OC Me

by Kristin Albright

  Mrs. Ropert worked on the computer in her office while I waited for James. Avoiding eye contact, he finally stepped through the door carrying all of his things he’d be taking home with him. He pulled up a stool and stared intently at my painting. Mrs. Ropert emerged from her office and also pulled up a stool. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat but it wouldn’t go away. I wanted so badly to know that this would turn out the way I hoped.

  “So,” I started looking at both of them, “I guess before I explain my painting, I just want to ask a favor of you both.” They nodded. “I uh, well this isn’t…hasn’t been an easy painting for me. I’ve had a lot happen this past semester, and I guess what I’m asking of you is that you keep what I’m going to tell you here between us.” They both nodded. “Absolutely Amy,” Mrs. Ropert affirmed. “Same here,” James reassured, briefly meeting my eyes. The deep familiar resonance of his voice made me want to cry.

  I forced myself into small group mode. Honest and direct Amy was here. “The quote I chose was from a fortune cookie I got when I went to dinner with James. It’s a Swedish proverb; it reads, Worry is a small thing that can cast a big shadow. Unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of big shadows in my life the past few months. Until recently I didn’t understand why they were being cast, and I was dealing with a lot of confusion and anxiety surrounding my worries.”

  I knew I didn’t have to go into the whole story here. Mrs. Ropert didn’t need to know everything and neither did James; not unless he decided to stick around, and then I could always tell him later.

  “It’s a long story, but basically, I’ve been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. And for a period of time I kind of felt like that was the end of it. I didn’t want to tell anyone about it because I was ashamed,” I swallowed, “and embarrassed, and I was afraid of how people would see me.” I looked at James who met my eyes and quickly glanced down. “This is a painting of me at the preserve - which is one of my favorite places. It shows me walking down the boardwalk on a day when the earth is pretty much in complete hibernation. The “small thing” that is casting all the shadows is my car keys. I have a lot of anxiety when I drive, so it seemed like an appropriate object to choose.” I paused taking in the beauty I’d begun to see in the painting as I finished it over the weekend.

  “Initially, this landscape was rather overcast; there was only enough direct light to cast the shadows - the worries. Lately though, I’ve begun to realize that I’m stronger than the anxiety and that I want to take my life back. The important aspect of this painting is that the shadows, though present, are not taking over the landscape. The light on the horizon, while casting the large shadow, is the same brightness that is illuminating my path forward. I’m not looking back anymore.” As I finished my final sentences my voice shook a little, and a little stunned at my own bravery, I smiled. My eyes were glazed, not from sadness, but rather relief.

  The silence seemed to last forever. James was still staring intently at my painting when Mrs. Ropert cleared her throat and quietly said, “Amy, I think most people could relate to this whether or not they have been diagnosed with anxiety or depression. Most of us have gotten stuck on our shadows at some point in our lives; and if we were lucky, arrived at the perspective you’ve so eloquently painted. This is a beautiful work, your best yet.”

  “Thank you Mrs. Ropert.”

  “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just remembered that I have to make a parent phone call. You two can discuss this as you wish on your own.” I knew she was ducking out to give us some privacy. But I didn’t know what to say when she was gone. James had yet to say a word; he was looking down at his hands.

  I turned toward my painting, and began to take it off the easel. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to be the girl in the painting. I wanted to be optimistic about the future. I carefully lifted the canvas off the ledge of the easel, and then looked up in surprise when its weight disappeared off my hands. James set it back on the easel and wrapped me firmly from behind in his strong arms. I tipped my head back against his collarbone and inhaled his familiar scent as he leaned the side of his face against mine.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He whispered.

  “I didn’t know how,” I whispered back.

  “Oh Amy.” He continued to hold me and swayed slowly back and forth. I turned to face him and buried my face in his chest and cried. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  “Me too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it’s simply necessary to love.

  ~ Claude Monet

  In the days that followed, James was a steady fixture by my side. I waited for him to start grilling me with questions the way Matt’s girlfriend had, but it never happened. Instead there was a kind of quiet understanding between us that made me wish I’d talked to him sooner. It’s not like life got instantly perfect - it was far from it, but at least I didn’t have to try and hide my feelings from the three people that were closest to me.

  I continued my sessions with Mrs. Millen, and I stayed with Thursday’s small group. I was working on trying to ignore the compulsions and ruminations. Mrs. Millen told me that giving-in to the OCD “fear thoughts” would make them stronger. That every time I did so, I would be stoking the worry furnace. When she put it that way, it was easy to want to stop, but hard to follow through with.

  The first time I forced myself to not use hand sanitizer before using the school water fountain, I worried all afternoon. Did I wash my hands well enough after using the bathroom? Would I accidentally give a classmate E. coli if they used the fountain after me? My hands were clean when I touched the handle on the bathroom door, but if the person before me didn’t wash their hands then I could have unknowingly passed along germs from them to the water fountain handle. To someone outside my head this would probably sound absolutely ridiculous, but it was my reality. It caused me to sweat and fixate and miss three-fourths of the information taught in my classes. It took every ounce of my self-control to not go back to the water fountain and clean the knob.

