Infinite Pieces Volume 4, page 10
“Hello,” she said, as Hell-dog stopped in front of her. “Where did you come from?”
He huffed, his breath hot and sulphurous. His coat looked patchy, and she didn’t like to think what consequences he’d faced for his betrayal.
“Still like sausages?” she asked him, and his mouth dropped open, tail setting up a slow wag. She got up. “Come on, then.”
She picked up the urn and went inside, followed by the hellhound.
If You Don’t Finish Reading This, Everyone You Know Will Die
DAVID W. WRIGHT
If You Don’t Finish Reading This, Everyone You Know Will Die
DAVID W. WRIGHT
If you don’t finish reading this, everyone you know will die.
Don’t ask me why or how.
Rules are rules. I don’t make them up. I just abide by them.
Always.
Now, the first thing you need to know is that Erica and Dr. Halprin were wrong.
7
Thursday March 8
8:14 a.m.
Today, Dr. Halprin will cure me.
At least that’s what my girlfriend, Erica, claims.
Forgive me if I’m skeptical, but I’ve never heard of anyone being “cured” of OCD. Supposedly this guy is good. She saw him interviewed on a local morning show or something. He’d helped a man who hadn’t left his house in over a year.
I’m not quite that bad, so maybe there’s hope for me.
I hope.
In case you’re one of the few people who haven’t heard of OCD, it stands for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, a mental disorder which plagues the afflicted with unwanted obsessive thoughts and compulsive actions. While scientists are divided on the causes, (and symptoms vary greatly) here’s how I describe what I experience to people who don’t know what OCD is:
Imagine I told you not to think of an elephant. Because if you do, you’ll die tonight.
7
I can guarantee you one thing: you’re gonna think of an elephant, whether you believe the part about dying or not. 7
While most people can simply forget about the elephant and the threat that thinking of it may or may not pose, people with OCD cannot. Not easily, anyway. The constant thought, or loop as I call it, is the “O” in OCD – the obsessive thought that won’t go away. A person with OCD must engage in a compulsion to neutralize the obsessive thoughts. That’s the “C” – compulsion.
The compulsion can be mental, physical, or both. In either case, it’s like an itch that MUST be scratched. A mental form of OCD might be counting to 10 repeatedly in your head until the “danger” goes away. Physical compulsions can include such things as touching a wall, blinking, hand washing, cleaning, or some completely unrelated action that has nothing to do with the actual threat, such as writing the number “7” over and over.
OCD is like superstition on steroids.
Remember that grade-school rhyme, “step on a crack, break your momma’s back?”
For a child with OCD, that isn’t just a rhyme. It’s a dire threat. And even though we know that the cause and effect are impossible to link, we avoid stepping on cracks well into adulthood, just in case.
That, my friend, is OCD in a nutshell.
While I’ve been afflicted with OCD for as long as I can remember, long before I even knew what it was, it’s gone from minor annoyance to life-crippling in the last year. What had been manageable spiraled out of control after I received a chain letter in the mail. For someone with OCD, a chain letter is like a curse, plaguing your mind until you fulfill the instructions in the letter. In my case, I had to write out one hundred copies of the letter and send them to complete strangers around the country.
Now the OCD has gotten so bad that I can’t leave my house without touching the doorknob 72 times. Yes, you read that right. 72 times.
God forbid I get interrupted, lose count, or think I may have lost count.
In any of those cases, I have to start over.
This is but one of many of my rituals, each of them with odd rules that come with them. Rules that make no sense to anyone but me. Because I know if I break them, something horrible will happen.
Horrible thoughts run through my mind all day and night, what-if’s and predictions of bad things ranging from the simple, like my cable will go out during a baseball game, to devastating, an asteroid will plummet to the earth and wipe out millions of people. My brain, at least I assume it’s my brain and not some supernatural curse, conjures up the image of something bad and the only way for me to prevent it is to cancel out the thought.
For instance, if I think you will be hit by a car, some part of me believes it will happen unless I then force myself to think, “You will not be hit by a car.” I call this un-thinking, and it’s one of my regular compulsions. And I have to do it seven times in order to cancel out the cursed thought.
My other rituals include hand-washing, blinking, counting, and never stopping on an odd-numbered page. If an article or book ends on such a page, I have to go back and read the last even numbered one thoroughly from top to bottom in order to scrub the stain of it from my mind.
Fucking weird, right?
Try maintaining a job or anything close to a normal social life while dealing with these compulsions. Fortunately, I’m a web designer, and I’ve been able to make a decent living without ever having a face-to-face with clients.
But the worst part about these things (and the dozens of other rituals I’ve since stopped or graduated from), is that I know they’re all bullshit.
I know I don’t have to do any of them.
I don’t have to cancel out a bad thought.
Just because I think my cousin Sandy will die if I don’t touch the doorknob, doesn’t mean I have to touch the doorknob! 7 And just because I write that Sandy might die, doesn’t mean I have to write the number “7” to cancel it out.
