The Girl With OCD

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

     That night, I lie in  bed, thinking about Ashley's words. She seemed so sure, so whole, so complete - so not me. I'm messy, broken, and abosutely crazy. Yet, she seemed to make sense. Ashley can help people like me... Maybe, when I'm older, I could help people with OCD. If I survive until then.

   I sit up in bed and look at the calender. My last day here at the treatment house. It hasn't done much good. We've done exposures, we've tested out different medications, but still no giant headway. The only other option left is brain surgery.

     Like that's going to happen.

    If you get brain surgery, you're going to hell!!

     Well, that settles it then. I'll go to hell if I stay OCD, and I'll go to hell if I get brain surgery. But I can't go to hell. I'm a Christian... God knows I'm not trying to go to hell, or to sin, or whatever, but I just can't help it! And since I can't help it, I should still be able to go to Heaven... argh!

     I jump out of bed, frustrated with my own thoughts, as usual. It takes me two hours to pack my things, because Cage keeps popping in for a visit. He's worn out his welcome, for sure, but he's like those annoying cats that won't go away. He sits and the door and "meows" until you give in and do your "ritual". But I'm getting better at ignoring that "meowing". Mrs. Minetim has said that if you ignore it for a while, it'll get worse, and then get better, and you'll forget you had a ritual to perform. It makes sense, but it's very scary during the getting worse part. You get a weird sensation in your head, and you feel like you're going to faint, but then it stops, and you forget. I guess forgetting is a part of OCD. I wonder if you can ever forget you've had it.

     I give all of my new friends a long, tearful, good-bye hug. We swap emails, addresses, phone numbers, and facebook names. Darrel seems to be a lot better. So does Christina. Actually, most of the teens seem to be doing better, except Iris and myself. That's to be expected, I suppose. Hopping onto the train, I give one final good-bye. No one is going back on the same train as me.  Darrel is off to a aunt's, Catherine is taking a later train, and everybody else is either being picked up by their families or going to visit relatives. I pull out the book I'm reading, and let my mind wander into the story. I like getting lost in books. It's so therapeutic, so calming, and I feel tranquil even if I'm reading an action book. And I can forget for a few hours.

     A few hours later, I set aside the book. I start a friendship bracelet for Jesse, as thanks for the angel. I'm getting better at twisting the threads, turning them from a pile of string into a mini-tapestry. It's very satisfying once you're done a bracelet. I have at least ten on my wrist at the moment. Jesse's is black, white, and navy blue. The colors go well together.

     Finally, after two days of traveling, I'm home. I grab my suitcase and step off onto the platform. My mom rushes up and embraces me in a heartwarming but slightly painful hug. Jesse waves from behind her.
     "Oh, Rose, I've missed you so much, even though I got your letters," Mom wipes away a tear.
     "Yeah, those were actually pretty regular," Jesse laughs, "Is that another OCD thing?"
     I glare at him, "No, I'm just organized, thank you very much." I punch him on the shoulder.
     Mom looks at me worriedly, "You look thin. Are you feeling alright?"
     "Yes. They just fed us really healthy," I say. And it's true. Not a whole lot of sweets and sugar to vamp up our anxiety levels. The sugar makes us more hyper, which in turn raises the anxiety.  Those people were pretty smart.

     As we walk to our car, Jesse asks, "So, what have you been doing lately?"
     I half-smile, "Trying to forget."