“Absolutely chica!” I grabbed the DVDs out of her hand and smiled at her choices. She brought all my favorites along. I lifted a couple of cookies off the cooling rack and handed her one. “Cheers!” I said when we tapped our cookies together.
The evening flew at its usual crazy speed that time tends to fly at whenever I’m with Kat. I’d managed to forget about telling her my secret until right before we were going to head to bed.
“Whatcha painting?” Kat asked, nodding toward my gloomy canvas.
Reality set in that I still had some heavy stuff to deal with tonight. “It’ll take more than a few minutes to explain,” I started.
“I’m not that tired yet,” she said. She walked over to it and studied it carefully.
“Well…here…um sit.” Kat, hearing the nervousness in my voice, curled up at the foot of my bed hugging one of my pillows. “I have something I need to tell you,” I started.
Kat sat quietly and nodded for me to continue. I remembered Matt’s encouraging words and spit out. “I’ve been having some issues…since Lisa passed.”
“I don’t know how you couldn’t; I mean that’s got to be so hard,” she said sympathetically.
“It is hard, but it’s not even directly related to that. Well, I mean it was maybe triggered by that, but not directly caused by it.”
“Okay,” Kat said. I knew she was being more patient than normal waiting for me to spill my guts.
“So you’ve asked me several times lately ‘what’s wrong?’ and I’ve brushed it off by being tired or distracted or whatever right?”
“Yeah,” Kat nodded.
“Well, it’s more than that; I’ve started worrying about things. Things that don’t make a lot of sense.” I started to feel the panic building inside of me, despite Kat’s calm nature. She was patiently waiting for me to finish, but I was starting to fall apart inside. My eyes started burning. Shit. I didn't want to cry.
“Oh Amy,” Kat sighed. She crawled across my bed and put her arms around me, brushed the hair out of my eyes and said, “Spill it. Whatever it is, you will feel so much better when it’s out.” She was hanging onto my forearms looking concerned. I took a deep breath.
“So the night I was late to ice-skating?”
“Uh huh.”
“I was driving around the block over and over and over again because I thought I hit something. I mean, realistically I know it was just a giant ball of slush or something like that, but I was afraid that I hit someone’s dog or car, or something.” I gulped for more air. “I know it doesn’t make sense but…” I paused. “Ugh, this is so hard to explain. I’m sucking at it.” I blew my nose on a tissue and blurted, “I have OCD.”
Kat raised her eyebrows. “Obsessive compulsive disorder?” she asked.
“Yes. But don’t get too stereotypical on me please.”
“Okay Ames. So, what’s it about? You can tell me.” She was gentle, but she pushed me to tell her more.
“I worry about all sorts of things that don’t make sense. Mrs. Millen said it’s because a filter in the front of my brain doesn’t keep illogical thoughts out. It’s as if a thought comes in, my brain processes it, and then it gets bounced back over and over for me to process again and again. And sometimes, in trying to process the thoughts, I do things…compulsions to make myself feel better. Like when I drove around the block over and over on Valentine’s Day.” I wiped my nose and tried to focus on Kat. “I wanted nothing more than to be at your house with the boys and getting ready to go, but I was panicking inside. I felt so sick - so worried - and I’m like that a good chunk of almost every day.”
“Do you feel like that right now?” Kat asked gently.
“Not at this second. I mean, I kind of feel like I might puke,” I said only half kidding, “But only because I’ve been so nervous to tell you.” The crying caused my breath to shudder, “I mean, you’re my best friend and I couldn’t tell you.” My voice caught, and my eyes welled again. I tried to hold them back, but the tears just built up until the damn burst. Kat handed me a tissue and laid a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Amy. You said it. You are my best friend. I don’t care one bit if your brain malfunctions here or there. I love you,” she paused, “You can’t keep stuff like this to yourself, it’s too heavy.” I knew she was right.
We settled onto my bed; my tears slowed and I told her everything, from the first panicked moment in the hospital to me correcting my “lies” while at the art museum with James. I told her how tired I could get and how I had been feeling so cheated out of my senior year, cheated out of my blossoming relationship with James.
And on the James note, I confessed that while I wanted to tell him more than anything, I was afraid that I’d lose him. Kat mulled over my fears for a moment and said “You might be afraid to tell him Ames, but if you don’t it’s not being honest. If you keep the secret too long, he might feel like he doesn’t know you at all.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of already,” I sniffed.
“Well you have to tell him. I know you’re a terrific person. Hopefully he knows that too. Beyond your OCD, you’re still Amy; even if you feel like she’s buried, I know she’s still here.”
I nodded, I was so thankful to have Kat in my life. As the hours of early morning slipped away, the faintest hint of pink crept over the horizon. As my room began to glow in the early morning sunlight, we both nodded off.
Chapter Eighteen
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
~ William Shakespeare
Sunday kicked off on a productive note. Kat left mid-morning, still needing to work on her band solo and finish a paper. By noon my forearms were covered in paint and a hip-hop reggae mix pulsed in the background. The bright upbeat music didn’t match my painting, but it matched my mood. Matt was right; telling one person took so much weight off my back, I felt like a new chapter in my life was starting.
