meeting!” With that he scooped up his backpack, turned and strode down the hall toward the art wing. I know he had been stressing about this project. He hated his original quote and hated even more that his painting was in his own words “cliché and sophomoric.”
As my final distraction disappeared from sight, I gathered my notebook and a pen and walked toward the office. Dozens of students were still in the building, walking every which way toward their various after school obligations. A wave of nausea passed over me when Kassandra came around the corner. I prayed that she wasn’t going to Mrs. Millen’s office and breathed an audible sigh of relief when I saw her head into the auxiliary gym - cheer practice.
…
In addition to the Barnes and Noble chairs in Mrs. Millen’s office, there were four brightly colored pillows strewn on the floor around the table. I recognized one face almost instantly; Matt from my literature course was chatting with a blond girl I hadn’t met before. They both looked up when I walked in, and Mrs. Millen chimed “This is Amy, our new group member. Amy, this is Matt and Amber.”
“Hi guys,” I said sounding more confident than I felt. I gave a small smile when they looked up and nodded, acknowledging my arrival. Moments later the fourth member arrived. He plopped himself on the green floor pillow, tucked the blue one behind him and introduced himself as Gabe. I was relieved our full group was here, and the only person I recognized was Matt. While he was an athlete and fairly popular, he was also pretty quiet, and I was confident that my secrets would stay here.
Mrs. Millen gave some quick reminders of group protocol. We’d gone over the rules in my session on Tuesday, and I’d signed the confidentiality agreement. She reminded us that she’s here to guide discussion, but that our topics can go in any direction and that she will only chime in as necessary.
Gabe started, “Well, whenever our group shifts, we always make the rounds to introduce ourselves and say why we are here and what our current goals are. In the spirit of my own progress, I’ll start.” He smiled and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “I’m Gabe; I’m a senior. I transferred here from Arizona at the end of last year. I was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder this past fall, and I’ve been working with Mrs. Millen to tame that anxiety.”
Amber spoke next “I’m Amber; I’m a sophomore, and I have some perfectionist tendencies with my academic work. I have a lot of anxiety when I have to turn something in, whether it’s an assignment or a test, because I never feel like it’s good enough. I’m starting to get a better grasp of what’s expected and realistic, versus what I think I should be able to do. Basically I got worn-out trying to turn in my absolute best all the time because I would re-work the assignment over and over and over until inevitably the deadline came up and I had to turn in the current version. So I’m working on ‘letting go’ of the little things.” She smiled and tucked her feet beneath her as she shifted and looked at Matt.
I was already remarkably more relaxed than I’d been upon entering the room. These were my schoolmates, and they were being true and honest and sharing things in a way that would never come out in normal conversation, at least not until you knew someone on a really intimate level. I loved that they trusted in the function of the group and allowed themselves to share their secrets with me, a total newbie. In return, I felt compelled to be honest with them, not just out of obligation but out of respect to them and the process.
Matt cleared his throat and began. “I have OCD.” I gasped on the inside - how could he have OCD? He was calm, quiet, collected and a fantastic football player. He was always surrounded by teammates and cheerleaders and honestly never stuck out to me in any way because he always seems so together. “I have to do certain things a ‘required’ amount of times,” he continued, “For instance, when I leave my locker between classes, I have to check the lock four times. I know there is no logical reason to do it, but if I don’t pull up on the lock four times, I’m filled with a lot
of anxiety. I also have some cleanliness issues with making sure I wash my hands a lot. I won’t use the metal silverware in the cafeteria because I don’t know who touched it or coughed on it. So I bring my own fork and spoon in my backpack and sneak them out every day.” He paused and added, “I know this is probably hard to understand. These guys,” he said motioning side to side indicating Gabe and Amber. “These guys have been along for the ride, so they get it, but I won’t be offended if you have to ask more questions - I know the things I do don’t really make sense.”
