Counting

Chapter One

I just find it weird how, two people could love each other but want to exist separately. I guess in a way, it's a similar metaphor to how I always viewed my life. Existing happily and whole fully whenever I felt a sense of tranquility within myself and then diminishing inward toward my uninterrupted, independent shell whenever I sensed trouble or conflict. I was strange like that. Always running towards expected opportunities, but making a mad dash away from any unexpected opportunities. I always liked to be prepared and I always liked to know what was awaiting me around the corner. Surprises were not my friend.

I remember the night I had my first panic attack. I was walking home from a friend's house on a late July, summer evening. I had been internally processing the ultimatum my parent's had given me. Stay with my mother, or move with my father. Their sudden divorce made me feel completely out of control. On one hand, I could enjoy the opportunities with my mom in a town I had grown up in, Or move to the big city with my dad. I wish they wouldn't make me choose between them. Somehow, I always felt like the adult of the family.

I could feel the electricity in the air. The humidity enveloped my frame, reminding me that my existence is fatal. The angry night sky lashed out colors of emotion. Brush strokes of psychedelic purple tore at my veins as a strong hallucinogenic. My hands shook as my stomach turned itself inside out. I didn't know it at this stage, but this would become a regular experience.

A few months after I experienced my first panic attack, I began to notice changes in my thought processes. Little things I would hear, like words, would become the only things I could think about. My day would revolve around rethinking what someone had said and associating it with something unpleasant that had happened later. Little did I know, that I was becoming aware of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

It all started with the idea that if I heard the number thirteen on a Thursday, my mom would die. The only way to save my mother's life was if the person who said thirteen would count to fourteen, skipping thirteen. Not many people understood why I couldn't focus on anything else until the person counted. To them, nothing would happen to my mom. To me, it was a guaranteed promise from fate that my mother would meet an untimely death if I didn't fix it. I suppose everyone thought I was weird, that I had issues. They could not interpret my perspective.

That wasn't the only ritual that made itself present in my day to day life. One day, on the way to school, my brain decided that if my dad didn't tell me to have a good day at school, something bad would happen to me. My body wouldn't allow me to get out of the car until I heard those words, my brain wouldn't risk bad luck. Once my dad had told me to have a good day, I would focus on the hesitance surrounding his wishes. He waited to long to tell me to have a good day, this means that I would still have a bad day. I was terrified of the idea of my day and my experience being out of my control. 

I was trapped, constantly fighting rituals that I knew weren't real. I knew they sounded dumb and I knew that they weren't real but my brain told me I couldn't let them go. The risk wasn't worth it. I had to suffer internally to make peace externally. I felt like the outside world was more dangerous than my inside world. I had to protect myself. 

Not many people understood where I was coming from when I would mention the rituals. If I explained how I thought I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, it was met with personal statements of how others did too because they hated when pizza wasn't cut straight or they got make up on their phone screens. Nobody quite understood how serious my brain was about these beliefs. To the point I couldn't sleep unless I had fixed whatever was tempting fate for something bad to happen. To others, I was overreacting or looking for attention.

After I turned sixteen, my obsessions dramatically increased. I had hoped that they would get better with age as my brain gained perspective, this proved to be wrong. The morning of my birthday, I wore a pair of miss matched socks. One black sock with blue markings, the other black with red markings. Later that afternoon, my dog died. He was old and we knew he was at the end of the road but my OCD told me otherwise. I couldn't wear either of those socks again because they were now "bad luck." Designating clothing items as bad luck became a forte of mine. For a while, jewelry became the main culprit. If the tiniest thing happened to me on one day like forgetting part of my lunch or getting an average grade, it was the earrings fault. I tempted fate to serve me bad luck by wearing specific earrings. I could never wear these clothing items again, they sat untouched and out of site. Cursed items that I did not want to touch, but I couldn't throw away either. I was stuck in a limbo with an inanimate object.

Nobody understood where I was coming from and many people lacked empathy when I explained the compulsions. I wanted so badly to not have to worry about luck all the time or the safety of myself or others with insignificant things. But as hard as I tried, it would never go away. No matter how much I tried to ignore it or distract myself, the compulsions would always scream louder.

As the compulsions increased, I tried to carry on with life as normal. High school was always a drag, even when my OCD was less persistent. I could never fit in with the favored extroverts and instead became known as a less exciting introvert. I spent my time with a close group of two friends. They understood my OCD but I still couldn't help but feel outcasted from time to time. Most days it was myself, Jack and Lizzy against the world. Other days, I felt withdrawn and isolated. Before I knew it, more days than not I was focused on my compulsions and not what was happening socially. My friends began to distance themselves from me. I mean, I couldn't blame them. I was a lot of work and I knew that. I just wish I could have gathered support from somewhere. I felt so alone. 

For a while I believed that I didn't deserve friends. Maybe it was apart of some greater plan for me to be lonely. It was my fault that my best friends were distancing themselves from me and that I couldn't maintain long periods of conversations. I had become embarrassing to be around and they no longer wanted to be associated with my differences. Not only was I obsessing about luck and safety, I was obsessing over my lack of friendships. Which, I suppose, was some what understandable. I isolated myself, yet longed for companion ship. I was a continuous walking contradiction.