Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  But I cause cancer! it screams.

  I reach down and fold it over onto itself. Shut up.

  We settle down on a wooden bench, our shopping bags tucked between our legs, sharing a hot pretzel from an Auntie Anne’s. It’s our routine. I don’t think my mom and I have ever entered a mall without splitting a buttery, salty, delicious, hot pretzel. I pull and she pulls and two rounded arches tear off into our fingers. I’ve already decided that mall pretzels are a different species from normal, small, hard pretzels, which are prominent members of the danger list. They’re totally different things, I assure myself.

  “You know, it’s really been remarkable how much progress you have made in such a short time with Dr. Nelson. It’s like you’re—”

  “Mom!” I bark at her. “Don’t, okay? Just, please, don’t.” The walkways are crammed with people, their legs buffeting against ours, but I’m alone. And trapped. I can’t talk about this with her.

  “Allison Marie. Enough of this attitude and enough of shutting me out. I’m worried about you, damn it!” Pretzel gripped between her two fingers, she slams her hand down on her thigh. My eyes spread wide. She never curses at me. With a small noise, I move to speak—

  “No. Allison, no. For just a second. I am your mother. And I love you. And I want to help you. That’s my job. That’s what I’m here for. So stop shutting me out. You can trust me, and I want to be here for you.” She isn’t crying, but I can hear the pain oozing out of her voice. Months’ worth of pent-up frustration and concern. Weeks’ worth of silent waiting rooms. “I’m your mother. This is my job. Please let me help you. Let me be a part of this.”

  I take a deep breath and shoot my eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not you, Mom.” The sentence comes out with a long, meaningful exhale. “It’s just that, I don’t know, this stuff is embarrassing. It’s weird. Even I don’t really understand it.” I shrug at her and we make eye contact. I take a bite of pretzel to buy a few seconds, but I don’t really have anything else to say. “It’s not you.” I shake my head for emphasis. “I promise.”

  • • •

  I’m on my way to chemistry and I’m strutting like I’m on a catwalk. Today I’ve got on my safe khakis, a bra!, the pink button-up shirt my mom picked out (which, surprisingly, isn’t that bad), and the new white blazer. I look awesome. I feel awesome.

  I can do anything. Me. This girl. I can overcome pencils and calculators and spend gift cards. I can take notes in class and drink milk and wear socks. I’ve got my chin up and I’m trying my best not to tiptoe while still avoiding the sidewalk cracks. Humming to myself, I push my way into the heated sciences building. Eyes up, shoulders relaxed, I’ve blossomed out of Hunchback of Notre Dame and into a normal, upright position.

  I’m a few steps into the classroom when I realize Ms. Matthews is calling my name. I turn to her, and it’s obvious from the look on her face that she repeated herself multiple times before I heard. “Allison. Thanks for joining us. You’ve been missing a lot of class recently.”

  I freeze like a frightened deer, and I begin to tremble like one too. “What’s that?” I had heard her but I don’t have a response. Stall, stall, stall.

  “I said that you’ve been missing a lot of class recently.” She pauses for five long seconds, during which every head in the class turns to look at me. I feel my right leg rising into the air. I take a gulp of breath and hold it in. “And this is a very important chapter we’re on. It’s really the foundation for the rest of the semester.”

  There’s no question here, but apparently, her bulging eyes insist, I’m supposed to respond. A warm nausea rises in my stomach. My appointments with Dr. Nelson. We meet twice a week in the afternoons. Before the start of the semester, Dr. Nelson and my mother quietly coordinated with school administrators so I would be granted excused absences for all my appointments. Under my adamant input, however, they did not contact any of my teachers directly. I don’t want them to know what’s going on. I’m a straight-A student in their eyes—or at least I hope they still see me that way—and I want to keep it like that.

  “So?” She throws her flabby arms into the air, and her collection of bracelets and bangles clinks loudly together

  I look back up at her. “Right, yes. I’ve had appointments.”

  “So many? In the first weeks of school?”

  I nod, tight-lipped, and let out a small “mm-hm.” Pivoting on my planted foot and coming down from the flamingo stance, I move to march in between tiles to the lab table in the back.

  “Do you even eat?” Her voice hits the back of my tangled head.

