OBSESSIVE (The Issues Series)

by Isobel Irons

  But that Grant never existed. Not really. This panicky, insecure mess, this epic malfunction of a brain stuffed inside a normal-looking body, this is the Real Grant. She just doesn’t want to see it. I don’t blame her. If I could ignore the parts of me that don’t make sense, I would. People believe what they want to believe, and Tash sees me as her knight in shining armor. Mr. Perfect. He sounds like a great guy, too. Someone who might actually deserve her. I wish I could meet him, so I could kick his ass for stealing the life I was supposed to have.

  We sit there, not talking, for what seems like forever. Me, silently fighting to get my breathing back under control, to put a stop to the wave of panic and danger that’s crashing over my brain. Her, waiting.

  Until she can’t anymore.

  “Grant,” she says, very slowly and carefully. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  I shake my head again, gripping the steering wheel for dear life. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven is the fourth prime number, and also a Newman-Shanks-Williams prime, a Woodall prime, a factorial prime, a lucky prime, and the fourth Heegner number. Most importantly, it’s a safe prime. The only safe prime in the Mersenne classification.

  “Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I somehow manage to tell her, mid-ritual. “It’s me.”

  “Okay….”

  “‘The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two,’ is one of the most highly cited papers in the field of psychology. Published in 1956 by the cognitive psychologist, George A. Miller, it is often interpreted to argue that the number of objects an average human can hold in working memory is seven, plus or minus two. It’s frequently referred to as ‘Miller’s Law’.”

  One: the first time Tash kissed me, it was 11:27 AM. Two: her favorite flavor of ice cream is Java Chip. Three: her middle name is Doreen, after her grandmother on her father’s side, and she hates it. Four: she’s never been to Disneyland.

  “Grant, I’m trying really hard to understand, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Five: she’s the only girl who’s ever tried this hard to understand me. Six: her underwear is lacy, and black. Seven: she’s just as beautiful when she’s sad, or angry, or confused, as she is when she’s smiling.

  “Grant?”

  Plus one: she’s a fighter. Plus two: she’s trying really hard not to fight with me right now.

  That’s it. That’s all I can hold onto. Seven things. Plus two—just to be safe. There’s no room left for the bad thoughts. I’m safe now. At least, as safe as I can be.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it more than ever. “I kind of freaked out, just then.”

  It is a massive understatement.

  “It’s okay, I just want to know what happened.” Her face is genuinely concerned, but profoundly confused.

  Once again, I’m struck by the fact that at least 80% of the important conversations in our relationship have taken place entirely in my head, and Tash has no idea. In my head, I’ve told her the truth—the whole truth—a thousand times. I’ve told her how I feel about her. What I want. How I can’t. Why I can’t. But it never comes out for real, and so we’re stuck in this never ending stalemate.

  If I could just find a way to push through…if I could just show her, maybe that would be enough.

  But every time I think about acting on my feelings, my brain does the math and decides it’s not worth the risk.

  “Do you ever wish you could be lobotomized?”

  Tash considers what I’ve said, like it’s a serious question, instead of the weirdest segue in the history of ever. Just like that, we’re back to square one, back to pretending everything is normal. Like nothing disastrous almost happened.

  “Like, as an attitude adjustment? No, but I’m sure my mom has wished for it a time or two, on my behalf. I’m sure I’d be easier to live with if I just sat in a corner and drooled all the time.”

  Again, I’m not all that experienced in this area, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a good sign when you break off an almost sex moment and then your girlfriend starts talking about drool.

  Even if I wasn’t mortally skeeved out by strangers’ bodily fluids, most people would probably agree that drool is the opposite of sexy.

  She sighs. “So, what now? We could go back to my house, order pizza, just hang out for a while?”

  Delivery pizza. That’s one of the bad foods—the foods I can’t eat. It doesn’t come in a package, and there’s no way of knowing where it’s been between the restaurant and your front door. Plus, have you ever seen a pizza delivery guy? Nine times out of ten, they look like they haven’t showered in months. As a result, I’m like a poster child for DiGiorno.

  But I don’t really feel like explaining to Tash that in order to have pizza with her, I’d have to go to the store and buy a frozen pizza, make sure it has an unbroken seal, then clean her entire kitchen top to bottom with gloves on before we can stick it in the oven. I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s already ten-thirty. That process would take at least two hours, maybe three. Unless she’s using pizza as a euphemism, in which case I’ll spend the next two hours before my curfew flirting with disaster and trying not to have a full blown panic attack.

  “I’m not really that hungry,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” her smile wilts. “Okay, well do you want to go bowling or something?”

  She’s so patient with me. So forgiving. I don’t deserve her.

  But bowling? Oh, man. Don’t even get me started on bowling. I can already feel the anxiety-induced sweat starting to form on my lower back. Back sweat: the official perspiration of OCD sufferers.