Nothing bad will happen if I never surrender to the compulsion.
I know this!
And yet, I can’t stop.
It’s like an itch you try to ignore, but can’t. It MUST be scratched.
And I NEED help.
So today I’m going to the doctor and hoping for the best.
Wish me luck.
Thursday March 15
2:02 p.m.
I’ve just returned from my second visit to Dr. Halprin.
I’d meant to update you last week, after my first visit, but I was stuck in a vicious cycle of touching the doorknob when I returned home.
Ironic that the day I went to a shrink to get better, I had one of my worst ever episodes of compulsive behavior.
Today is a bit better.
I’m on an antidepressant, prescribed by Dr. Halprin. I’m not sure if it’s working yet, since the doc said it would likely take a few months to see results. But I feel less anxious today. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect. Tomorrow, the doc is bringing me in for some exposure and ritual avoidance therapy. The idea is to force me to do things I wouldn’t normally do, such as touching a doorknob without my sleeve or shirt tail, while also avoiding the compulsions I use to cancel my “bad” actions.
I’ve read that the combined methods have helped many OCD patients.
Perhaps there is hope after all.
I hope so. I don’t know how long I can hide how bad things have gotten from Erica.
I’ve been dating Erica for about nine months. She’s my first serious relationship in six years, but the closer we get, the more I fear that I’ll lose her or something bad will happen to her. I get overwhelmed and my OCD starts to flare.
When we first met, I was doing well. My compulsions were minimal, and almost entirely mental (counting, repeated phrases, and such). Mental compulsions are the easiest to hide. Nobody, Erica included, ever picked up on what I was doing. At worst, they thought I was zoning out or not paying attention for a moment. They had no idea I was actually reciting an elaborate prayer I’ve been saying since age seven.
Just one of many defenses I use to fight the bad thoughts.
But as I’m engaged in more and more compulsive actions, it becomes harder and harder to keep this from her.
Erica is the sweetest woman I’ve ever known. We met in a Barnes and Noble back when I still went out. I was in the cafe, drinking a coffee and reading a magazine, killing some time until the bus was due (I don’t drive for fear of cars) when I saw her staring at me and writing something down.
Girls don’t usually come up to me. I’m average looking, not ugly. But I don’t exactly look friendly, always off in my own internal world.
Anyway, there she was, with long dark hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and beautiful blue eyes, staring at me. It took her a moment to realize I’d noticed her staring at me. She smiled, then held up the sketch, to show me what she was doing.
I was surprised she chose me as a subject, and went over to get a closer look. The drawing was great. She apologized, and said when she saw me, she felt compelled to sketch me. She explained that she’s a big people watcher, and there was something “unique” about me.
Normally, I would take that as an insult. The way she said it, with her quirky sideways smile, made it sound like a compliment.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Anthony,” I said.
“Erica,” she offered her hand. I shook it.
Normally, I avoid handshakes at all costs. Even from beautiful women. I’m also a giant germaphobe (I know, big shock!) But there was something different about her. I shook her hand without apprehension, and no desire to reach for my Purell.
Hell, I almost didn’t care if she had 15 different diseases.
I’d be willing to catch each and every one.
My feelings were as weird as they were instant.
I was shocked when Erica agreed to meet me for dinner a few nights later.
Soon, we were dating and things were getting serious. Lately, she’s been hinting at us moving in together, either her apartment or mine. While my place is bigger, hers is closer to her office, where she works as a graphic designer for a small local music and culture magazine.
But we can’t live together.
I can’t let her see how bad my OCD truly is, and there wouldn’t be any way to hide it if we lived together. I’ve told her about it of course, but lied about how bad it was, saying the worst of it was when I was younger.
She was fascinated at first. Asked me all kinds of questions. It was liberating to share these things that I’ve hidden for so long, even if I were still hiding the worst inside.
Best of all, she wasn’t scared off, didn’t think I was a freak.
Then again, she hadn’t seen the worst of it – the facial contortions, walking backwards through doors, the blinking fits, or any of the other weird shit that started in middle school. Things I couldn’t help back then, drawing the laughter and taunts of my classmates.
The kids had all kinds of names for me in school.
Freak
Retard.
Spaz.
You don’t forget shit like that.
As accepting as Erica has been, I haven’t fully unmasked. The idea of her seeing me in full freak mode terrifies me.
No way someone could accept that part of me.
So I have to get it under control before she realizes how bad it really is.
The closer I get to her, the harder it is.
I hope this treatment works.
FRIDAY MARCH 16
I did it!
I touched the elevator button with my fingers.
Dr. Halprin brought me downstairs to the lobby of the medical plaza and told me to touch the button.
No shirt sleeve. No tissue.
Just skin.
I pressed the button and two thoughts instantly went through my mind.
