Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  He seems relieved at my response and flips my file closed. “If you wouldn’t mind, go ahead and bring your mom back in.” He stands up and begins washing his hands at the sink in the corner. I slide off the table and wave my mom in from the hallway. She almost jumps toward the door.

  Dr. Mark takes his time wiping his hands, adjusting his white coat, sitting back on the stool. My mother is tense beside me, her presence bringing a tightness to the room that wasn’t here before. To her, this is the moment of truth. The wise doctor is going to bestow his medical knowledge on her daughter and I will be cured. My hair will magically untangle, my teeth will brush themselves, and I’ll be back to reaching for seconds at the dinner table. I’m interested to hear what he will say too, but it’s going to be wrong. Asking about my parents and my appetite? Dr. Mark is a nice guy and a good doctor, but for the past thirty minutes he’s just been stabbing in the dark. No questions about God or cracks or cancer. There’s no way he can be even remotely close to the truth.

  It flashes into my mind that maybe he’s actually found some sort of tumor, a sign of the disease that I spend my entire life fighting away. A sudden panic rises to my throat but deflates just as quickly when Dr. Mark looks up and smiles. He may be a doctor, and he may be running all sorts of tests, but somehow I know that whatever’s going on inside me cannot be diagnosed.

  “Well, we’ll know more about exactly what’s going on here when we get the results of your blood test in about two or three days. In the meantime, you should make it a priority to get lots of rest and hydrate.” He looks back and forth between us. My mom is nodding at him seriously, like he is explaining how he will cure me of polio. “And, while we’re waiting for your blood work, there’s someone else I think you should see, someone who can help you.” He dips his fingers into the deep pocket in his white coat and fishes out two business cards, handing one to me and one to my mom:

  DR. JENNIFER ADAMS, MD, PHD

  FOCUS IN CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENT PSYCHIATRY

  The small white card feels suddenly heavy in my hand. A psychiatrist? I reflexively look up at Dr. Mark, my mouth open, hurt oozing from my eyes. Haven’t we been talking about something medical here? Weren’t all these tests to measure my thyroid levels or my motor skills or my imbalances? Isn’t the blood test supposed to tell us why I’ve lost weight? I know the answers to the past few months aren’t related to any of these things but . . . but . . . a psychiatrist? Dr. Mark—I thought you knew me! I’m a straight-A student. I’m on the cross-country team. I—

  I stop myself, almost choking on my next thoughts. I was a straight-A student. I was on the cross-country team. I’m not either of those things anymore. But I’m also not crazy. I’m chosen.

  “I’ve coordinated with her office. She has an opening today at two p.m. that the nurse”—he gestures toward the door—“will reserve for you when you go to check out. Jennifer is a personal friend of mine. We went to undergrad together at UVA. Top of our class. She goes to my church. She’s a great physician and a great person. I think she will be a good resource for you, Allison.”

  I’m peering at him through squinted eyes. He’s speaking more to my mother than to me. My mom is holding the card reverently in her hand like it’s a piece of communion bread, and a small thought creeps forward in my mind as Dr. Mark continues on with Dr. Adams’s resume. Why did he have these business cards in his pocket at the ready? He didn’t leave the room during the appointment, so he had to have brought them in here with him before we even talked. . . . And he already knew that she had an open appointment this afternoon.

  I glance at my mom, then at Dr. Mark, and they’re looking at each other like they’ve forgotten I’m here. My mom is smiling slightly. “Thank you,” she says with so much emphasis and emotion you would think he just saved my life. “This really, really means a lot.” And that’s when it dawns on me. They planned this. I don’t know how he knows or when he would have found out, but Dr. Mark clearly knew the entire situation before he even opened my medical file. My freaking mom. I can’t even go to a doctor’s appointment without her poking her nose around. I think about how quickly and eagerly she responded when he requested she leave so he could ask me questions. These little weasels. This whole thing is a ploy! Dr. Mark came into this appointment knowing that this business card would be the end result. Why did he even bother with all those tests in the first place?

