Non Verbal

20

Rowan's POV. 

'Hello Rowan, please take a seat.'

This is my first session with a specialised OCD professional. I've had it all before; therapy, counselling, I've seen a psychiatrist...

All of it has had little effect, especially in the long term. They don't understand that I can fake it, I can pretend for long enough that I am okay in order to stop whatever the session is.

That's what always happens, I get a new therapist, they do everything they can... it's still bad, I still get the thoughts, the compulsions, but I feel bad. I feel like I am letting them all down, like I feel bad for the therapist.

I don't want to be the one that tells them they're shit at their job.

So I fake it. For a while. Or for years... And then it just gets worse and worse until it turns out I can't hide it anymore.

This lady, her name is Gem, she is deaf so knows how to sign which is suitable seeing as I can't fucking talk at the moment. She assessed me told me she thinks I have a type of OCD which is related to magical thinking.

Which made me raise an eyebrow because she sounded so sure. So convinced.

I've been told I have a different type of OCD eight times before, by different specialists. I am not even sure it's OCD by this point, they change their mind on the type like I do my ability to speak.

I sit down in her office, walking to one of the chairs that looks least awkwardly placed to where she was sitting in her chair.

She's also in a wheelchair. I didn't know this. We had a video call the other day, that's where she assessed and told me the treatment plan. This lady, Gem, is probably about thirty I would say? She has her hair neatly braided down her back, her hair fair like the rest of her.

I was bored of therapy already.

And this was day one with her.

She lifts her hands to sign. "Are you still using sign as your main source of communication?"

I nod.

"Great ok, I am going to turn my hearing aids off because it helps me to concentrate on you, please alert me if there's any sort of fire, because not only will I not hear it, I also need the extra escape time." She nods down to her chair and gives me a grin, then lifts her hands to her ears and fiddles with her aids.

She then looks up at me and gives me a nod.

I just stare back slightly blankly. I don't know what to say.

I took Lottie home earlier, then drove directly here. So now I am sat, tired, hungry, and very much not ready to get into the deep dark crevices of whatever the hell is wrong with me.

"Have you ever knocked on wood? Made a wish then blown out birthday candles?" She asks.

I nod. Because haven't we all?

"Most of us, if not all, has engaged in some superstitious thoughts or actions at some point. Another example is not stepping on three drains, or maybe... saluting magpies?"

"Yeah, everyone I know says the 'hello Mr magpie' phrase, why?" I ask, confused why she is bringing this up.

"If you were to imagine superstitions on steroids, you would end up with Magical Thinking OCD."

Magical Thinking OCD. There's that phrase again. I stare at the wooden coffee table, honestly just tired.

"Do you know what magical thinking is, Rowan?" She asks this verbally, which drew my attention up to her. She sounds like my dad, she isn't hard to understand, but I do remember at one point as a child suddenly realising that my father's voice sounded different than others.