by Isobel Irons
To be honest, I kind of hate my mom for putting up with me. For just quietly going along with it all, like somehow this is normal. Like it’s excusable. Like having a son like me doesn’t make her life about a thousand times harder than it has to be.
But then again, she can’t change the fact that I’m her son. Any more than I can change the fact that this is my life now. This was always what my life was going to be.
Maybe deep down, she always knew. Maybe they both did, my mom and my dad. Maybe that’s why they’re so good at taking everything in stride, because even though they talk about this glorious future I’m supposed to have, in real life they were planning for me to fail. They knew I’d never go to college, or get a real job, or get married, or grow up.
The realization settles into my subconscious and claws its way down, until I can’t remember if I figured it out on my own or someone told me. Most of the time, I’m too drugged up to care. It’s better this way, I tell myself. I’ll just stay quarantined, away from people who don’t understand.
As I get older, it will probably become harder to hide how pathetic I am, so I’ll probably just stop leaving the house. I’ll stay in my room and watch internet porn until it drowns out the images of Tash that keep running through my head. She’s not always naked, so that’s something. Sometimes she’s smiling and laughing, other times she’s yelling.
Sometimes, I fall asleep dreaming about her and wake up screaming. Because in my dreams, she was in the car with me. In my dreams, we were fighting and I forgot to tap my left foot every time we passed a street sign. And that’s why I lost her. That’s why she died.
Maybe I’m dead too, now that I think about it. Maybe we both died that day. Maybe it’s like that movie she made me watch, with Bruce Willis and that little kid who could see dead people. I hope I didn’t ruin it for you, but then again I’m crazy, so why are you listening to me in the first place?
Why are any of you still listening? Why are you reading this? Don’t you understand that my story is over? Nothing important could possibly happen to me now.
And now I’m talking to an imaginary audience, as if someone out there actually gives a damn. That’s what crazy people do, isn’t it? We talk to people who aren’t there, and imagine everyone is watching us, all the time. That everyone cares what we’re thinking and doing, when in reality they don’t.
It’s liberating to finally figure that out, but also kind of depressing.
One day, I hear paper rustling under my bedroom door. It could be morning, or it could be the middle of the night. It doesn’t really matter.
After lying in bed a while longer, and imagining the worst, I heave myself out of bed. My muscles are still sore from the accident. Or maybe they’ve started to atrophy, since I haven’t exercised in God Knows how long.
The paper is crinkled, but pristine white. It looks like someone pulled it straight from my dad’s copy machine, but they didn’t want to wait for it to eject all the way. It takes me a few seconds to figure out who wrote it, because it’s typed, but since there are only three other people in the house and no one else calls me “Grunt,” I figure out pretty quickly that the letter is from my little sister.
Dear Grunt, it says. Mom made me promise not to bother you, because you’re going through a hard time right now. But there’s something I think you need to know. I wrote down what Tash’s message said, before Mom deleted it. I wanted to ask you about it, but then you drove into a truck.
I shake my head at Gen’s blunt way of putting things, unlike my parents who keep skirting around what happened. Then I keep reading, because I’m a glutton for punishment, and I want to know what Tash’s message said. Even if it doesn’t matter anymore.
YOU TOLD ME I DESERVED BETTER.
It’s written in all caps, probably so I’ll know that Tash was yelling. Or maybe that’s just Gen adding emphasis. Either way, I can practically hear the hurt in her voice, like she’s standing in the room with me.
YOU PROMISED TO TELL ME THE TRUTH. I GUESS BETTER IS RELATIVE THOUGH, RIGHT? SO IS TRUTH, WHEN YOU GET RIGHT DOWN TO IT.
That much is debatable. I frown, and keep reading.
SO MAYBE THE TRUTH IS, YOU ARE BETTER OFF WITHOUT ME. MAYBE I SHOULD JUST GO DOWN TO CITY HALL AND TELL that’s when Mom stopped the message.
In my drug haze, I have to read that last part twice before I realize it’s Gen again, telling me that’s all she got. But even then, it doesn’t make sense. Why would Tash be saying that I was the one who was better off without her, when it’s obviously the other way around? I’m pretty sure I would’ve at least told her that much. Even if I left out the reasons why.
I was in the living room watching my show, and the ER called asking for Dad. Mom started crying. She said she knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer your cell. I told her they had the wrong guy, because my big brother would never be stupid enough to get in an accident. But then again, I also thought my big brother was nice, because he used to pick me up from piano practice and take me to get ice cream.
There’s a knot in my stomach, and it keeps growing with every word. I swallow and keep reading, knowing I’m not going to like what comes next. But I deserve it, that much I am sure of.
My real brother fixes things. He doesn’t break them. He solves problems, and he teaches me how to ignore the mean things people say about me at school. If he could make friends, I could too. If he could be normal, I could be normal, too. He never made me feel like a freak, even though I know I’m not the same as everyone else. He’s different than other people too, but I like him that way. He’s strong, and brave, and smarter than anyone else I know. And I really miss him.