  I’m looking at them both in disbelief, but they’re so involved in their conversation, neither of them seems to notice my expression as we move into the hallway. My mom hands the receptionist a form, and without acknowledging us, she picks up the phone and jabs the buttons with her nails. “Hi, yes. I’m calling about a Miss”—she looks down at the form—“Allison.” She is squinting at the paper. “Yes, Yes, that’s her. The one we spoke about earlier.” I feel my mom tense beside me at this hole in her cover story, but I act like I didn’t hear. That is not a conversation I want to have. “Yes, two p.m. Okay, thanks!” The receptionist hangs the phone up with a clatter and sheepishly looks up at me with a kind of half smile tainted with pity. “You’re all set, dear. Dr. Adams looks forward to seeing you soon.” She is talking to me like I just lost an elderly grandmother, speaking gently like I might be unstable. “You be strong now, darlin’.”

  I sneer at her painted lips and enormous hair. What the heck? Be strong? My face crinkles up at her and I shove my head forward in mock confusion. I’m not headed off to the front lines here, lady, I’m just . . . it’s just that . . . my family doctor thinks I’m crazy. And apparently my mother does too. They staged this whole thing because they are both convinced there is something wrong with me. Something wrong with my mind.

  Zipping up her wallet, my mom nudges me gently in my arm and we push through the heavy wooden door out into the sloshy winter mess.

  CHAPTER 17

  Dr. Adams’s office is in an aged town house a few miles from downtown. There is a thick golden placard engraved with her name positioned above the door knocker on an imposing red-painted door. Shivering against the angry sleet falling relentlessly from the sky, I push open the heavy door and scamper into the waiting room. Warm air rushes forward, pulling me toward its comfort, and we are welcomed into what looks to be the Ritz-Carlton of doctor’s offices. Plush couches stretch across an enormous Persian rug. They reach out from the walls, patiently waiting to hug me into their overstuffed cushions. The lamps are an aged copper, and the walls are covered with sprawling paintings of gundogs frozen at the ready, looking out into the tangled forest as their masters aim long, golden rifles.

  “Hi, there. May I help you?” A beautiful brunette is smiling at us both from behind a desk in the corner. My mom moves up to the reception window, and I turn back to the opulent waiting room.

  Again, as in Dr. Mark’s office, the furniture is politely, if not mysteriously, silent and I let myself flop into one of the couches, relaxing slightly as I watch my mom talk with the receptionist. While she fills out forms and hands over her insurance card, I bury myself under a mound of throw pillows, trying to pile them on top of me as a makeshift blanket. I notice that my fingers that were just a few moments ago a sickly shade of blue are regaining some color in the warmth of the office. I shove them down under my thighs to help the process.

  There’s some sort of tinkling Christmas music playing in the background, and with my eyes I trace a strand of garland that weaves across the back of the couches until coming to an end on top of a large bookshelf filled with what look to be pamphlets. It’s like one of those displays at a touristy hotel that’s stuffed with brochures for local amusement parks or historical walking tours. Looking at it a bit closer, however, I see it is nothing as lighthearted as that. Instead, each individual stack of papers is labeled with a bold-type illness: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, multiple personality disorder. It’s a listing of the kinds of diseases that you know exist but no one ever really talks about. The kind of diseases that happen in movies and to celebrities but not
to real people and not in this little town.

  Without realizing I’ve stood up, I find myself shuffling toward the display stand and fingering through the different piles. For some reason I’m drawn to them and begin lifting one and then another out of their holders. I feel my mom’s eyes watching me from in front of the reception desk, so I work my way methodically through the collection, making sure not to spend too much time on any one disease. I don’t want her getting any ideas. I know she means well—she’s just being a mom—but goodness gracious, the woman can meddle.

