Darkest Just Before The Dawn

Chapter 2: Disorder

"What seems to be the problem?" The receptionist asks my mother.

"I think she might be obsessive compulsive," My mother explains to her.

"What makes you think that?" The receptionist follows up.

"Tell her, Dawn," my mother insists.

I really don't want to do this. I feel like some kind of a freak. Starting just a few days ago, I've been counting everything that I can associate with numbers, washing my hands repeatedly, and making sure everything in my room is absolutely clean and positioned just right.  It doesn't sound like a big deal, but the problem is, I have no control over these impulses.

"It took us 327 steps to walk here, I entered the door left foot forward and took 12 steps to your desk, I've washed my hands 8 times in the last 2 hours, and your nametag is crooked," I announce to the receptionist.

"Well, look at you," the receptionist says to me, before speaking to my mother. "Why don't you take a seat, and I'll let the doctor know you're here," she suggests.

As we sit and wait to be seen by the doctor, I can't help but count the large tiles on the floor, which there are 375. I also can't stop thinking about how many people have touched this chair, and the complimentary magazines that are laid out messily for the patients. If I didn't think that they were so unclean I would be organizing them into a straight line right now.

"Lerner, Dawn," the receptionist eventually calls out. "The doctor will see you now," she finishes.

My mother and I begin to walk down the hall, following the receptionist to the doctor's office. We take 24 steps down the hallway and enter the third door on the right, left foot forward. We take 6 steps into the room and sit down at the chairs positioned in front of a neatly arranged desk. The nameplate on the desk reads, Dr. Skinner. It's a few minutes before the doctor himself enters the room. He introduces himself and shakes my mothers hand, before extending it my way.

"Sorry, but I don't want to have to wash my hands," I explain to Dr. Skinner.

"Right," he answers, as he sits at his desk.

"So, it's Dawn, right?" I nod my head. "So Dawn, how old are you?" He asks, while leaned forward on his desk, trying to act interested.

"Twelve," I answer.

"How long have you been dealing with these impulses?" He follows up.

"I don't know, a few days I guess," I lazily reply.

"I see," he says as he starts shuffling through papers on his desk. "Do you suffer from OCD, Ms. Lerner?" He asks my mother.

"Me? No," she responds.

"The reason I ask is because 85 percent of these types of disorders are passed down genetically," he explains.

"Her father was OCD," my mother steps in.

I give her a sharp stare. I don't know much about my dad. Mom doesn't like talking about him. He left when I was only 4, I can barely remember him. I'm a bit taken back by the fact that my mom didn't tell me that dad had this same problem.

"I see. I'd like to see Dawn every Monday and Thursday, if that's agreeable," he offers my mother.

"Can you help her?" My mom asks anxiously.

What a joke. My mom has never been so invested in helping me, until I've developed this disorder. Probably because I remind her of my father now.

"That remains to be seen, but yes, I believe I can," he insists.

"What if I don't want your help?" I spitefully cut in.

I do want the help, and I know I'm going to get it, regardless. At this point I just want to aggitate my mom, for keeping information about my dad from me.

"Quiet, Dawn!" She snaps. "She'll be here this Monday, after school," mom explains to Dr. Skinner.

"Good. I look forward to it. I just need you to sign a few things," he says as he slides a couple of forms over to my mother.

As my mother signs the papers and makes small talk with the doctor, I get up and begin to wander around his office. He has several award and honor certificates framed and mounted on the wall behind him. An antique table is pushed up against the righthand wall, that is home to an antique globe, one of those antique balance scales that have a little plate on either end, and a coffee maker. I'm not quite sure what the coffee maker's purpose is on that table, besides driving me insane. I wish I would've never looked that way. On the lefthand wall, are abstract paintings and a rotary phone on a small corner desk. Before I can get a chance to gripe about the coffee maker, my mom is grabbing my hand and whisking me out the door, left foot forward.

"Stop, let go, I need to use the bathroom," I urge my mom as I yank my hand away from hers.

I sprint to the restroom and enter, left foot forward, and furiously start scrubbing my hands. Why did she have to touch me? I wonder if she did it on purpose. A few mintues pass before I hear my mom knock on the door.

"Dawn, honey, I think they're clean now," she says, trying to hasten my procedure.

"Coming!" I assure her.

I exit the restroom, left foot forward, and rejoin my mom in the waiting room.

"All set," I announce.

We leave the building, left foot forward, and start our walk home. Mom never learned how to drive, and as of recently, I refuse to board a public bus, so we do a lot of walking now.

318 steps later we arrive back at home. I hurry straight for the bathroom to vigorously wash my hands. Once finished I go to my room and turn my television on to watch the Atlanta Hawks basketball game. I was always a bit of a tomboy. I prefer sports over talk shows, classic rock over boy bands, action figures over barbies, and most of my friends are boys. Midway through the third quarter of the game, mom calls for me.

"Dawn, sweetie, why don't you come down stairs for a little bit,"She urges.

I'm still a little angry that she kept information about my father being OCD a secret. I know she despises him, but she acted like my OCD developed out of nowhere, when she knew all along.

"I'm watching the game, I'll be down later," I try to blow her off.

"You sure? I ordered a pizza, and I'm about to watch Serpico on the VHS player," she intrigues me.

She knows I'm a sucker for Serpico. Serpico is a movie based on a true story, about a cop who works in a crooked department, and refuses to take part in the illegal activities of his fellow officers, eventually bringing them down. That movie is the sole reason that I've always wanted to become a police officer. I head downstairs and join my mother on the couch, to watch the movie.

"You know I love you, right?" Mom asks, a little more than half way through the movie. "It's gonna take a whole lot more than OCD to change that," she assures me, with a smile.

"I know, I love you too mom," I admit, as I move closer to her and snuggle under her arm, against her chest.

I can never stay mad at her. She's taken care of me, by herself, for the last 8 years. I know that, that's no easy feat. Within minutes, I feel my eyelids grow heavier as they begin to close, and I fall asleep.