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How do I know for sure it’s OCD?
I filtered through the results then went back and opened the sites I skipped in case I missed something.
My search continued through the night.
Google, YouTube, Instagram, Pinterest.
The definitions and descriptions came up again and again, but no one said what I needed to hear. ‘My OCD says, ‘You want to fuck ____’. Fill in the fucking blank: your child, your dog, the cashier at the grocery store, your husband’s best friend, your best friend.
I understood why I couldn’t find it. Who wanted to admit to these thoughts? What if everybody’s OCD voice was different? What if only mine sounded like this? What if that meant it wasn’t OCD?
It was OCD. ‘You know this!’ I thought as I pounded my fist into my thigh.
But what if it wasn’t?
What did that make me?
Dangerous.
No matter how I turned it over, one truth remained: I could not deal with the mental torture and psychological agony of the fallout. I knew how to fix it, but was unwilling to participate in exposure therapy, because the exposure was to minors and that was not anyone’s risk to take.
I had to be responsible.
Lucky’s knock sounded at the door. Steeling myself for what was to come, I dragged my heavy limbs to the door and pulled it open.
Lucky leaned against the railing, tall and golden in the sun, stinging my eyes. His expression was more serious than I’d ever seen it. Pushing off, he cupped his hand around my hip and dropped a kiss to my temple before stepping around me and walking inside.
Behind him, the stairs beckoned, and I saw myself at the bottom.
Let yourself fall. Concrete and metal. Torn flesh and broken bone. Blood painting the pavement. Do it.
I swallowed.
“How are you doing, baby?” Lucky asked from behind me. “You don’t look like you’ve slept.”
I turned to face him. I should witness the devastation I wrought.
A line formed between his brows as his stormy eyes searched mine.
I took a breath. “I can’t see you anymore.”
He gaped and his eyebrows arched as he struggled to form words. “What the fuck? How did you come to that conclusion?” He stepped closer, his mouth pulling into a frown as he studied me. Compassion softened his face. “Last night was a lot. I put too much on you. That’s on me.”
He stilled as he waited for my response, feet braced, fingers tucked into his back pockets. Only his eyes moved as he studied me.
“No,” I shook my head definitively and spoke firmly. The last thing I wanted was for this uniquely beautiful man to think he was that he was the problem. “You are perfect. Dolly is perfect.” My voice shook. “But I can’t be a stepmom, Lucky.”
His face fell and he opened his bandaged palm to me. “Minty, it was an emergency. I promise, it wouldn’t be an everyday thing. I don’t even have her with me every day. Can you not share me for the few days a week I get to be with her?”
Lover. Daughter. Family. Friends. Community.
Belonging.
Everything I’d ever dreamed of, he offered. For a moment my resolve weakened, and I wondered if I could have it.
What if you lose control?
I closed my eyes and spoke from my heart. “I am truly, to the depths of my soul, sorry, but you deserve more than I can give you, well, less than what I give you.”
