Chapter 7
I tuck my suitcase under my bed. Going over to my drawers, I pick out a pair of soft, worn, light blue skinny jeans, and a blue pullover hoodie. After my shower, I make my way down to the recreation area, where we will meet the other teens. Darrel looks up and smiles, and I walk over to him and sit down. The girl with the white hands smiles from across the room. Eventually, we're all here, and a lady walks into the room.
"Hello, my name is Mrs. Minetim, and I will be your psychologist. First, I would like you all to sit in a circle. Then, you will, in order, say your name and what kind of OCD you have. No secrets here," She adds, looking at our startled faces. "I'll start," She clears her throat, "My name is Evelyn Minetim, and I used to have OCD pertaining to hand washing." She smiles and then gestures at the boy sitting next to her.
He stands up, while saying, "Can I be on an odd number? I hate even numbers..." The girl beside him nods and then moves into his old spot, making room for the guy. She then looks around.
"My name is Iris Petinam. I have OCD about me going to hell," she says. I smile, and nod.
We find out that the boy's name is Garret, and that he has an irrational fear of odd numbers. The girl with the white hands is named Catherine Smog. She has a germ-phobia type of OCD. Eventually, they come to me.
"Um, I'm Rose Larsen, and, uh... I have scrupulosity OCD," I look to Iris, and then continue, "just like you. Good to know there are others with it!" I smile, "But it changes a lot." I start to tear up, but quickly brush Cody from my mind. Mrs. Minetim passes me a tissue box, and then the next girl starts talking.
It turns out that there are ten teens here. We range in age from fourteen to eighteen. Darrel is seventeen, Iris is sixteen, and Catherine is fifteen. After our meeting, they tell us to go get ready for supper. I go back to my dorm and pull out my letter supplies. No phones allowed, so they let us write letters. I first start one to my mother:
Dear Mommy;
There are other people like me! It's so good to know that another girl has OCD like mine! Scrupulosity! I'm not happy that she has OCD, of course, but that I'm not a freak. Supper is soon, but I thought I would start a couple of letters. Well, I'll write a bit before bed every day (starting tomorrow), and then mail the letters all together each Friday, when they send out the mail. Love you, and I will write soon!
~Rosie
Next, I start a letter to Jesse:
Hey, there Jess!
Well, it sure is interesting here! Everything is white, brown, or blue. I'm having a guessing game with myself to see what the next room's color will be as I'm walking. Supper is soon! And, by the way, I met a guy named Darrel from South Detroit. On the train. I kid you not. I almost laughed out loud. But I refrained myself, thankfully. Anyway, got to run, don't want to miss out on the food!
~Rosie
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At the meal, there is clanking of people setting their spoons down several times (I am guilty of that), people tapping the table with a certain beat and number of taps, and people constantly wiping their fingers with napkins. After dinner, Mrs. Minetim stands up for announcements.
"After supper, please make your way to the recreation room. We will have an exercise in analyzing your own OCD, and being conscious of others' OCD. See you in half an hour!" She then goes back to her seat and resumes eating, as does the rest of us.
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.
I wake up to a shiver. It's not snowing anymore, but a thick quilt of snow covers the ground. The way that the windows have frosted is beautiful. It's almost like peacock feathers the grow from the bottom of the sill and twirl their way upward.
As I get ready for the day, I think about the past week here. It's been fine so far, and we've really gotton to know each other with a few "trust" exercises. For instance, we had to climb a tall structure and then fall off into the arms of the surrounding teens! That definitely made us trust each other with our lives, even if we weren't quite ready to trust each other with our secrets.
I feel like today is going to be different. Special. So, I dress for the occasion, or for the unexpected. I abandon the flowy tops and skinny jeans in favor for a T-shirt and navy blue cargo pants. I toss my hair into a pony and secure my bangs with a simple bobby pin. With one swift glance in the mirror I burst into a slight torrent of giggles, my moment of hilarity focused on my version of being "dressed for the unexpected". I look like a city girl heading off to the gym.