So could you please ask my real brother to come back and fix whatever he broke? Because I’d really like to go get some ice cream.
Love, Gen
The knot spreads to my chest, and tightens until I can’t breathe. It’s not fear this time, or even anger, but guilt. I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone, taking myself away from it all. But what if Gen starts to think it’s okay for her to do the same? What if she starts pulling away from people, and not talking, like she did when she was a kid? People won’t understand. They’ll treat her differently. High school will be hell for her.
Unless I can find a way to fix this. Maybe I can help her understand that she doesn’t have to end up like me. Maybe I can even do it from the safety of my own room.
Pulling myself up off the floor, I go to my closet and get out my laptop, and every psychology book I can find. I start by looking up case studies on people with Asperger’s, to see if there’s any kind of special programs for high school kids on the autism spectrum. Hours later, I somehow find myself stuck in a YouTube video wormhole. I think it started with an educational video about the difference between mental illnesses and social disorders, and then somehow I ended up watching a twelve episode reality TV show about kids from all over the world who go to this special therapy camp—kind of like the one Margot is at now, only exclusively for OCD kids.
I thought I would be freaked out by seeing other people like me, or finding out how bad it can get, but instead I’m kind of fascinated by it all. Who knew there were so many different variations of the same disorder? Each person’s compulsions are completely personalized, and yet so many of the things they say remind me of what it feels like to be me. Every time someone asks them to explain what they’re feeling, they always have them describe it like it’s real. Instead of saying they’re imagining things, or they know it’s fake, everything is dealt with like it’s an actual possibility. The therapist on the show is nothing like Jeanne. He doesn’t try to explain away the intrusive thoughts, or tell the kids who are like me that it’s all in their heads. Instead, he makes them pretend it’s not. That everything is real.
And then he teaches them how to keep going, anyway.
They say kids today are too easily swayed by what they see on TV. And I guess they’re right. Because watching that stupid reality show, for th
e first time I started to wonder if maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not contaminated for life. Maybe there can be a cure, after all.
Maybe I’ve just been looking for the wrong kind of cure. I’ve wanted to be normal, but what if I can learn how to embrace being abnormal instead? What if I can teach myself how to turn my weakness into a strength? What if I can show Gen that there’s no reason for her to be afraid?
Of course, this is real life. Not a TV show. So after I decide to start trying again, I go back to bed. When I wake up, I go about my usual rituals. I shower forever. I wash my face a bunch of times. I brush my teeth and floss and wash my hands again. Then I take my meds. The right amount, this time.
Then I get dressed. It takes longer than it usually does, because I’m not really sure where I’m going, or even if I’m going anywhere. That’s the thing about inaction. The longer you don’t do something, the weaker you get. Wanting it isn’t enough. Wishing doesn’t make it happen. Being ready to change doesn’t mean you will.
But being scared shitless, and doing things anyway, that’s how you find out what you’re really capable of.
So after about a half hour of standing alone in my room, resisting the urge to count or sanitize or do anything else until my anxiety lessens, I take a deep breath and open the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There are 21 steps in our staircase. I know that by heart, because I’ve counted them so many times. As long as I counted them, nobody could trip on them and fall. No one could get hurt.
As I walk slowly down them, I try to remember what the therapist on the YouTube video said. I can’t just be happy with not doing a ritual, or not comforting myself by counting. I can’t try to distract myself, or calm myself down. I need to feel the anxiety, and do the thing I’m most afraid of. If I feel like something is contaminated, I don’t just need to force myself to touch it. I need to wallow in that feeling of being contaminated, let it consume me. And if she’s right, and the anxiety doesn’t kill me, I can do it again. Only next time, it’ll be just a little bit easier. Next time, I won’t be so certain that something bad is going to happen, because I’ve done it before.
I touch the banister and walk downstairs, into the kitchen. There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter. I reach out and touch it. That doesn’t bother me enough, though, so I go over to the trash can and touch the lid. Immediately, my skin starts to crawl. My fingers itch. My heart races. I want to wash my hands. I want to count. Something. But I don’t.
Slowly, I raise my hand to my face. I can feel the sweat starting to form on my lower back. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I can’t do this. It’s too much, too soon. I can’t do it.
If I touch my face, something bad will happen. I’ll get sick. I’ll get other people sick. I’ll die. They’ll die.
Before, I would have quit right there. I would’ve said, ‘That’s enough for now.’ When I was doing all this for me, to feel normal, it wouldn’t have seemed worth it, torturing myself. But now that I’m doing it for Gen, it seems like something I have to do. It seems worth it.
For some reason, I think maybe it will all feel okay again, if I can just push myself over the edge. Like jumping into cold water, or ripping off a bandage. But the moment my hand touches my face, it gets about a thousand times worse. I feel like screaming. My ears pound. My eyes well up.
It literally feels like I’ve just stepped into hell.
There’s no coming back from this. I’m going to have a heart attack. Of that, I’m absolutely certain.
But I don’t die. And my heart keeps beating, harder than ever. So I keep doing it. And it keeps being the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Until it isn’t.
