Just Breathe Anthology, page 21
When breakfast is complete, she washes the plate and the knife, dries them, and puts them back in their places. Then she washes her hands, returns to the bathroom to brush her teeth again, dries the sink, fills the water glass two-thirds full, and waits beside her desk until the clock on the shelf reads 6:33.
Three plus three is six. It is perfect.
Then she sits, logs in with her forty-second password, and begins to review the spreadsheets.
This is the benefit of a broken mind. A broken mind sees broken things. They light up, as obvious as a crooked line, and it has only been four minutes when she finds the first invalid piece of information. The needle scratches until she finds the answer, exactly five minutes later.
Rubber band around the wrist, five snaps, and she is back to searching.
At three o’clock in the afternoon she will stop working. She will complete her evening routine, follow every rule her mind has created, and then she will take one pale, oval pill and set it on her bedside table, along with a glass of water, two-thirds full — and then Amy will swallow the pill that makes her sleep.
Sleep is nice. There are no dreams anymore, but there is also no counting, no rules, no measuring. One small, round pill and the world goes to sleep along with her.
Everything is better this way.
Chapter Two
Wednesdays are delivery days.
It is easier to handle the break in routine on Wednesday. On a calendar there are exactly three days on either side, in German the word is Mittwoch. That means ‘middle of the week’. Balanced, even, and it keeps the Noise at bay even as the rules are broken.
Groceries, necessities, laundry.
The laundry people are expensive, but everything comes back perfect. Others had mixed her black pants and underwear with other items, and they had come back with lint and had to be thrown out. These people understand. The whites are always white, the blacks are always black, and there is no fading, or lint, or colors bleeding.
Less work is done on Wednesdays, because Wednesday is also when the kitchen must be sanitized. Inside the fridge and out. Inside the oven and out.
Between the kitchen cleaning that accompanies the grocery delivery, and when the package delivery arrives, there is one hour for Pilates and yoga. It is this shift in the routine that allows for a movie in the evening. There is no need to clean what has already been cleaned, or so she has been told, and so she sits in the center of her three-cushion couch and chooses a new movie to watch.
One that her friends online have recommended.
Sometimes the movies are good, sometimes they are not, but they are always watched to the very end when the screen turns back to the search function.
For some reason, even after the chaos of the day, these are the nights that the small round pill takes longer to kick in. Sleep does not come so quickly, and there is more counting.
How many times have these sheets been washed?
Is it time to replace the batteries in all the clocks?
Are the clocks still synced?
How many breaths was that in the last minute? An even number, or odd? A multiple of three, odd or even, would make it okay, but what if I lost count?
Chapter Three
Every Thursday is Dr. Lehey.
She arrives in a crisp white pant suit that is clearly reserved for their meetings. The one time she wore a different color, Amy couldn’t focus on anything but the pastel pink shirt underneath the off-white jacket.
Now Dr. Lehey wears the same clothes.
High heels left in the hall, alcohol wipe passed over each foot before being placed in the trash bin, and then once the bin is replaced in the pantry they take the same positions. Dr. Lehey in the chair that only exists for the guests Amy never has, and Amy on the center cushion of the couch.
“Tell me how your week has been,” Dr. Lehey begins, a soft smile on her face. Neutral and comforting — or at least it’s meant to be. “Amy?” she prompts when an answer isn’t provided after a long pause.
“Your nail polish is chipped. On your left foot.” That was the wrong answer.
“I’m sorry. Can you tell me why that bothers you?”
No. “I just noticed it. That’s all.”
“You’re speaking in threes again, Amy.”
Flinching, she counts her last two answers, and they are multiples of three. “I’m sorry,” she forces herself to stop at two, swallowing the urge to say I am sorry and make the sentence work.
Anxiety flickers like a bad light bulb in the back of her mind, buzzing loud enough that Dr. Lehey’s next comment is lost in the noise.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Dr. Lehey sighs, makes a note on the pad in her lap, and then the noise abates enough to hear her again. “I said that I thought we were making progress a few weeks ago, but you seem to have regressed. Has anything happened?”
“Nothing has happened, everything is fine.” Looking around, Amy can check every item in her almost empty apartment with a glance. Nothing out of place, which means everything really is fine.
The only thing out of place currently is Dr. Lehey, and her large black bag, which is not parallel to the chair legs.
“Okay, then let’s talk about your friends online. Last time we spoke, you said that”—she flips the pages to check her notes— “someone named equilibre had been talking to you a lot on the OCD forum. Has that continued?”
The flinch when she names it is unavoidable. It’s like a curse, one that has plagued her for so long that the reaction is as much a part of her as the need to count. Clearing her throat to a count of three, Amy forces herself to meet the woman’s eyes. “It’s been going well. He’s nice.”
“Can you tell me more about him? What does he have to say?” She’s prompting, seeking more information, but the world online is so much different than the real world. Cleaner. More sacred, more precious. It feels wrong to share it with this woman who doesn’t understand at all, despite her profession.