Darrel smiles as I meet him in the hallway, "Well, hello there. You look awfully cheery for this particular day."
I frown, "What's today?" I search my brain, thinking what on earth today is.
"Exposures."
I run my hands from the bottom of my face to my eyes, covering them, "I don't want to do them."
Darrel puts a hand on my shoulder, "No one wants to, Rose."
"Well, at least we get the morning to prepare, right?"
"We start right after breakfast," Darrel laughs.
"Argh...," I rub my face again and then touch my ears twice.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders this time, "Ah, It'll be fine. Just some of the basics today, I think."
"What's the basics?"
"You know, getting us to do what we fear. For example, I'll probably have to wacth a violent clip of a movie," he pauses, cringes, and then holds his hands up, opening and closing them five times, "Sorry about that. Anyway, Garrett will probably have to go second, or fourth, or whatever. Catherine won't be able to wash her hands. I have no idea what she'll do for you and Iris, though..." he trails off, unsure of what to say next.
We reach the conference room. Almost everyone is sitting around the circular table. On the brown wood sits a single flower in a vase, stretching up to the roof.
I wish I was a flower. Maybe then I would be able to just sit and watch other people deal with their problems. Everyone would take care of me. That would be nice. Hm... I wonder what kind of flower I'd be. Ha, I bet I'd be a rose.
I do a facepalm and sit down I sit down on the nearest chair, to the left of Garret and the right of a girl named Tina. Darrel walks a little ways to the back of the room and settles down next to Iris and Catherine. Everyone looks nervous now, even Darrel. I notice that Mrs. Minetim isn't here yet.
"So," Tina chirps, "how many of you have been to something like this before?"
"Me," Darrel says.
"Mhm," Iris mumbles.
"Unfortunately, yes," a guy named Matthais says.
Almost everyone says some form of yes. Am I the only newbie?
I shrug my shoulders and sigh, "No. First time."
People nod their head, remembering their first time, and Tina says, "Ah, well. There's a first time for everything. I think you'll do fine-fine-fine." She stutters, a display of OCD, "Fine. Fine. Anyway, you look like a strong person."
"I hope I am," I mumble, and settle down more into the squishy chair.
"You are, " Darrel replies.
Mrs. Minetim comes in, and nods at us silently. She gives out brown folders with our names on them, and then starts to speak, "These are your own files. You will keep a daily journal of your experiences, and there are pages in there for that. As well, there is a schedule of which exposures you will be doing over the next three weeks. There are times, rooms, and which staff you will be working with," she smiles and gestures to the group of people that followed her in. They say their names in turn and what they specialze in. I think that I'll be working mostly with a young woman named Ashley, and a man who looks to be in his thirties named Patrick.
For my first exposure, Ashley sits me down in a chair. We're alone in a plain room, with sheets of paper posted in no particular pattern on the wall. I try to stand up, becuase Cage is telling me that, if I don't, I'll kill Ashley. She stops me, though, and puts her hands on my arms to keep me down.
"It'll be alright, Rose," She says comfortinglly.
"But... But, if I don't I'll- you'll-" I stammer, still trying to stand.
"Nothing will happen. I promise. You won't go to hell, I won't die, and you won't go insane. Nothering will happen. You'll stay seated, and we'll all be fine. Everything will be okay," she takes one hand away, slowly, seeing if I will try to bolt.
"How do you know?" I'm involuntarily crying. I didn't think that I would, but Ashley just seems to understand me, to know my thoughts, and to actually care. She's not like Mrs. Minetim.
"I used to think the same thing, dear," she moves her hand to my shoulder, lightly, not to restrain but to comfort. "I used to be like you."
"And... you're better?" I curl into a ball, and Ashley puts both hands on my shoulders.
"I'm much better, praise The Lord. He's blessed me in so many ways, Rose."
"How is this a blessing?" I spit, sounding harsher than I meant to.
She takes my hands in hers, and looks me in the eye, "I can help people like you."