  “What?” It comes out like a croak, and I whip around to face her.

  “Your pants. They’re falling off you! It’s all bones and”—she crinkles her face—“skin.”

  The room is silent. Twenty-five curious heads await my answer.

  “Yes, I eat.” I suddenly wish I had my pile to hide behind. My shoulders begin to slope forward under my new jacket, returning to their default position. “I mean, I’ve lost some weight, I guess. But I definitely eat. It’s just . . . that . . .” I’m flailing. Rambling. My mouth opens and closes like a fish slapped on a dry wooden dock.

  “She sits with me at lunch, Ms. Matthews.” The voice comes from nearby. It’s Jenny. She’s got her hand raised, and she’s pushing up off her desk with her arms so she can look the teacher in the eye. “The girl eats like she’s starving. Trust me. It’s actually impressive.”

  I look at Jenny, who is staring straight ahead, and then up at Ms. Matthews. A few seconds of silence. “Well, coulda fooled me.” She moves her arm in the air, pointing at my head, then lowering her finger down my body. And with that she turns to the blackboard and picks up a stick of chalk.

  Jenny sits in the fourth seat of the outside row. When I move by her, I focus all my energy on looking as normal as possible. Maybe she’ll notice my new blazer. I can’t resist a glance. Just one furtive look in between steps. I can’t be sure—I am trying so hard to be subtle—but I think she might be smiling at me. Not a usual Jenny smile, only the tiniest of movements around the corners of her lips. A small raise of her cheeks. But I’ll take it. Thank you, Jenny.

  CHAPTER 28

  After we spent the better part of my appointment deciding how to explain my OCD to Jenny, Dr. Nelson had the idea for me to give her a pamphlet just like the one I first found in Dr. Adams’s display. I wouldn’t have to tell Jenny face-to-face. I could just give her the information and let her absorb it on her own. The pamphlet, now crinkled and folded, has been weighing down my book bag all day. Since I got it yesterday, I have carefully picked my way through the words and bulleted lists, circling things and making small notes. Highlighting certain sentences and scribbling examples that Jenny may have noticed. It is a CliffsNotes version of my OCD. And I’m going to give it to Jenny. Today. If I ever work up the nerve.

  I almost did it after art, but it just felt too ambitious. Too early in the day. And I thought about sliding it across our table at lunch, but that didn’t seem right either. I hadn’t been to the cafeteria since last semester. Plus, Rebecca would be there. The afternoon whirs by until I’m in chemistry. Seeing Ms. Matthews, remembering how Jenny stood up for me, I know now is the time.

  “Jenny, wait!” I yell at her at the end of class, reaching forward before the bell has finished ringing. She might hear me, because she turns slightly, almost glancing at me, but then keeps walking forward. I snatch up my binder, throw my book bag onto my back, and tiptoe toward her. “Jenny!” She stops and pauses for a few seconds, recognizing my voice. “I have something for—”

  But my voice catches in my throat as I see Ms. Matthews rise from her desk in the corner. Jenny looks at me and moves her head just an inch, asking me to meet her in the hallway. We both shuffle out. She clears her throat before turning around.

  The pamphlet is in my hand, and I’m rubbing the paper between my thumb and forefinger. “Look.” I take a deep breath. “I’m really sorry for the wa
y I—”

  “Are you anorexic?” Her voice cuts into me. It hits me like an unexpected punch, and my head jerks physically backward.

  “What?” I am so surprised by her question that I fumble around for words before sputtering, “M-me? What?”

  She clenches her face at me, shoving her hand forward. “Yes, you,” she mimics. “I mean, it’s obvious. You’ve lost so much weight. You seem depressed. Are you anorexic? Is that what has been wrong this whole time? Is that what you’re hiding?” They’re accusations as much as they are questions.

  “No, I—I—”

  “You could have just told me, you know. I could have helped you. Or at least tried, somehow. I could have done something so you didn’t turn into . . .” But she stops, realizing what she is about to say. Her eyes finally meet mine and she shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She seems upset by my secrets, not by the times I yelled at her, like I thought. “I could have been there for you.”