  If I could just disconnect my brain, that would be a start. I could forget about the imaginary consequences of every little thing, and just live. But the only way I know of to shut off the frenzy that goes on in my head, when I even start to think of losing control, is to take the yellow pills that my dad says are only for emergencies. For when I’m in the middle of a really bad attack. If I took one now, my brain would shut down. But so would the rest of my body. I’d be pretty much catatonic for the next twelve hours. I consider asking Tash how she’d feel about taking advantage of me while I was unconscious, just to see how things go. But then I realize that could be taken as a really insensitive and inappropriate joke, and I kick myself for even thinking it.

  “Uh, I have to get up really early tomorrow.” I hate myself for saying it, because I know she knows it’s a blatant lie. “Can I call you after I take care of a couple of things?”

  “Sure.” Her voice is tight, like she’s barely holding back from giving me the verbal ass-kicking I completely deserve. “Whatever.”

  I pretend not to notice her frustration. When I’m not on the verge of a total psychotic meltdown, I’m great at pretending. A few minutes later, I drive Tash home in awkward silence.

  She doesn’t kiss me goodnight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, I lose control over a bowl of peach flavored oatmeal.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  My dad looks up from his iPad. “What’s that, son?”

  “The anatomy course at Duke,” I say, feeling like my head is about to explode. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Gen stops pushing her scrambled eggs around on her plate, just long enough to shoot me a look that says, very clearly, ‘you are going to get in so much trouble.’

  Dad’s eyebrows mash together in concern, and I can see the beginnings of disapproval in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is calm and even, like he’s speaking to one of his psych patients in the ER.

  “What do you mean, when you say you ‘don’t think you can do it’?”

  I mean that I can’t be trusted to fly halfway across the US, or to act professionally in front of a bunch of strangers and esteemed medical school professors, let alone stand inches away from a corpse without having a full blown panic attack. I mean that I have no desire whatsoever to work
in healthcare, adjacent to sick people, not in any capacity. I mean that after last night, I’m not even sure if I’ll even be able to live away from home, or go to school, or hold down a job, or get married. Or anything normal people are supposed to grow up and do. Because I’m never going to be able to stop thinking about all the bad things that might happen if I try.

  Of course, I don’t say any of that out loud.

  “It’s just…I feel like the therapy is really helping,” I lie. “And after this fall, who knows how much time I’ll be able to spend at home, even if I can come back for the holidays. I’ll be really focused on my grades and everything…and I’d kind of like to take this summer to get ready…for everything.”

  I can already see him forming a counter-argument, so I press on, before he can stop me. “Plus, there’s that internship at the mayor’s office. I could do that, instead. It’ll give me some really good networking skills. Maybe help me get a foot in the door for student government in undergrad—I’ve heard that’s really competitive. But extracurricular activities really matter for med school applications.” I take a deep breath, and use one of Jeanne’s favorite psychology platitudes on him. “I just want to make sure I’m not running before I can walk, you know?”

  “Grant,” my dad sighs. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. I’ve seen your biology grades, and your physics grades. Anatomy is just that, a big biological math problem. Everything is connected. I think when you start to see that, you’ll take to medicine like a fish to water.”

  Medicine…fish…cold, dead bodies. Flesh. Tugging skin. The images flit behind my eyes like flashcards. More pictures to add to my diary of intrusive thoughts.

  “I believe you, Dad,” I can’t stand the concern in his face, so I look down at my oatmeal in its sad little disposable plastic bowl. I start stirring it with my plastic spoon, clockwise, in concentric circles. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “I just feel bad letting you pay so much for this summer course when I’m not…” Worthy. Ready. Mentally stable. “…There yet. I can’t really focus on my medical career until I get some of my prerequisites out of the way.”

  For a few long seconds, there’s this stifling, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the wet sound of my oatmeal being stirred. I have to stop after the next multiple of seven, though, because it’s grossing me out. Finally, I muster up the courage to look him in the eye.

  He’s definitely disappointed. Maybe even more than that. Upset. Betrayed. Ashamed.

  “Are you sure this sudden attitude change doesn’t have anything to do with that girl?”

  I blink, several times. Like that will protect me. “Tash? No, this doesn’t have—”

  “Because it’s normal to feel like your first…relationship is the most important thing that’s ever happened to you. But it’s not forever, son, and it’s not worth giving up such a great opportunity for.”

  Some small part of me rebels, but I’m not sure how to put words to why it bothers me so much.

  “I know that, Dad, and I promise it’s not because of her.”

  Gen chooses that moment to scrape her fork loudly against her plate. My dad gives her The Look, and she rolls her eyes. “Sorry, I’ll go watch some cartoons or something.”

  After she’s gone, my dad turns back to me, folding his hands together on top of the table. Uh oh. He’s assumed lecture position.

  “I hope you feel like you can tell me anything,” he says. “Because I don’t want you to feel like you’re going to disappoint me, by telling me the real reason you don’t want to go. I can’t promise that I’ll agree with it, but I’ll do my best to understand.”

  “I don’t want you to feel disappointed in me, either.” And I don’t have to keep my bedroom door locked every night, to keep me from sleepwalking and pushing my mom down the stairs. But I lock it anyway, just in case. Because that’s how my messed up brain works. “But I’m telling the truth. I just want to prepare for school, and med school, in my own way. It’s not that I’m not grateful for everything you planned out, I just….”

