The Girl With OCD

Chapter 7

     Darrel and I walk down to the recreation room with Catherine. I look over to her sickly hands, and then question her about them.

     "Well," she starts, "washing your hands continually makes them white. All of the scrubbing takes off the first layer of skin." She smiles sadly, and rubs her hands against each other.

     "I'm afraid that, if I watch anything to do with criminals, I will turn into one," Darrel says, rubbing his forehead, "It's horrible. It's hard to do anything. I can imagine the same is with you guys." He nods towards us, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

     I look towards my new-found friends, "Mine... changes. And it doesn't just impact my life. I'm not just worried about killing someone, I've actually killed my best friend."

     Their faces turn white and they look at me as if my black, swirling emotions have leaked onto my skin. My deformed heart and feelings rise to my throat, and threaten to break out of my body. Cody's image careens into view, his coffin follows, and my eyes blur with tears as Darrel and Catherine look scared to death. 

     "It said - it said- it said that if - if I turned the vehicle, then he would die. I tried not to turn it, but, then, he reached over and tried to - to turn - to turn it himself. We crashed into a truck running a red light. H- he died in hospital twelve hours later."

     I break down and fall to the ground, finally letting myself cry, feel all the pain and guilt, and Darrel and Catherine sit down next to me, holding me in a hug. I have just met these people, but they know my innermost secret, and they understand. They understand, because obsessive compulsive disorder has affected their lives as well, and they know what it feels like. How it it feels to break into a sweat, and to feel like they're going to throw up, because the anxiety is so intense. My heart warms. I know, deep down, that these two will always care for me, no matter what happens from here on out. Darrel and Catherine will never let me down.

    After the exercise, which involved writing down our OCD symptoms and thoughts, and a short talk about how to deal with others who have OCD, Mrs. Minetim calls me over. She discusses to me about what happened in the hallway. She says what everyone says, that it wasn't my fault. I glare at her, knowing my rudeness but not caring. How can she call herself a phycologist if she doesn't even understand me? I thought someone here would. I though she would. Turns out I'm wrong. I shake my head, refusing to believe her. I walk back to my dorm.

     I pick up a pen and continue my letters, occasionally having to strike out words or spell things wrong.

     Hey, Jess!

 People here tell me the same things as you and my mom tell me. "It's not your fault", "It's just OCD", and "It was just the truck driver's fault". Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. It was my fault, and I can't even go to jail to relieve my guilt. I'm trapped, now wallowing in my grief. My grief over my sin, and that I lost my friend. Even the guy who thinks that he will go crazy and kill people if he watches a movie with violence thinks that it's not my fault!! Man, I just want to scream. When I come home, take me to a place where I can scream without people thinking that I'm being murdered. I need the relief.

     I stop Jesse's letter and start one to my mother.

     Hi, Mom.

 Everything is fine. Wen had a good first lesson. I'm a little homesick, but I hope I will get over it soon. Not to say that I don't want to come home, but, you know... Anyway, love you! I will add more later.

     I can't rant at my mom like I can rant at Jesse. He gets it, he has his own problems. My mom wouldn't get it. She's on the outside. She's looking in on the pain, instead of being in the mix. I sigh, shuffle the papers into order, and get changed into pajamas. I then curl up in bed and listen to the snow softly falling. Before I go to sleep, I look at the carved angel, and then pray to God, asking for nighttime relief.