  My heart floods with warmth as my muscles soften and I shake my head. “I’m not anorexic, Jenny.” I briefly fidget with a hangnail, working up my last bit of courage, before quickly extending the now-warm pamphlet. “I have OCD.” She takes it, looks down at the paper and then back up at me with a completely blank face, unsure what to do. “Well, I thought you could read this and then you would know what has been going on the past few months. Why I’ve been acting this way.” I’ve got my mouth pushed to the side, a scalding wave of heat creeping up my neck.

  She quietly flips through the pages. “This is why you count your steps?” She points at a scribbled note in the margin, and I nod at her. She reads further but doesn’t say anything else. I can tell she doesn’t know how to react. This is completely foreign.

  I interrupt her thoughts, trying to steer her in the right direction. “But I’m getting better now. I’ve made so much progress. My doctor has been really impressed.” I try to say it casually, gesturing at my khakis. “I just wanted you to know. I just . . . I wanted to explain.”

  It feels good to talk to Jenny again, even for just a few minutes, even if it’s about this. She deserves an explanation for the way I treated her last semester. Somehow she is different from my parents. It’s like I owe her the courtesy of telling the truth. She flips the pamphlet over quickly, looks at me through slightly squinted eyes, and nods, mostly to herself. “OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder.” She gestures at me with her head, and we walk together down the hallway. “I thought this was when you washed your hands all the time? And were scared of germs or something?”

  “No, it’s not always—”

  “Yeah! That’s for sure!” She forcefully interrupts me. “You are not afraid of germs. Your bedroom is gross!” We laugh, and she nudges me playfully with her shoulder.

  “No, not all OCD is like that. I mean, some is, definitely. There are lots of different kinds.” We push through the double doors into the sunshine. “Mine is mostly about worrying something terrible is going to happen to me or my family. And then doing all sorts of weird stuff to try to prevent it.” She is silent for a few seconds and we continue to walk toward seventh period.

  “Hey,” she almost whispers as she nudges me softly with her shoulder. I turn quickly toward her and we make eye contact as a sea of students filters around us. Her face warms into a smile. “Thanks for telling me.”

  I stare at her, even after she has turned to look away, and it takes a few seconds to register: I’ve got a friend again. A friend who knows the truth. And I’m surprised how easy it was to tell her, how naturally I labeled the past few months with the letters OCD. Almost like I’ve accepted it.

  • • •

  That night I allow my book bag to collapse to the floor of the den, sending reverberations through the house. I crouch down to the carpet, on the opposite side of the room from the cancer desk and computer, far from the reach of their dangerous cloud of carcinogens. The binder I’ve been using for all my classes is splayed open in front of me. I pull a wooden yellow pencil out of my book bag and, with a small zap of electricity in my brain, begin scribbling away on homework.

  But something’s off. There’s that itch on the back of my brain. That tension growing in my temples. And my skin. It’s burning. I start to squirm around on the carpet, still half focused on my homework, when I hear it. Or maybe feel it. An invisible sneer: You thought I was safe, but I’m your worst nightmare. I jerk up straight, trying to tune my body in to the source of the anger. It’s not the pencil, not the notebook paper, not the desk. I look down and feel my chest growing hotter, the skin on my arms screaming against the heat. My shirt. My new gift-card shirt. It’s furious. Glowing. It hates me.

  I throw my pencil down and grab the bottom hem of the shirt to pull it over my shoulders. To save myself. Get it off, get it off, get it off before it can hurt me. Allison, where are you now? Dr. Nelson’s voice echoes in the back of my mind and I stop, the shirt frozen half on my body, half draping over my head. Dr. Nelson. I see us in her office, the beige chair sitting on the beige carpet. And I’m reminded of who I am. This is OCD, I tell myself. The room is silent. This is OCD. Just like pencils and calculators. Just like socks and sidewalk cracks.

  Guided by these thoughts and Dr. Nelson’s invisible presence, the shirt still buzzing with cancer rays around my head, I slowly lower my arms, allowing the fabric to fall back onto my body. My brain clenches and a knot is forming deep under my shoulder blade and there’s a screeching inside my ear and I’m an eight. My heart is pounding. My pointer finger is digging aggressively at a bleeding hangnail on my thumb. It’s just OCD. It’s just OCD. It’s just OCD. And I’m a seven.