  Small group provided a safe forum to admit these struggles and moments of defeat. When I admitted the water fountain fears, Matt started chuckling.

  “Alright Amy, after group it’s me and you,” he challenged.

  “Okay,” I said pausing, “What are we doing?”

  “We have the exact opposite issue. I always sanitize my hands after using the water fountain. So we are going to go together to the front hallway to visit the most used fountain. We will drink from it, and neither of us will wash our hands before or after.”

  He outlined the rules for the challenge in a lighthearted manner, but I knew it would push both of us.

  “You’re on!” I enthusiastically agreed. It was awesome to have someone else in group with OCD; while anyone could have offered up the same challenge, it wouldn’t have had the same level of camaraderie to it.

  As agreed upon, after group we meandered to the front hallway.

  “You first!” he egged me on.

  “Fine,” I said. I took a deep breath and turned the knob. I took several long gulps of cool water. Stepping away, I motioned to Matt who did the same. He wiped his mouth after taking a sip and said, “I’m always so thirsty now.”

  “As opposed to when?” I asked.

  “As opposed to before I started this medication,” He admitted sheepishly. He looked serious and a little ashamed. Looking down he said, “I’ve worked so hard to try and live a normal life without medication, but I wasn’t progressing, and I was spending hours a day on my compulsions. So in an effort to try and get it under control, I saw the psychiatrist, and they are working to get me on the correct dosage of meds.” He ran his hand through his hair and fixed his eyes on the showcase across the hall.

  “How is it working for you?” I asked.

  “I’m starting to see a small decline in my anxiety. It took about three weeks to start t
o kick in.” He leaned against the wall and toed the dirty tile.

  “So how are you feeling?” I asked gently. When Mrs. Millen talked to me about the possibility of adding medication, she disclosed that there are almost always side effects.

  “Eh,” he said finally meeting my eyes again, “Honestly it was pretty bad at first. I was so nauseous I could hardly bring myself to eat anything. My knees still shake especially in the morning, and I’m always thirsty. It’s weird, sometimes I feel like I’m outside of myself. But that’s waning, and since I’m starting to feel a little less anxious, I’m willing to keep going. I’m supposed to give it a few months. I really hope to have things leveled out by fall. I just want to be able to be myself when I’m meeting new people.”

  I studied him closely, realizing that he looked thinner than before. Wanting to reassure him that I cared about him, I gave him a small smile and shook my head.

  “Well, I’m sorry you’ve been feeling so out-of-sorts; you’ve definitely hid it well. But don’t feel like you have to, at least not around me.”

  “Thanks,” he said softly while looking down the hall at students pouring out of the gym after practice. I thought about what an outsider might think seeing us in the hall; they would never guess how much we have in common.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.

  ~ Henry David Thoreau

  March drew to a close, and spring descended upon us; small points of tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths began to poke up through the mulch in gardens all across town. The sun stayed out longer each day, and after weeks of anticipation, an early spring break was upon us. Kat, Nolan, James and I took a day trip out to the state park where we planned to spend the day hiking and scaling the rock walls. Nolan was riding shot-gun; his Yankee’s baseball cap was pulled tight over his hair and a tiny a.m. radio with headphones allowed him to keep track of the spring training reports. Kat drove, happily jamming out in the front seat. James and I sat in the back holding hands. His sketch pad was tucked in his backpack along with my notebook.

  My scholarship application was due in two short weeks, and I needed to start penning my request for consideration. I felt like I was getting behind; everyone else’s post high school plans were shaping up. Kat was enrolled to attend the technical college in town to learn how to be an ultrasound technician. Nolan was planning on sticking around town too; he had secured an apprenticeship with a local custom cabinetry company that specialized in high-end kitchens.

  And James? Exploding with pride would be an understatement for how I felt when he burst through my kitchen door clutching the envelope with the Art Institute logo embossed on it. The portfolio I urged him to submit while walking through the art museum had secured him a spot in the presidential scholarship competition. Now he needed to submit one last painting by May first for the final phase of the competition. He and three other incoming art students would be competing for one full scholarship and three “tuition only” scholarships.

  The news gave him the push he needed to talk with his parents about what he really wanted to do. I sat with him as he explained the scholarship competition to them and how out of over 100 submissions, he was in the top four. He explained that no matter what, he had already secured tuition and possibly his living expenses. His dad was stunned; once he got past the shock that James didn’t apply for State, but rather would be attending the Art Institute, he congratulated him. His mom started tearing-up and in her excitement hugged me too, thanking me for pushing him to do it.

  As we turned onto the bumpy gravel road, we kept our eyes on the signs. Wooden posts with white arrows bearing hand-painted labels pointed every which direction. “Beach.” “CC ski trail.” “Ranger station.” Eventually we saw our sign. The sun was out, and after months of clouds, I welcomed the cheer it spread to the landscape. Being early spring, much of the scenery was still washed in hues of brown and gray; but spikes of new grass shone bright green, and tiny buds were beginning to push out of the ends of the branches.

