Page 49 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
Speedy chuckles.
“Right. It’s completely normal. People with healthy brains just brush the thoughts away. OCD is, essentially, a rupture in that sweeping mechanism. If you suffer from OCD, you can’t brush them away. Your mind gets stuck on them. It obsesses over them.”
“I thought little kids didn’t get mental illnesses. I thought it only happens later, to really messed-up adults.”
“It is unusual for OCD to crop up at such a young age. But it’s not unheard of. There are plenty of cases in which symptoms arise in children even younger than Eliot. Early onset is often triggered by a traumatic event, such as the death of a loved one.”
“Oh.”
Long pause.
“I see,” says my dad.
“I recommend you bring her in twice a week. Talk therapy can be very beneficial for children with OCD. You may also want to bring her to a psychiatrist to be evaluated for medication if—”
“No drugs,” Speedy says, cutting off the doctor.
“Studies have shown that early intervention can be very—”
“No drugs,” he repeats. “She’s eleven. No psychiatrists, no drugs.”
Pause. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
You’re wrong!I want to scream at both of them.This isn’t adisease. I’m just a bad person. I wasn’t traumatized by the death of my brother. I didn’t even cry.
But I don’t yell. I don’t say anything. They’re almost done talking. I stand and slip silently down the hall.
—
“YOU AREN’T A LESBIAN,” SAYSDr.Droopy.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Several of my patients are gay, Eliot. Being in the closet is a difficult, often traumatic experience. But a mind thatworriesover being gay is different than a mind that actuallyisgay.”
“I know. But your sexuality is an inherent thing, right? You don’t choose it. So what if I’m gay and just not willing to admit it to myself? Because of the stigma or whatever? I mean, I found this girl’s butt attractive, right?”
“There’s a difference between finding someone attractive and being sexually attracted to them. Do you feel a desire to kiss Caroline?”
I consider. I picture what it would be like. Imagine my mouth on hers, my fingers in her abundant hair. I check my body for a reaction and, of course, I find one. I find that stubborn, insistent pulse. While the logical part of my brain tells me that I’m not a lesbian, that I’ve never felt attracted to a woman before, my Worries insist that I might be. That a pulse is enough evidence to throw the whole equation into chaos.
But I can’t say that to Dr.Droopy, can I? Tell an old man about something happening in my vagina? No way.
Bodies don’t lie. And I think my body knows something I don’t.
—
“DO YOU JOURNAL?” ASKS DR.Droopy the next week. “Do you write about these thoughts? These Worries, as you call them?”
I nod.
“Does it help?”
“I mean.” I pick at my lower lip. It’s chapped. It’s always chapped. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He doesn’t laugh. “Journaling can be a great way to get out all the thoughts and feelings stirring around in your head. But”—he shifts in his chair, the way he does every time he’s about to say something he believes meaningful—“for someone like you, it can also be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