I looked him straight in the eyes, and feeling braver than I’ve ever felt responded, “I actually get it. I’m here because of OCD as well.” I cleared my throat somewhat nervously at my blurted confession. “Wow - it’s funny because the real reason Mrs. Millen encouraged me to come is that I haven’t actually said that out loud yet. I haven’t told anyone in my family, and I haven’t told any of my friends. I’ve been too scared of what they will think and how they will react. I’m still dealing with it myself; it just surfaced in early January, so two months ago.” I realized that I was directing all my words to Matt, so I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the room trying to connect with each of the group members as they’d done with me. “My particular issues are more internal,” I explained. “I also have a contamination component to my OCD, but I’m worried that I’ll get others sick. With what I don’t know; that’s the illogical part, but I worry nonetheless. So I wash my hands a lot and clean things that I touch to keep others from getting my germs.
I also have a lot of anxiety while driving. Frequently, I think that I hit something with my car: an animal, pedestrian, someone’s mirror. So I circle back around the block to check, all the while feeling panicked that I just killed someone’s dog or struck a construction worker. I know it seems stupid, like I would know if I hit someone with my car. But I can’t seem to convince my brain of that.
And finally, I have developed this terrible habit lately of interrupting people mid-conversation to correct something that I said earlier; it’s a more recent component of my OCD, some sort of full-truth compulsion. Which is kind of ironic because despite not being able to lie, I’ve avoided telling anyone that’s close to me the truth about this.” I took a breath awed by the confession I made. “Honestly I’m in shock that I told you all this,” I added, my cheeks burning bright. And I was. I couldn’t believe that I babbled all of that information in one giant chunk or how incredibly light I felt right after.
Gabe chimed in first. “Well, welcome to the group. It is amazing how a safe space can allow you to unload and be yourself. I’ve made huge progress in my anxiety since starting with the group. I used to not be able to enter a room of people - especially new people - without feeling like I was going to pass out or get sick. Now I’m getting to the point where I can introduce myself confidently to individuals, and I’m feeling less uncomfortable in larger groups. My goal is to attend college orientation this summer and leave with phone numbers of classmates so that I can start networking right away. Going to that extreme after essentially being a loner is a big leap for me, but I think I’ll be able to do it.”
Matt smiled, “Well Amy, I guess you never know what’s going on with your classmates - I would have never thought that you’d be here sharing what you just shared. You seem so together, so collected.”
I laughed out loud. “Honestly when you shared, I almost fell out of my seat - I couldn’t believe it. You have all these friends, and you’re on the football team and I just…wow!” I shook my head in disbelief.
“Football is tough,” he sighed, “All the guys share water bottles, so I told the coach I needed extra electrolytes during practice and was going to bring my own bottle. I’ve had some real interesting moments on the team trying to cover my steps. They all joke about the locker thing, but they think the four tugs is some sort of good luck superstition of mine - luckily I don’t have a real locker near any of them.”
“The cool thing about this group is that it has helped all of us learn to talk about our issues,” Amber said. “I never told anyone anything until I started group. I mean, my parents knew I was a ‘perfectionist,’ but they didn’t know that I was so anxious about doing less than perfect work - they just thought I was a driven student.”
“So,” I paused, “How do you tell people? Matt, have you told anyone about your OCD? Obviously the team doesn’t know or your social circle.”
He cleared his throat, “No one on the team knows. There are very few people outside this group that know. My best friend is my neighbor who attends private school - he knows. But he was pretty safe to tell. My parents also know. They actually noticed some of my compulsions with the cleanliness stuff, and since my mom’s sister has OCD, she recognized that some of my actions could be part of that.”
“So how did your friend react?” I asked.
“It was kind of awkward for a few minutes until I explained what OCD is and how it affects me personally. Everyone gets the idea of the stereotypical OCD sufferer when you first mention it. You just gotta do it though; it’ll make your load so much lighter if you share with a couple of key people. Definitely your parents and super close friends.”