I decided that this painting was going to be my medium for explaining my OCD to James. If he understood anything, it was art. If I could show him on canvas what was going on inside of me, then there was no reason he shouldn’t understand. The dark murky edges of my painting needed to remain, but I had the perfect idea for showing James my new-found outlook. I meticulously painted the details of the reeds and the sky and the shadows. I couldn’t put down my brush; this was going to work.
…
The week started out just fine. I’d calculated that I’d need to paint every night in order to meet my deadline. When I realized that I was going to need extra time to do my other homework, I went and talked to Mrs. Ropert. I begged her to allow me to use my art class as a study hall, just for the week, promising that I was painting a crazy number of hours at home. I explained that something was going on in my life that I needed to paint - needed to paint it more than anything else - but that it was personal and I didn’t want to work on it in the art room. She agreed and offered to give me a private critique with her rather than the full class.
Tuesday started out being another decent day. Mrs. Millen said she was proud of me for sharing with Kat, and I told her my plan to use my painting to tell James. She asked when I’d be done; when could I show him? I told her I imagined that I’d be able to tell him within the next two weeks.
Unfortunately, James cornered me Tuesday before the buses left and said, “I’m driving you home. We need to talk.” He looked serious, but he didn’t sound angry.
“Okay,” I agreed. “What’s up?”
“What’s up? Huh? You’re asking me that?” he asked with his eyebrows raised.
“Well, you are the one that said you’re driving me home and said we needed to talk?” I said tentatively. “Are you mad?”
“No. I’m not mad Ames…just confused.” He turned toward me and brushed his thumb along my jawbone. “Why haven’t you been in art?” he asked, his eyes searching for truth.
“Well you know I started a project at home that I’m not ready to share
with you. Right?” I asked
“Sure.” He waited.
“So I asked Mrs. Ropert if I could use art as a study hall - just for this week. Because I’m spending all my free time at home painting, and I needed the time during the day to get my homework done.”
“What is so confidential that you won’t tell me about it?” he asked. I could see the worry on his face.
“I’m painting part of me that I need to share with you, and I need you to trust that everything is going to be okay,” I said. I took his hand in mine and enjoyed the softness of his thumb as it stroked the back of my hand.
“I do trust you,” he sighed, “But next time you’re going to be out of art, just tell me. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” He looked away, and his cheeks flushed a bit as the words slipped out. Guilt swept over me; he was worried that I was hiding from him - how I feared the moment of truth when he finds out how much he doesn’t know about me.
It was a quiet, peaceful drive home. The sun had worked hard all day to drive the snow banks further and further back, and you could almost smell spring in the air.
“Hey, I’m staying after school on Thursday; do you want to keep me company?” he asked as he neared my house. I groaned inside; Thursday was small group day.
“I can’t on Thursday. I’m working with a small group after school.”
“Alright,” he agreed. “You’re too busy for me.” He winked, showing me that he was kidding and asked “Can I drive you home then? What time are you done?”
“Four-thirty. And yes,” I smiled at him, “that would be great; this is a nice way to end the day.”
“Alright Ames.” He leaned over and kissed me softly at first and then with a little more depth. I loved the cinnamon flavor of his kisses and returned his eagerness. Pulling back, I gave him one last smile to mask the pit in my stomach. I kissed him once more and stepped out of the door waving. It took so much control to not cry as he pulled out of the drive and disappeared down the road. Would he understand? Would he be okay with me? Or was finding out the truth about me going to send him away forever?
That night I poured my worry into my painting. The boardwalk and surrounding trees were all in good shape. I was frustrated by my depiction of myself and wished for James’ patience in capturing my hair on canvas. Jotted on a post-it note, affixed to the top of my easel was the Swedish proverb, my quote, “Worry often gives small things a big shadow.” It served as a continual reminder of what I was trying to overcome. As the hours passed, the paint layers grew and my objectives took shape.
I looked forward to Thursday’s small group with great anticipation. I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had broken down my first barrier and shared my secret with Kat. I also wanted to hear how they had done this week. Did Gabe talk to any new people? How was Matt? Did Amber turn in her Chemistry research paper? It didn’t even strike me as odd that I suddenly cared about people that I didn’t even know before last week.
…
Group started even before we were all there; the minute I walked into the room, Matt grilled me. “Okay, Amy, did you tell anyone?”
“I did; I told Kat,” I said with a smile.
“A thousand pounds lighter right?” Matt grinned back.
“Absolutely. How was your week?”
“It was a week. Some of the girls at the lunch table saw me take out my own silverware a few days ago, and they’ve been bugging me about it ever since. I just said something about not liking the school’s silverware, but I don’t think they bought it. I don’t know. They’ve been teasing me constantly since. I know that they are just messing around, but the whole thing raises my anxiety level.”
“That sucks,” I said sympathetically. Fortunately for me, most of my ruminations and compulsions were things that my classmates could not see.
