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Then he gazes up at the building, probably six stories high. Each flat has a balcony.
You could tell him.
Just as that thought lands, my mind says it again.You could tell him. And I think I’d be okay if I did.
I practice it silently a few times, but he’s faster. When he looks at me, he asks, “Jules, is there something more to the balcony thing?”
25
YOU ARE THE LIST
Jules
There is no judgment in his question. All my long-held impulses to hide and deny, to cover up and keep secrets, have vanished here with him in Paris.
Where I’m far away, and where I suppose I feel safe.
“I have OCD,” I admit. “I haven’t told anyone besides Camden.” It’s easier to say than I’d ever expected. Maybe because he asked his question so genuinely.
Or maybe it’s because I’ve been doing the work. Facing the thoughts when I need to. Trying to understand myself more. Perhaps, I don’t need to hide behind aneverything is finepoker face.
Finn nods slowly, processing but not judging. “I don’t know much about OCD. Except for what you see on TV or in the movies. Handwashing, stove-checking,” he says. “But I don’t know if that’s part of it for you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have those compulsions, though I do understand them.” That’s what most people think OCD is. Yes, some people practice those rituals. But that’s not how my anxiety manifests. “But I have these…intrusive thoughts,” I say, sharing that secret, shameful part of me out loud for perhaps only the third time—I’ve shared it with Camden, Shira, and now, this man.
I’m grateful for the quiet street. Grateful for the anonymity of Paris. But mostly, I’m grateful I don’t have to keep the secret from him anymore. “When I’m on a balcony or a rooftop or a bridge, or even a subway platform, I sometimes think terrible things,” I say, then I take a fueling breath. “Like that I could throw myself off the balcony. I could jump off a bridge. I could step in front of the train,” I say, my voice wobbly, my throat tight. “Or even at your home, when you sliced the pineapple. I just think…well, I hate knives. They make me think too much. About uncomfortable things. But I’m not suicidal. I swear I’m not,” I say, imploring him.
His gaze is caring as he keeps it locked on me. “I understand. I get it. You don’t want to, but the idea takes hold.”
“Yes,” I say, desperately relieved he’s following. “I think these things when I’m there. I think that I could hurt myself, and it makes me really uncomfortable, and I feel awful, but I have to try to talk back to my brain and remind myself the thoughts will float away…I think other awful things too,” I say, the words piling up, and I’m blurting them all out now, but I want to blurt out all these words, to say them to someone else. “Sometimes when I’m in work meetings, I start thinking about sex, and I don’t want to think that because I don’t have those feelings about anybody I’m in a meeting with. They just come to my head, and I hate them, but now that I understand where they’re coming from, I try to let them float by, accept them so they can eventually go away. I think that’s one of the reasons, besides my ex, that I didn’t have sex for so long.”
He pauses, seeming to quietly take that in. A bird chirps a couple floors above us as I study his thoughtful expression, wishing I knew what he was thinking. Have I scared him? Is he disgusted?
“What do you do about the OCD?” He asks in a kind tone that says he isn’t afraid. “It sounds like you’re treating it? If that’s the right word.”
“I see a therapist who specializes in it. She’s helped me learn some skills. Some things that I can focus on instead. Things that I can say to myself when I have the thoughts so I know that they aren’t who I really am or what I want. I tell myselfI’m the reader of my thoughts, not the writer. And that helps. They’re part of my brain but not part of a true desire. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods passionately, reassuringly as he steps closer to me. “That must be hard for you. Even if you know where these fears come from, they’re still real.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice pitching up. “They are. But I can’t avoid them all the time. I have to face them. That’s why the other day, I went out to the balcony too. And I stayed there for a bit. My therapist encouraged me to have exposure around some of these things instead of avoiding them.”
“I sensed that was important to you. I’m sorry I plowed ahead.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “It was kind. But I had to do it too, you know?”
He nods. “I do. I get that. I’m glad you felt comfortable joining me there.”
“I did. I feel better telling you too. So you…get it,” I say.
All at once, I feel lighter. I wasn’t looking for this understanding from him but now that I have it, I don’t want to let it go.
His soulful green eyes meet mine, holding my gaze with his own vulnerability. “If there’s anything I can do…if there’s anything that you think would help me understand it and you, would you let me know?”
I could cry. Those aren’t the words of a man who just wants to fuck me. Those are the words of a man who cares about me. Just like I care about him. I feel safe with him. I feel like myself with him.
“Honestly, you did that just now. And the other day, too, on the balcony. Just that kind of quiet encouragement helps. But mostly, thank you for listening.” But that’s not all. I’m so glad he asked. I didn’t know I’d want that till it happened. But I feel seen, and understood.
Finn holds my face gently. “That can’t have been easy. Thank you for letting me in.”
