OCD ➳ Larry Stylinson

Chapter Twenty Eight: Another Party

"Uh... nothing, actually," I said, twiddling my thumbs.

"C'mon mate, you have to do something," piped Liam.

"Yeah, it doesn't have to be big. Maybe we could just all hang out at my house?" suggested Louis. The others voiced their approval of the proposal. I stayed quiet, thinking it through. It didn't sound like a bad idea at all really.

"Um, okay? I guess, if you want..." I said, unsure. Louis took my hand and squeezed it gently.

"Positive."

This birthday was really turning out to be pretty alright.

*

Therapy was no use to me, really. It gave me more stress, made me more anxious, and provoked every kind of mental problem I was trying to demolish, which was the opposite of what it was supposed to do. Thankfully, this was my last day. 2 full months of this torture, and it was finally over. Anytime the tall women would ask me something personal, I'd lie. I always lied.

"Have you self-harmed again?"

"No"

"Do you still feel depressed?"

"No"

"Are you happy with yourself?"

"Yes"

"Have the voices stopped?"

Yes."

All lies. I was getting better, but I wasn't better yet. All she wanted to do was dive into my brain, expose me like a nerve. I didn't want her to. I hated her.

Anytime I'd bring therapy up with Louis, he'd say the same thing.

"It's what's best for you."

So I kept my mouth shut and suffered under the watch of her beady eyes.

Today, however, it wasn't so awful. She set her clipboard down. She didn't try to stop me when I began rearranging the magazines on the counter in front of me. She let me open and close the door as many times as I needed, probably because it was my last day.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Good," I answered simply, leaning back against the chair.

"Good," she responded. She didn't scribble something down like she usually did. She just looked at me.

"This is our last session," she stated.

"I know," I said. It was awkward. There was nothing in the air but silence, the only noise being the distant clock.

"That clock always annoyed me," she said, laughing slightly. I raised an eyebrow, and she gestured to my hand. I had been unconsciously tapping to the beat of the clock.

"You aren't magically cured from your OCD, Harry, but I do think you're getting better." I nodded. She was right. Louis helped.

Veronica reached into a plastic bag that was beside her chair and pulled out a small notebook. It had a brown leather cover-the ugly color that matched the chairs-with white lined paper inside. She handed it to me.

"I want you to keep a journal. I do this with all my patients after they are done seeing me. Write in that journal anything you would share with me if we were to continue our sessions," she said this all with a huge smile plastered on her face. I nodded, flipping through the empty pages. It was a nice journal.

When the hour was up, I said goodbye (skipping over the "thank you" hug that most patients give her... for obvious reasons) and I left, happy to be free from the daily torture of therapy.