“It’ll pass,” Matt sighed. Then he smiled, “As soon as someone else does something stupid, it’ll be yesterday’s news.”
When Gabe arrived, conversation shifted to his social dilemmas. He wanted to go to prom, but couldn’t bring himself to ask anyone. He even admitted that he talked about prom with a girl in his Anatomy class, Emily, and she admitted that she probably wouldn’t go because she didn’t have anyone to go with.
“Gabe, that is a green light!” Matt said emphatically. “Seriously - she wants you to ask her.”
“I don’t know; maybe she was just relating to me because I said I probably wasn’t going to go.”
“Gabe,” Amber paused, “Ask the girl to prom. That is next week’s assignment, end of story.”
It was hilarious watching everyone goad Gabe on. His cheeks were bright red, and though he wasn’t completely comfortable with the topic, he knew his group mates, and it was good to see him considering the possibility.
When it was my turn, I shared my goal, “I need to finish my painting this week.” I announced. “It’s going to be my springboard for talking about my OCD with James; he may not understand me or the OCD at first, but he’s sure to understand the painting. His first language is paint.”
“You need to bring in this painting,” Matt said.
“Yes,” Amber agreed enthusiastically, “I have absolutely no artistic talent, and I would love to see it.”
“I’d be happy to share it with you guys. I wasn’t even sure I was going to use it for my assignment, but Mrs. Ropert offered to allow me to have a private critique. I mean usually we do critique as a group, but seeing as I can barely tell the people I need to tell about my OCD, I don’t think I can talk about it in front of my whole class.”
“That’s really cool,” Matt said.
“Yeah, it is, she’s the best,” I paused, “My biggest concern is what if he just looks at me like I’m this freak and says ‘I don’t even know you!’” I kept my voice steady. “What do I do then?”
“Well…” Matt paused. “You move on,” he said looking apologetic.
The room was silent for a moment. He continued, “You know that you are a good person, and you know that you’re getting a handle on this OCD thing. You know deep down that someday someone will love you for who you are. And in the meantime, you don’t need anyone who can’t accept you for you.”
His eyes were locked steadily on mine; in a way Matt understood my situation better than I understood it myself. More than my fear of James not understanding my OCD was my fear that he’d be angry at me for keeping everything a secret. And I said so.
“All the more reason to tell him as soon as possible,” Matt said seriously.
Group ended, and we walked our separate ways. I tagged after Matt toward his locker.
“Hey.”
“Hey what?” he asked.
“So I know this is a personal question. But,” I waited.
“Go on.”
“Have you ever told a girl about your OCD? Like a girl you were dating or liked?”
“I have. I’ve told two girls,” he said as he continued to rummage in his locker.
“How did they take it?” I wondered aloud.
“Oh Amy. You need to not worry about it and just tell the guy.”
He loaded his books into his backpack. There were dozens of senior pictures taped to the inside of his locker - all of his “friends.” The people that he ate lunch with and those that rode the team bus with him; the girls that tousled his hair in the halls and flirted with him from the sidelines. I stared at the pictures intently wondering if any of the smiling faces knew the side of Matt that I did.
“So just tell him?”
“Just tell him,” he reiterated. “You guys been dating long?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted slowly, “Officially a month or so. But I don’t know, I already feel like I know him so well, and I want to be honest with him. I’m tired of hiding myself from him.
“Look,” Matt said; he sunk down leaning against the locker patting the ground next to him. I sat beside him. “Sil was the only girl I ever dated seriously. I told her everything about
a month into our relationship. It was sophomore year, and she got all weird on me. All of the sudden it was like, ‘Oh does this bother you? What about that?’ It was like she was looking for me to be this stereotypical germ freak, and the inconsistencies in my anxiety made it too hard for her to understand me. She didn’t get how I was fine sharing a fork with her at restaurant, but brought my own to school. I couldn’t really explain it to her, and not that the silverware was the end of us, but it was one of many little things that drove her crazy. We weren’t meant to be.”
“You said there were two girls.”
“I did,” Matt said smiling. “So this is still privileged information right?” he asked. “Like group?”
“Of course!” I exclaimed. “Who do you think I’m going to tell?!? I can barely bring this up to my best friend; how would I explain to anyone how I suddenly know so much about Matt Loitermann?”
“Well,” he said softly, looking down the hallway checking for anyone else and leaning in toward me. “I —”
“There you are!” It took a moment to register whose voice I was hearing. James was at the end of the hallway, carrying his portfolio.
He walked toward us, and as he got closer, a look of confusion flashed across his face.
Matt stood up and reached out a hand to help me to my feet. I took it, stood up and brushed off the seat of my pants.
“Hey James!” I said smiling brightly. “James, meet Matt; Matt, James.”
Matt stuck out his hand. “Hey man, nice to meet you; I’ve heard good things about you.”
James obliged the hand shake, but not the smile and said, “Uh, wish I could say likewise. What class is this group project for?” he asked.
“Class?” Matt questioned. He was confused. I was racing inside, trying to come up with some sort of answer. Matt and I only shared one class, and there were no group projects in literature.
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