“He understands what it feels like… to be like me. Like this.” A small shrug, and the anxiety starts to rise. Soon it will choke her, make it too hard to breathe, too hard to count, and then the Noise will swallow her whole. “It’s easier to talk about it.”
“Easier than it is with me?” she asks, and Amy can’t help but smile a little because Dr. Lehey spoke in threes.
“Yes, I think it is. Does that bother you?” Question for a question, both in threes, and it’s like a drug that makes her purr deep inside. Balanced and even.
“Nothing you share bothers me, Amy. I’m only here to help you.”
Ruined. The scowl that crosses her face is not unnoticed, but Dr. Lehey lets it go when she starts to speak. “I’m doing well.”
“Have you gone outside?”
“There’s nothing outside that I need.”
Judgment. That’s all that exists in Dr. Lehey’s face, but the woman is too much of a professional to say what she really thinks.
This bitch is crazy.
There’s no fixing her.
She’s broken, broken, broken.
Instead, there’s a ghost of a smile before she finally speaks. “You’re a lovely girl, Amy. I think there’s a lot waiting for you in the world if you give it a chance.”
Give the world a chance? Why?
Nothing in the chaotic maelstrom of the world outside her apartment door has ever tempted her. She’d built this sanctuary away from all of that, organized deliveries and services to ensure that she never had to let the Noise take over again.
This was safety, this was good — why couldn’t Dr. Lehey see that?
“I already told you, I’m fine. I enjoy my life, my home, and I don’t need anything else.”
“Aren’t you lonely?” For once, it seems like an honest question. An actual curiosity about the strange shut-in with the broken brain.
Still, lonely is an odd concept. The people online, people like equilibre, make the world feel full and complete. He makes her feel light, warm… good. It’s dangerous to look forward to anyone as much as she looks forward to messages from him, to lean on him and crave his perfectly crafted messages at the end of every workday. Yet, for so long he has been there. Locked behind the sterile perfection of the computer screen where everything aligns in harmony. There is nothing missing for her, but Amy can never describe it right. She can never make the words make sense aloud. And letting people in her apartment, people like Dr. Lehey, just ruins the environment. As soon as she’s gone, there is so much cleaning to be done to get it all right again.
So, how can she be lonely when everything she needs is within the safety of this place?
“No. I’m not,” she finally answers, shifting on the couch as Dr. Lehey sighs.
“That was three again, Amy. I’m worried that your meds aren’t helping, should we try something else? There is a new drug I read about last week that is supposed to be very effective in people with your condition.” She’s digging in her bag, looking for more notes, but Amy is already watching the clock, wishing for once that it would move faster than it should just to make her leave. “Here. It’s got a mild sedative quality, but early reports say that it’s no more than a Xanax in effect. Would you be willing to try it?”
“You know I don’t like to change my meds.”
A heavy sigh, uncharacteristic of the doctor, escapes before she speaks again. “I know, Amy, but I want to help you.”
Then leave.
Swallowing the words, she forces a smile on her face. “I’m doing just fine, I promise.”
“Are you sure the forums aren’t making you worse? You joined this one a year ago, and since then it seems like you’re regressing more than you have in the past.” Dr. Lehey sighs, resting her hands on her knees like she always does when she’s fed up with the bullshit of this disorder.
If only walking away from it was as easy as walking out the front door.
“There’s nothing wrong with the forums.” Sitting up straight, Amy tries to project the confidence she knows the woman wants to see. “They help me. It helps to talk to people who really understand.”
“I may not have OC— your disorder, but I do understand the challenges you face. I’ve helped many people through it. I’ve helped others like you build a real life, free from all the compulsions. Don’t you want that?”
And let the Noise out? No, I don’t.
Still, it’s always better to lie. Telling the truth gets you strapped to a bed where they break all your rules. “Of course, I want that, and I’m working towards it. I’m better than I was, don’t you agree?”
“I do, Amy. I remember how you were in the hospital, and this is nothing like that…” A sigh as she smiles again. “I just want more for you.”
“What more is there for me?” Looking around at her perfectly organized apartment, Amy spreads her arms. “This is everything that I want. I have a job, a home, and I’m happy!”
“I’m happy to hear that. I really am. I just wish you had someone in your life. Someone that understood and would support you. Help you really live your life.”
A soft laugh rumbles in her chest as Amy meets the doctor’s gaze. “I thought we were supposed to be realistic in these sessions, doc.”
“I don’t think that’s unrealistic, Amy. If we continue to work on this, continue to adjust your meds, I think you can reach a place where you’ll be able to do anything you want.”
And what if what I want is to do exactly this?
“Okay. Send the new meds, and I’ll try them.”
If Amy didn’t know better, she would have thought she’d told the doctor she’d won the lottery with the way her eyes lit up. Stuffing her notepad and pen back into her bag, she leans forward. “I really think this is going to help you, Amy, and I’m going to make sure that I have this new medication shipped to you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Cynthia.” Faking a smile, Amy stands up, accepting the awkward shoulder squeeze as Dr. Lehey moves towards the front door a full eleven minutes before the session is officially over.