  Looking through the pamphlets, I’m shaking my head slightly, only becoming more sure that I don’t belong here. Dr. Mark and his dumb questions. My mom and her stupid comments about my hair and grades. I don’t know why I can understand furniture and clothes or why God has chosen me to know that pencils and notebook paper and cracks are dangerous. But it definitely has nothing to do with this. The thin, open pamphlet in my hand is describing “periods of rapid intense food consumption followed by habitual purging, also known as vomiting.” I flinch internally at the mental picture and flip the pamphlet over to the cover—bulimia nervosa. Not me. I slide the white paper back into its pile and pick up the next one: bipolar disorder. The inside of the front cover describes people moving back and forth between periods of incredible happiness and energy followed by intense depression. Nope. Really not me. I drop the brochure back down behind its partners.

  What a joke. What a waste of time. I hope my mom will be annoyed that she took an entire day off work with no result. That’s what she deserves for getting involved.

  The next brochure in my path is typed in the same standard Times New Roman as the other pamphlets. There is a thin orange border running around the edges of the paper and a small picture of hands being washed in the center of the cover. Obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  I’ve definitely heard of this one, I think as I flip it open. Freaking out over germs, arranging things in straight lines. Everyone knows OCD. I picture the mess of unwearable clothes strewn across my bedroom floor and the plaque growing on my teeth after weeks of not brushing. It’s almost funny to think of myself with this one. I’m the opposite of clean and orderly. I skip over the first few paragraphs to the symptoms section and find a column of bullets.

  Those with obsessive-compulsive disorder may suffer from:

  • Persistent, unwanted thoughts or urges

  • Incessant or repetitive actions

  • Invented rules and rituals to control anxiety

  My heart stops and I feel my eyes freeze on the words. Persistent. Unwanted. Incessant. Repetitive. The next paragraph explains:

  Obsessive-compulsive disorder involves obsessions, which are uncontrollable thoughts and fears, that lead the patient to perform compulsions, or repetitive actions. Sufferers find brief relief from the anxiety that accompanies the obsessive thoughts by performing compulsions. The person may or may not realize their thoughts are irrational.

  Holy.

  Crap.

  My eyes shoot to the other side of the room at my mom gathering her purse up from the reception desk. I lurch toward the display and shove the pamphlet back into its place, my hand knocking loudly against the wooden case as she turns toward me. Holy. Crap. Holy. Crap.

  “Everything okay?” She walks past and lets her hand rub gently across my back. “Come sit with me over here. Look at these beautiful couches.”

  My heart is pounding in my ears like a precursor to rapid-fire labeling, but instead it’s the beginning of a hot storm cloud forming in my gut. No thoughts pass through my mind. I am completely still. Holy. Crap.

  “Allison, honey.” My mom is reaching toward me, her soft, warm hand on my arm. Her voice has that worried tone, and I’m ripped from my freeze, pulled back to the waiting room out of pity. “What’s that look on your face?”

  “Hmm?” My eyes focus on her, and I lift my cheeks in an effort at a smile. “What look?”

  “You just looked . . . confused. Perplexed. Like you’re thinking about something.”

  “Uh, no.” I look at the ceiling like I’m trying to remember. “No, not really. Just, um . . . I really like these couches.” I take a few steps and with a little jump flop myself into the deep cushions. My mom joins me, puts her hand on my leg, and smiles at the side of my face. I ignore her, covering myself with another throw-pillow blanket and trying not to stare at the wrinkled stack of pamphlets against the wall. The words are inked across my mind in the same large Times New Roman that stretched across the white paper. I start to let them form in my mouth, but something immediately ushers them away, shooing them out of the light. Inside me I know not to say it. I don’t know why—just don’t.

  “Allison?” The heavy oak door swings open and a round, middle-aged woman in a sweater set is looking directly at me. Her thick brown hair is cut into a clean bob. “Are you ready?” Hands clasped in front of her, she is smiling at me with her eyes.

  I . . . I . . . don’t know? Am I? For the past few months I’ve oscillated between sheepishly hoping someone would throw me a life raft and ardently attempting to hide my thoughts and symptoms from the world. God is talking to me, he has chosen me, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s ruining my life. And my relationships. And my future.

