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I take a breath, and Drake shakes his head.
“I’m sorry. I hope that didn’t come off as rude. I didn’t mean anything bad by it; it’s just that I’ve noticed some OCD traits. I’ve wanted to ask a few times, but I—”
“Drake.” I stop him by covering his hand with mine. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. My anxiety causes me to be embarrassed in certain situations, but I’m not embarrassed by my OCD. Most people are more uncomfortable talking about it than I am.”
“Will you talk to me about it?”
I nod and finish off my cocoa. Drake takes the cup and sets it on the coffee table.
“My parents worked a lot, which meant I spent a lot of time at home by myself. One morning—I think I was in junior high—I left for school and forgot to unplug the curling iron. My dad was pissed. He yelled and screamed, said I was lucky I didn’t burn the house down. Every day after that, I started checking and double checking myself. It all sort of escalated from there. Did I shut the refrigerator all the way? Did I unplug the curling iron? Did I shut off the stove? Did I turn out the lights? Did I set my alarm? Did I lock the doors? My parents started to notice and took me to see one of their friends who was a child psychologist. I didn’t meet the guidelines for a formal diagnosis.”
“Really?”
“Shocking, I know.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you seem to have a lot of the symptoms.”
“I do, but I’m able to control them if I try hard enough. For most patients with OCD, their obsessions, compulsions, or both aren’t easily controlled.”
“How do you control yours?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Will you try? I’m genuinely curious.”
I think about it for a second and then put it into words as best I can. “When I’m doing what I call rituals: checking my alarm, the lock on the front door, or the refrigerator—”
“Sponges in the surgical room?”
I smile. “That too. When I’m checking those things over and over again, I know I’m being irrational. In my head, I realize I’ve already checked it, but it’s difficult to stop. It’s almost like I get anxious, and I keep doing the ritual until the anxiety subsides. Sometimes I’ll check something two or three times and sometimes thirty.”
“Wow.”
“Thirty is a little excessive. I haven’t been that obsessive in a few years.”
“How many times did you just check the stove?”
“Four.”
“Why four? Is that a special number for you?”
I shrug. “No. It just felt right.”
Drake looks amazed. “Do you have triggers?”
I nod. “Change. I don’t do well with change.”
“But you moved here; that was a huge change.”
“It has been.” I clench my hands into fists, release them, and then blurt out what I’ve been wanting to tell Drake since I moved here. “And you gave me the push I needed.”
“Me?” He points to himself, and I nod.
“Before I came here I was complacent—in a rut, so to speak. I was doing the same thing day in and day out. Consistency causes some of my rituals to diminish. When I’m comfortable, the anxiety isn’t as bad. And I loved it. I felt freed from the one thing that always seemed to be holding me back.”
“So you secluded yourself?”
“In a way,” I answer. “I still had close friends I spent time with, but I avoided meeting new people and new situations in my personal life. My therapist said I was actually hurting myself, and if I wasn’t careful I would turn into a recluse.”