“This is progress, Amy. You even called me by my first name.” Flashing another encouraging smile, she slips into her heels. “I really think these new meds will make a difference.”
“I appreciate it. Please drive safe.”
“I will, just remember to sign-in and accept the new prescription when you get the email!” With a wave of her hand, Dr. Lehey is down the hall towards the elevator, and Amy is finally able to shut the door.
The floor needs to be mopped, all of it, and then a shower. Maybe even an air filter change before all of that if the scent of perfume is real and not imagined. There’s still ten minutes left of session time, and the decision will be made at the end of it.
Even from the door Amy can see the small scrap of pale paper near the chair. Walking to it, she finds a tiny fragment from the spiral edging of Dr. Lehey’s notepad.
If the woman really gave a fuck about Amy’s state of mind, she wouldn’t leave things like this lying around.
Even after the small scrap is in the trash, it still grates on her, like a needle scratching over a blank record. Endless white noise, skipping, crackling, droning — destined to drive her insane.
Without order, without the rules, it will expand, swell, and become Noise.
Inescapable, destructive.
She’ll go mad.
Walking to the coat closet, Amy pulls out the floor cleaner and begins with the doorway where Dr. Lehey first walked.
Chapter Four
It’s nine o’clock before she has cleaned, caught up on her work, submitted it, and finished enough of her evening routine to sit down at the computer and log in.
Today there are exactly three messages waiting in her inbox on the forum, and all three are from equilibre. Each one is written like a poem, perfectly balanced lines in multiples of three, and while they ask about her day, and her work, none of them are judgmental.
Reading them is the antithesis of speaking to Dr. Lehey, and the first addresses the woman directly.
Happy Thursday, Mittwochgirl.
I know today is when the doctor comes to talk to you, and that she often leaves a mess. Did she?
I hope not. If she did, she doesn’t understand you. Accept you.
That’s the problem with these doctors. They see everything about us as a problem instead of the solution.
We have to handle it ourselves.
You handle your world so perfectly, and as I have said before it is inspiring.
Looking forward to hearing back from you when your workday is done.
Always here. - Equilibre
Her anxiety dissipates, a genuine smile comes to her lips, and although it feels strange, when she responds she tries to make each line exactly twenty-one words. Equilibre likes the number seven, and she likes the number three. It is perfect.
Like him.
It’s 10:14 when she finally finishes her response and sends it, fourteen minutes past the time she is supposed to take the small round pill — but for some reason it feels okay.
This is definitely progress.
The nighttime routine is hurried, but complete, and as soon as she is between the covers the darkness swallows her whole. Erasing the counting, the compulsions, the endless urges, and leaving behind only a soft hum that echoes in the black.
Chapter Five
Friday is a blur of normalcy.
The alarm goes off perfectly, and three beeps later Amy shuts it off. Everything about the morning routine flows, work starts on time, but at 9:09 the ping of a forum message comes over the computer speakers.
It’s such a surprise that for a moment the spreadsheet on the screen blurs, and all of the numbers tracking in her mind skitter to the corners as if to make room for the message.
Minimizing the spreadsheet, she pulls up the forum and sees the message from equilibre, but the preview already reveals the contents in their entirety. It reads: I love you.
Three words, just like his multiples before, in every message he’d sent since they’d had the first discussion around their compulsions so many months before. It’s perfect, beautiful, and a little frightening all at the same time. Almost unbelievable, too good to be possible for someone like her.
But still, she finds herself clicking to reply, anxiety strumming through her nerves with such force that her hands shake. If she takes too long he might change his mind. Take it back. Realize just how wrong it is to like, maybe even love, a broken girl like her.
It takes every ounce of self-control she has, but she types the response with only a handful of backspaces: I think I love you too, equilibre.
The reply is seven. His name one more than six, which is two sets of three.
Even threatened with the scratching needle of Noise, she hits send, and leans back in the chair. Staring at the inbox as if he will write more. Waiting for it.
She drinks one third of the water in the glass, teeth clenched against the buzzing in her ears, fighting the tremors still lingering in her hands as her mind whirs. Is this love? Is this the thing that Dr. Lehey so ardently wishes for her to find? It kind of feels like it. There have been so many movies about the subject, a million descriptions, but none of them were written for someone like her.
Yet, as she thinks of his name there is a warmth in her chest. Spreading slowly like melting butter, coating the Noise and muffling it. Surely that means something.
Right?
The last third of the water is swallowed more carefully, each sip counted in sets of three. It eases the scratching inside her head, calms it, but then the ding of a message almost makes her drop the glass. Swallowing the last bit so that the glass is empty, she counts to three, sets it down in the center of the square coaster, adjusts it to be perfectly parallel, and opens the message.
I’m sure it seems ridiculous, but your answer was more than I could have ever hoped. You… are perfect to me.