  But it’s still God, I scream inside, flinching. Without meaning to, I look at my mom, who nods at me, patting my knee. I know I can’t tell Dr. Adams, or anyone, the real truth. But there doesn’t seem to be a way for me to get out of this. As I stand up, a heaviness floods into my stomach. With this step, I am officially seeing a psychiatrist. It doesn’t matter so much that I know there’s nothing wrong with me—it’s what everyone else will think. I am now a psychiatric patient.

  I don’t look to my right as I pass the stand of pamphlets, and, thankfully, none of them try to talk to me. Dr. Adams extends her hand toward me. “Hello there, Allison. I’m so happy you’ve come here to see me today. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” For a few moments, I squint my eyes at her, my head cocked to the side, before realizing it’s my turn. With a short hesitation, I extend my clammy hand to her, and she shakes it enthusiastically. “Let me show you into my office.”

  I plod behind her, my flannel pants swishing against the warm air. I feel God watching my every step. Her office is at the end of a short hallway, and it’s smaller than I expected, almost cozy. There is a replica of the couches from the waiting room against the window, and she gestures me toward it with another smile. I lean back into the cushions and watch her as she settles into her high-backed chair about five feet away. After adjusting her clipboard and cardigan, she looks up at me, and for the first time I really see her. Big, blue eyes shine across the carpet. Her plump, rosy cheeks leak happiness and optimism. There’s something calm about her. She smiles at me gently, as if waiting for me to finish my appraisal of her.

  “How are you today?” We make eye contact.

  “Fine,” I peep, barely opening my mouth wide enough to let the sound escape.

  She nods at me, giving me the opportunity to return the nicety, but I don’t. I don’t know you. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t need to—but the thoughts catch on the memory of the pamphlet in the waiting room. Times New Roman flashes against the back of my eyes.

  “Well, that’s good to hear.” She doesn’t move and continues to look at me across the carpet. At least ten seconds pass. To break the tension, I shake my head once up and down and do the cheek lift that I use in place of smiles. “You don’t need to be uncomfortable, Allison. Today we’re just getting to know each other. We’re just going to talk. I promise. Nothing serious.” I nod at her, my lips pursed tightly together. I wasn’t going to tell you anything anyway.

  “So,” she begins, “I’ve heard you run cross-country?”

  With this, we begin a meandering question-and-answer session. I run cross-country and track and play soccer in the spring. I’m an only child. Yes, I do well in school. Spanish is my favorite subject. Math is my hardest. Yes,
I like my friends. Yes, I have a good relationship with my parents.

  As she promised, the forty-five minutes pass with no hard conversations, no probing questions. We stay at the surface. Her smiling, me nodding. At the end of the appointment, as a small alarm chimes from the clock on her wall, she flips her notepad closed and places her hands on it with finality. She is looking at me again. That patient, calming stare. I’m not exactly sure what it means.

  “I want to thank you, Allison. For today.” I feel my eyebrows rise and bring my gaze up to her face. “We’ve just met, and I know that it’s a strange experience for you to spend this time with me, talking about your life. But I genuinely appreciate that you participated in this conversation.” She is holding eye contact with me. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  I don’t know what to do with this statement. Or my hands, or my face. My eyes shift around the room awkwardly, and there’s something growing in my stomach. It’s acid or bile or anger. But . . . no. It’s . . . warmth. Comfort. Relief?

  I open my mouth but, realizing after a few moments that I have nothing to say, close it again with a small squeak. I nod at her once.

  Her smile is bigger than ever as she stands and guides me out of her office and down the hallway. “I think I’d like to see you again tomorrow, if that’s okay with you?” I’m nodding at her, grunting slightly as I push against the door in the hallway. Something in my heart feels lighter, and as I move into the waiting room, it seems like maybe the sun is shining a little brighter. The angry sleet is now a pretty, gentle snow.

  “Mom, time to—”

  But my mom isn’t the only one in the waiting room anymore, and I find my eyes looking at the top of a slick of brown hair. The shaggy mane is falling forward slightly. He’s leaning down, tying a pair of extremely clean Air Jordans. Sensing my presence, the head looks up, revealing a navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants. And the world stops.