  “You want to succeed on your own merits.” He nods, and the tightness in my chest, the fear of rejection, loosens its hold. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know how you feel. I know I went to school with a lot of kids whose parents paved the way for them, and it didn’t necessarily help them in the long run. So if that’s really why you’re doing this, because you want to be able to work for it on your own, I can admire that.”

  “Really?” I feel like I just stepped backwards into the world’s greatest excuse. “I mean, I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “Sure,” he nods, then stands up to take his breakfast dishes to the sink. “In fact, why don’t we let you start from scratch? I’ll cancel the check for your fall tuition, and you can get a summer job at Burger King and start saving up for Stanford. It should only take you a year or two to scrape enough cash together for a semester of tuition. As long as you budget.”

  My blood turns to ice. All my life, I’ve been afraid of something like this, that I’d push my family into giving up on me. I started having nightmares of being kicked out to live on the street when I was five. Not because of anything my parents said or did, but because deep down, I knew I’d eventually do something to deserve it. If I didn’t clean up my toys, they wouldn’t love me anymore. If I didn’t do my homework, they wouldn’t let me live with them. And if I ever told them exactly what was going on in my head, they’d hate me.

  I’m still staring at the middle of the dining room table, not breathing, when my dad comes over and slaps me on the back.

  “Calm down, bud. I’m just joking with you. I’ll call Duke on Monday morning and cancel your enrollment.” He squeezes my shoulder. “But I want you to make good on your promise to stay productive this summer. Go look into that internship at the mayor’s office, and see if you can get into the volunteer program in the ER. That’ll give you some good patient contact experience.”

  With that, he heads off to work. But I’m still frozen in place, because on some level it feels like I’ve literally dodged a bullet. Even though most people would say that was a great response, it still felt way too close for comfort. It still felt like walking a tightrope over a shark tank. Not something I’d want to do again.

  When I can finally move through the crushing guilt of knowing that I’m risking my entire future—and lying about it, to boot—I change into my workout clothes and head into our home gym to run on the treadmill for a few hours. The rhythmic thudding of my feet, coupled with the continuous motion, drowns out most of my thoughts.

  Like the rain.

  My steps stutter and I almost go down, just thinking of last night. But I recover, and run even faster. I can’t let myself dwell on the failures of my past. Not when I’ve got so much to do.

  I’ve decided that this will be the summer of self-discovery. Of testing my limits. I was lying about the therapy helping, in fact I’m pretty sure it’s making things worse. But one thing has never failed to teach me about myself, and that’s experience. No matter how painful, it pushes me. Like soccer practice, or studying for a test, or anything that requires discipline, I can cross boundaries if I train for them first.

  Today, I’ll start with endurance.

  After I finish my seven kilometer sprint, I head for the shower. As usual, I turn the water as hot as it will go, then dial it back until it’s just bearable. I step under the spray, letting the scalding heat pound away at the sweat and dirt that coats my skin. Then I go after the bacteria, filling my hands with antibacterial soap. After I’ve washed myself from head to toe, I start over with shampoo. Then antibacterial, moisturizing soap. Then deodorizing soap. I don’t step out from under the water until my skin is bright pink and going on raw.

  Mom always keeps a stack of clean white towels on hand, because I usually go through at least two of them when I’m drying off. When I’m as dry as I can get, I step over to the sink and wash my hands and face with another kind of soap
. Then I shave. Then, I put sunscreen on, because I don’t want to get skin cancer. Then I floss and brush my teeth, twice. Then I wash my hands again.

  After all that, it’s time to take my morning meds. I reach into the medicine cabinet for my blue plastic pill organizer, the one with three different compartments for each day of the week. I open the one marked ‘SAT,’ and drop the little cluster of pills into my perfectly clean, perfectly dry hand. Zoloft for anxiety, the little blue oblong pill, 100 mg per day. Lexapro, the little round white one, 20 mg per day. Xanax, the white one that looks like a Tetris piece, for bedtime, to keep the racing thoughts at bay. Finally, Klonopin, which looks like a cross between a Smartie and a street drug, and is only for ‘emergencies.’ Like when I’m doubled over on the floor in a corner of my bedroom, because I’m 90% sure that there’s a murderer in my house who’s going to kill my entire family with a box cutter while they sleep, and that murderer is me.

  Unbidden, intrusive thoughts that sneak in when I’m tired or stressed, then grab hold of my brain until they become my new reality. Thoughts of violence, things I’m secretly terrified I want to do, even though I’ve never so much as raised a hand to anyone I love. Those are the kind of ‘emergencies’ I have.

  I put the pill container back and close the medicine cabinet, then stare down my reflection in the mirror for so long, I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

  Then I tilt my hand sideways, watching as the pills slide into the sink and circle the drain, before finally disappearing.

  PART III: MOST LIKELY TO…

  Once, when I was about 12, my dad walked in on me masturbating.

  To my absolute horror, he came back in about twenty minutes later, sat down on the edge of my bed and said, “Don’t worry, son, you’re not in trouble. Self-stimulation is a natural part of your maturation process. It’s normal for a boy your age to start figuring out how his body works.”