  And as I sit rigidly on the carpet, my anxiety falls to a six, a five, a four. Until, just two minutes after almost stripping off my shirt, I’m able to breathe again. I roll my head slowly around in a circle. All the happiness I felt about reconnecting with Jenny filters away. Yes, I’ve made progress. And compared to where I was a few weeks ago, I’m an entirely new person. But it’s clear I’m still a prisoner. I still jump at my mind’s beck and call. With a deep sigh, I know I’m no longer the old Allison. As much as I wish I could be. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be that person again. I can’t stick to my five-year plan if I can’t even get through a homework assignment. I can’t make honor roll if I’m cowering from my own mind.

  But if I’m not that girl, who am I? If I can’t be an overachiever, if I can no longer stake my pride on my sparkling straight A’s, then . . . then . . . then I don’t know.

  • • •

  After the shirt incident, I become more aware of all the times I’m attacked by angry thoughts. I’m no longer proud that I can write, that I can wear khakis and socks. Because there is so much that I can’t do. I’m still miles away from normal. Gray clouds hover over my head through the next day until my afternoon appointment with Dr. Nelson. It’s like she can sense my frustration, because her tone is a little more subdued than usual as we sit down across from each other.

  “So, how have the past two days been?” Her head is tilted to the side, concern and sympathy on her face.

  “Fine.” I look at her like I do my mom, challenging her to pry information out of me. But she only nods, her hands folded on her lap, smiling gently. And we sit in silence. Until I can’t hold it in anymore. “It’s just that . . . I still have so many thoughts!” I fling my arms forward in frustration. “I know I’ve gotten over a lot of things, but it’s just constant. It’s like I’ll never get better. I’ll always be like this.” I gesture with my hand toward my knotted hair, feeling sorry for myself.

  Dr. Nelson doesn’t move and continues to nod gently, as if she knows there’s more.

  “I don’t know. I guess . . . I guess I’m just upset. About this. All of it. Like, I know I’m doing well but . . . I’m still . . .” Lost for words, I lift my arms in the air and flop them down loudly on top of my thighs. Warm tears well in the corner of my eyes.

  “Okay, okay.” She adjusts in her chair. “It se
ems like you’ve had a tough few days, hmm? What brought this on?”

  “My life brought this on!” I say dramatically, trying to feel annoyed at her. “I’m ready to be over this! I get it. I have OCD. I need to fight against my thoughts. But it’s not helping! Nothing is helping!”

  “Allison, I think you’re forgetting what incredible progress you’ve made thus far and”—I move to interrupt her, but she raises her voice and talks over me—“and you will continue to improve. I think you know that. In fact, I know you know that. But you can’t expect magic. You need to be patient with yourself.”

  “I have been patient. And it sucks.” I lean back in the seat with my arms crossed. “I’m tired of this.” Saying it out loud, I realize how frustrated I’ve felt, even if I haven’t allowed myself to admit it. “Will I ever be all the way . . . you know. Like I was before?”

  We make eye contact, and she lets out a long sigh.

  “You will probably always have some level of OCD thoughts. Some days it will be worse than others. It will ebb and flow. And you’ll learn to control it better. But OCD tends to be for life.” The clock on the wall ticks into the quiet room as I look down at my hands, trying to figure out how I feel. Dr. Nelson clears her throat. “I know this is hard. And as you said, it sucks. It really, really sucks. You didn’t ask for this. You had no idea what OCD was really about until a month ago, right?” As much as I want to pout, my eyes are drawn to her face, and I feel myself nodding, agreeing with her. “But here’s the thing: that doesn’t matter.” We stare at each other as her words settle on the room. “You have obsessive-compulsive disorder. For richer or poorer, for better or worse.” She shrugs at me. “That’s just how it is.”

  I’m tempted to be angry. Or maybe start crying. But I know she’s right. She’s always right.

  “So, you’ve got to do the best you can with what you’ve got. You’re a smart girl. You’re determined.” She’s smiling at me now, and it’s so genuine, and I know I’ll never forget her and what she’s done for me. What she’s saved me from. “You’re going to be fine, Allison Marie. We just have to keep working for it. Like boxing.”