The conversation drifted away from OCD and toward Amber’s issues. She talked about a paper that she turned in where she actually realized a mistake after she was at school, and rather than re-printing the assignment, she used white-out and a black pen and fixed the error. Gabe applauded her efforts and told her that he has made small-talk with at least one classmate each day since the last meeting. As our session was wrapping up, I realized Mrs. Millen hadn’t said a word the entire time. I glanced over at her desk, and she appeared to be answering emails. Surprisingly enough to me, the group functioned without her. Matt encouraged me to try and tell at least one person by next week. He said that once he told one person, it became easier to talk about it with others.
I said my goodbyes, feeling so much lighter than when I entered. I shared my secret with them and didn’t cry once! I knew James was going to be hard and my dad possibly even harder. I decided to start with Kat. She would understand; she had to, she was my longest friend. I decided to invite her over on Saturday for a sleepover; it had been ages since we had one.
Chapter Seventeen
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.
~ Mark Twain
Friday morning came quickly, and I had a rare lightness to my step when I climbed up into the bus. Kat noticed immediately, “Wow Ames!” she teased, “Did James profess his undying love or something?” I hit her hard, right in the bicep, but grinned. “No. I just feel happy today.” We had made plans to ditch the boys tomorrow and have a sleepover; she was bringing the chick flick, I was making the cookies and we both were looking forward to it. We hadn’t spent anytime together outside of school since before Valentine’s Day.
Mrs. Ropert gave James and me permission to spend Friday afternoon in her room. “I have a department meeting,” she informed us. “So just the two of you, okay? No one else allowed. I’ll see you guys in about 45 minutes. You should plan on being wrapped up by quarter to five. My son has a basketball game tonight, and I need to lock up by then.”
We thanked her for allowing us to stay. As it turned out, James hadn’t been able to stay the night before as Mrs. Ropert got a last minute phone call that one of her kids was sick, so we were on day one of his catch-up. While James began stretching his second canvas, I sat at a nearby easel and began to gesso over his earlier painting. I brushed the thick white canvas primer out as smooth as possible until it looked like a brand new canvas. It was therapeutic and probably what I should do with my fake painting. Its stupid flowers and butterflies taunted me from across the room. “Liar! Liar! Liar!” they mocked me.
James grunted as the last staple from the gun went into the frame crookedly, and using pliers, he twisted it out to try again. Without saying anything to him, I snatched my painting off my workstation and slapped a giant
glob of gesso on the middle of it.
Watching me out of the corner of his eye, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“I hate it,” I responded.
“Okay,” he said slowly, not making eye contact. “What are you going to paint instead?”
I hadn’t realized that he would ask this, but I didn’t want to lie; I wanted to be done with it all. He looked up watching me carefully, staple gun in one hand and a foot on the bottom rung of the counter, I couldn’t say anything. I was petrified that he would leave - turn and run - when more than anything I wanted to spend time with him.
“I have an idea,” I paused, “I’ve started something, but it’s at home. I’ll show you soon.”
“Can you tell me about it?” he pried playfully. He walked up behind me and slipped his thumbs through my belt loops resting his hands on my hips. I tilted my head back against his chest and turned to look up at him.
“No,” I said flirtatiously, “Not yet, I’ll show you in good time.”
“Well I guess I’ll survive. If it’s anything like your fish, I know I’ll like it.” He winked, dropped his hands and went back to his canvas. I know he was trying to be complimentary, but my current painting was nothing like my fish; it was dark and heavy, and I began to wonder if I’d have the guts to follow through on my promise.
…
As I balled the last of the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies onto the baking sheet, I thought about how I would tell Kat. How I would bring it up. I knew it wasn’t something I could plan; Matt emphasized in small group that it’s just something you have to do. Say it. Answer their questions to the best of your ability, and if they are a true friend, that will be the end of it. Period. He made it sound so simple. Guys tend to do that.
Kat arrived right as the buzzer on the oven went off. “Mmm mmm mmm!” she practically hummed as she walked into our tiny kitchen. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, and rested her head on my shoulder. “Ames, it has been too long! Thanks for having me.”
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