I have no idea how long I’ve been standing there, next to the trash can, touching my face. But eventually, I don’t feel like I’m going to die anymore. I’m mentally exhausted, but I can’t get over the feeling that I’m still standing. That I did something totally impossible, and no one else saw it.
Suddenly, I’m overcome with this need to prove to someone that I did it. I go in search of Gen. She’s watching TV in the living room. When she sees me, she looks scared, like something is wrong.
“You came out.”
“Yeah I know.” I motion for her to follow me into the kitchen. “Come look at this.”
I make her stand there and watch as I touch the trash can again. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. I touch my face, and she gasps.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. Even though it’s not okay. Not even a little bit. It’s not all that easier the second time, especially since I still feel disgusting from doing it the first time. But because she’s watching, I can’t let myself fail.
For the rest of the afternoon, Gen and I play this game where she dares me to do things I find really gross, and I do them. Sometimes, I have to compromise, like when she dares me to lick the toilet seat. I tell her I’m not there yet, and to be honest, I don’t think I ever will be.
“That’s okay,” she says. “I probably wouldn’t do it either.”
We laugh about that for a while, and for the first time since my accident, I’m really glad I didn’t die.
###
Two days later, I borrow my mom’s car and drive to City Hall.
When I walk into the lobby, Barb the receptionist gives me a weird look, like she doesn’t recognize me. But then, she’s probably never seen me in jeans and a t-shirt, not to mention I’ve got this awesome scar now. I nod in her direction before heading toward the elevator.
This is it, the moment of truth.
Or, at least, the moment of truth before the next one. And the next.
I push the button with my finger, resisting the urge to quarantine my hands in my pockets for safe keeping immediately afterward. When the doors open, I imagine that it’s full of people. It doesn’t help, though. It’s late enough in the morning that I’m the only one around, aside from Barb. I imagine stepping in and watching the doors close, and taking one last breath of stale, pine-scented air before suddenly plummeting to my doom. Then I step inside.
As the doors close, it’s like I’m being hit with a wall of sheer panic. But it’s too late, because I’m already trapped inside. My OCD is screaming. It tells me to stand very still, to keep from moving my weight around. Maybe then, the elevator won’t know I’m here, and it won’t kill me.
But ever since I started pretending my OCD was a tangible, sentient enemy, I’ve been trying to find new and creative ways to torture it to death. This was the best thing I could think of, aside from licking a toilet seat. So I reach out, slowly, and push the button for the fourth floor.
When the doors open, I step out a little more quickly than I probably should. But it’s okay, because I did it. I’m alive.
I’m also standing in front of the mayor’s office. Which means it’s time to do the next thing I’m afraid of. The ultimate, final thing my OCD really doesn’t want me to do.
It’s time to find out what happens when I tell the truth.
The front desk is empty when I walk into the office, so I figure maybe Melody is at lunch. All the better, since she’s the last person in the world I want to see. And as much as my OCD doesn’t want her to have any more ammunition to use against me, I don’t feel like she’s done anything to deserve the truth.
I go straight to the mayor’s office and knock on the door.
“Come in.”
When I go in, Mayor Golden raises his eyebrows at me in surprise, but he smiles. “Hey Grant, I didn’t expect to see you back in here so soon. How are you feeling?”
At the tone of his voice, my stomach deflates a little. He’s usually nice, but it’s not usually this forced. He’s talking to me like I’m a little kid.
Or a crazy person.
My bravado fails, as I realize my plan to come clean was naively based on the fact that people still believed I was Mr. Perfect. In retrospect, I guess my almost DUI kind of s
hot that horse in the face. I look down at the floor, too ashamed to make eye contact with the man who was my hero, just a few days ago.
“I guess my dad told you what happened.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s okay, he explained everything.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” My OCD wants me to make an excuse and flee the room—or maybe it’s just my own shame, I’m not really sure—but I take a deep breath and stand my ground. “I should have told you about my…problem, before. I’ll understand if you don’t want me to work for you anymore.”
“Of course I do!” The sudden change in tone makes me look up. He’s got that look on his face, the one from the campaign posters that say ‘Mayor Golden is Tough on Crime.’ “In fact, I think it’s even more impressive how much you’ve accomplished. If you’re willing, I’d like to have you come with me to speak at a conference this fall on after school programs for kids with learning disabilities. That is, if you can take a break from Stanford for a day or two.”
My smile is grateful, but thin. Okay, this reaction is not what I expected. But I still don’t think he really gets it.
“That’s uh…” I clear my throat. “That’s really nice of you, but…I don’t really know if I’m still…if that’s something I’ll be able to do.”
His smile wilts a little, and I realize he’ll never look at me the same way again. The pride is gone now, and I’m guessing I no longer seem like the perfect son he never had. Also, I just realized he didn’t correct me earlier when I called him ‘sir.’ I try not to miss that casual familiarity, because really, the whole thing was based on a lie.
“Okay, well. Give it some thought, why don’t you, and take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about finishing up the internship, if you’re not ready.” Finally, he stands. “But please know that I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation, or anything you need.”