First, I thought of all the germs, and was certain I’d come down with a cold within days, if not hours. Next, I had a prediction . . . that a woman in red who got on the elevator would die in a car crash if I didn’t un-think the thought. 7
Un-thinking a thought is another compulsion. Say for example that I thought the woman would die in a car accident. 7 I then have to un-think it, saying she will not die in an accident. 7 And I have to do this seven times, and quickly.
If I’m interrupted, the event I predicted will happen.
Though I have no evidence to suggest that it would actually happen, these are the irrational rules my brain has constructed and I’ve lived by them for years.
And though I know it’s crazy, that she wouldn’t really die, I can’t take a chance! 7
So after I touched the button, Dr. Halprin noticed that I was quiet. He asked what I was thinking, interrupting my un-thinking.
I told him the truth.
He said, “Don’t un-think it. Let the feeling go. See it as the irrational thought it is, and just . . . let it go.”
I tried to stop the un-thinking, but couldn’t.
He saw that I was struggling, and said, “It’s okay. We’ll get there in time. Let’s concentrate on the physical stuff first.”
Erica is out of town visiting her family in Vermont for two weeks. She invited me to go, but I told her I was swamped with work (partly true).
I’d love to have some success before she gets back. She’s been dying to go to Francisco’s, a restaurant all her friends have been raving about. I’m not good at restaurants, particularly if they’re new or unfamiliar.
So many people. So many germs.
Not even counting the food.
I wasn’t this bad when we first started dating, but it’s been at least three months since we’ve gone out to eat. I’ve always told her I was too busy, or unable to make a reservation, steering her towards one of the “safe” restaurants nearby, places I was less weirded out by, where I could enter without my fears getting the better of me.
I think she’s starting to suspect why we haven’t gone to Francisco’s.
If she starts pulling that thread, the whole thing will come undone.
I have to get better.
TUESDAY MARCH 20
8:20 p.m.
Today I had a setback.
The day started out okay.
I actually left the house without needing to repeatedly touch the doorknob! That may not sound like much, but it’s a load off my mind, and shaved about 20 minutes from leaving the house.
Dr. Halprin and I did the elevator thing again. This time we also rode it, to address my fear of being in enclosed places with people (and their germs).
As each person got on the elevator, I said, “What floor?”
I then pressed each floor’s button as requested. I was doing pretty well. But then Dr. Halprin asked me to do some homework. I told him one of my goals was to go to Francisco’s with Erica.
He suggested that I go there on my own first to get over my initial fears and to find a comfortable place to sit with her.
Like dipping my toes into a pool instead of diving right in.
So I went at dinner time, figuring I may as well get the full experience of the restaurant’s rush hour. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a wait, so I stood outside with a group of 20 or so people. I don’t smoke, and can’t stand the smell, so I waited away from the rest of the group, at the edge of the parking lot.
That’s when I saw the woman in the green dress.
She was walking in the parking lot, on her way from her car to one of the stores in the shopping plaza.
A thought ran through my mind from nowhere.
She’s gonna get hit by a car and die.
7
Immediately, instinctively, I tried to counter the thought.
No, she’s not going to be hit by a car and die.
No, she’s not going to be hit by a car and die.
And then I thought of Dr. Halprin’s advice.
“You know these thoughts are irrational. You know that nothing will happen. Challenge them. This is what I want you to do. The next time you think of something horrible, and start to try to ‘un-think’ it, stop. Just stop and think of something else. Anything else. Raspberries. Ice cream. The Knicks. Anything other than your current thoughts.”
OK, you can do this, I thought.
I stopped after the second phrase, and turned my head, looking back at the restaurant. I noticed a couple with a baby carriage built for twins. I wondered whether the twins were boys or girls, and even tried to imagine what they might look like by looking at the parents, brown hair, slim, pale-skinned.
My mind was practically screaming.
Un-think the car accident! She’s going to die!
7
But I didn’t. Instead, I turned my attention to a pair of young women in black jeans and tee shirts. I wondered if they worked in Francisco’s, or if they just happened to be dressed like the hostess and wait staff. I thought how nice the wait staff looked, and how impressive what I saw of the restaurant was. Large, but intimate and dimly lit.
Erica will love it.
And then I heard the screech and thunk.
Followed by the screams.
I spun around and saw a blue Corvette up on the sidewalk. Several people staring in horror, and the woman in the green dress lying on the ground. There was a small pool of blood under her head.
My heart was in my throat. Fear paralyzed me. The man in the car, got out, his eyes wide and horrified. Two men were on the ground beside the woman, looking down. Others were on their cell phones, likely calling the police.
I kept staring as the murmuring behind me grew louder.
I walked away from Francisco’s, into the parking lot, and toward the accident. At about 10 feet away, I stopped at the sight of her dead, open eyes staring directly at me.
All I could think was, I did this.
I began praying to God, begging for her life. I even repeated the ward in my head seven times, “No, she’s not going to be hit by a car and die,” then seven more.