  I appreciated that there were only a few other cars in the lot at the trail-head; the paths would be quiet. We donned our backpacks loaded with lunches, water, blankets, and other random necessities and headed toward the steep rocky face. The narrow trail forced us to walk in single file. “This is amazing,” James said as we approached the base of the rock wall.

  “And…huge,” I observed, looking nervously at the signage.

  Kat’s eyes followed to where mine rested, “Caution rattlesnakes?” she asked.

  “Yeah, the park website said something about them living among the rocks. Just keep your hands out of the crevices,” Nolan instructed, shrugging his shoulders as if it were no big deal. “Seriously, I’ve been camping here since I was six, and I’ve never seen a rattlesnake.”

  “Knock on wood!” Kat exclaimed, pushing him toward the sign. He rolled his eyes, but complied.

  “Lets go!” he motioned toward the rocks.

  “Um, I’m thinking you can go first, Mr. Rattlesnake expert,” I teased.

  “Whatever,” he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He turned and started up the wall; we fell into a line behind him. As we climbed, the flora changed; different grasses and flowers seemed to prefer each varying elevation. Despite its height, this section of the park was climbable without any special gear or training. We took our time, stopping periodically to take in the view. The icy-blue lake spread before us was devoid of boats; it was easy to pretend that we were the only ones here. Steep rocky walls wrapped around most of the lake creating a fortress around the water.

  We paused on the plateau on top of the rock wall. Despite the fact that it was only April, we were sweating and ready for a break. After sharing our lunches, Kat and Nolan headed off to hike further while James and I stayed to work on our scholarship materials.

  Taking in the landscape and the song of the birds, I settled near James as he opened his sketch pad. Looking at me seriously, he asked, “So, are you going to include your preserve painting for the final senior review?” At the end of our senior year, each advanced painting student got the use of one of the glass showcases in the hallways to display his or her full portfolio. It was a way to share our work with everyone outside of our own classes.

  “I don’t think so James; it’s too personal. I don’t want people to think I’m crazy.”

  “But that’s just it; you aren’t crazy. Our classmates know you, or at least they think they know you. You could bring people to a better understanding of OCD,” he persisted.

  “It’s not my agenda right now James. We graduate in a little over two months. That’s not long enough to educate a whole school on the specifics of OCD. I don’t want to be remembered as the girl with OCD. It’s too ugly.”

  “What’s ugly about it?” he pressed.

  “The name…it just. I can’t explain it, but I hate it. Somehow I feel I would be less self-conscious if I had panic attacks or a more general anxiety disorder. People get an image in their head when they hear ‘OCD;’ they think of someone who is so off-kilter and regimented and I just, ugh…” I paused. “I’m sorry; I’m not interested in sharing the painting with a bigger group. I’ve made huge advances in this thing in the past month, but I’m not ready for that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.” I was babbling and defensive and began to feel a lump rise in my throat.

  “It’s not ugly Ames. It’s part of you,” he said gently.

  “Well I wish it weren’t!” I retorted, a bit edgier than I intended. “I’m sorry James, but the whole thing has made this semester so hard. If I hadn’t found out what was actually going on, I don’t even know if I would have even gone on to college. I was so anxious all the time. The only places I felt safe were at home and with you. My acceptance is growing each day, but I don’t see my OCD as anything other than unfortunate right now.”

  He nodded, obviously not wanting to push too hard. �
�Well…for what it’s worth, I don’t find any part of you ugly.” He slid closer, wrapping his arm around my back, the giant expanse of the lake before us. I took long slow breaths, knowing that James wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable - he just wanted me to stop hiding who I was. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Lisa’s stone. I rubbed it between my fingers and handed it to James.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “My dad gave it to me; it was Lisa’s.”

  He nodded and rubbed his finger tips along the text. “It’s kind of relaxing,” he said, “Smooth. I wonder how old it is.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, “Pretty old I’d guess: polished out with time.”

  “Maybe that’s all it will take,” he murmured into my hair. “Time.”

  I relaxed my head against his chest and thought about his words. If there was one consistent theme about the past few months it was that things did get better with time. I fixed my eyes on the horizon to watch spring arrive.

  …

  Later, while James was absorbed in his sketch books, I paced the far edge of the plateau. The wind whistled through the rock formations, and the grasses swished restlessly. I was restless too. I needed direction, a purpose, a calling. It seemed like I’d been wracking my brain for weeks. As I paced I tried to imagine myself doing different occupations. I wanted to work with people, and I recently began to think that I’d enjoy working with youth.

  Occupations matching those criteria began flooding my brain as if it were working independently of my personality. What about teaching my brain asks? Teaching? Teaching what? And then my personality cuts in and says, “No…really…I know that I’m not interested in teaching.” It’s just not my thing; I can’t imagine working with hundreds of kids each day. I’m not good enough with names or public speaking. I thought of the doctors at the hospital, and while what they did was fantastic and important, I wasn’t programmed for science. I barely scraped through chemistry and biology.