Page 51 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
Mom looked pleased. “Right. As I was saying. This woman—she was hyperneurotic.”
“Right,” I said. “And I’ve told you before: the type of OCD I had wasn’t about germs.”
“I know, I know. I just…it got me thinking.” She spun her cup with two hands. “You never really explained it to me. If it wasn’t about germs, then whatwasit about?”
I felt a pulse. A throb.Down there.Quick as a heartbeat but still clear. Distinct.
Shit.
I shifted to the side. Tucked one leg over the other. Hoped the extra pressure on my crotch would keep it from happening again. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Can you try?”
I could feel Manuel’s eyes on me. “Well”—I dug one fingernail absentmindedly into the cushion of my chair—“I didn’tseemneurotic on the outside because my disorder was happening all on the inside.”
“What does that mean?”
“My compulsions—for the most part, they were internal. Like checking, for example, or seeking reassurance, whether from someone else, like Dr.Droo—like Dr.Drier, or from myself, from what I found in my body.”
“What’s checking?”
“It’s a pretty common compulsion with people who have the type of OCD that I do. You check and recheck certain parts of yourbody, wanting to see if you’ll find a…response there.” God, why the hell was I talking about this?
“I still don’t understand. What kind of a ‘response’ were you looking for? What were you so afraid of?”
My stomach clenched. For the first time in years, I ran intentionally through the list of Worries that plagued me, on and off, for almost a decade: lying, confusion of sexuality, cheating, incest…andit. The worst one of all.
The one I could tell no one, not ever.
I decided to start with the easiest. The least terrifying. “Well.” My vagina throbbed again. More acutely, this time. I shifted. “For example, I went through a phase where I was really obsessed with the possibility that I might be a lesbian.”
“Hey!” Karma clapped. “I didn’t know that! That’s great news!” She patted the chair next to her. “Come on over to the Dark Side, Boosie. There’s plenty of room.”
I laughed. “No. Not like…I didn’t actually think I was gay. I was just worried that Imightbe.”
Karma blinked. “So…you were questioning your sexuality?”
“No, it’s not that, either. It’s different. It’s more to do withworrythan reality.”
Everyone stared blankly.
I couldn’t believe I was saying this out loud. I felt especially aware of Helene’s poor parents, who were surely feeling in over their heads. “What I mean to say is”—I cleared my throat—“I didn’t hyperclean my room or count to twelve over and over or refuse to touch doorknobs or any of those other compulsions you see on TV. Those are germ-based compulsions. Mine was more of…well…the way my therapist described it was that OCD is a bad medical patient.”
“What does that mean?” asked Mom.
“Imagine this: Your head hurts. But instead of thinking, ‘Oh, myhead hurts—I have a headache,’ you think, ‘Oh my God, my head hurts—I have brain cancer.’ ”
“Ha!” said Clarence. “Sounds like my WebMD search history.”
“Right,” I said. “But this goes beyond that. You go to a neurologist. They scan your head. They say, ‘Nope, nothing there. Take two Advil and drink lots of water.’ But instead of listening, you think, ‘No, no, that can’t be right,’ and you seek a second opinion. Another doctor. And this one says, ‘You definitely don’t have brain cancer. Take two Advil and drink lots of water,’ and now you havetwomedical professionals telling you that you don’t have brain cancer. That’s an overwhelming amount of evidence, right?” I paused. “Wrong. To OCD, no amount of evidence is enough. OCD says, ‘Nope. I know more than either of these board-certified experts, and I’m telling you that there’s still a chance that you might have brain cancer.’ ”
“But I thought you said you didn’t have illness OCD?” said Mom.
Frustrated, I shook my head. “I didn’t. That’s just a metaphor.” I couldn’t believe I was delivering a monologue about OCD to my family. When had I ever delivered a monologue aboutanythingto my family? “The point is this: OCD doesn’t listen to reason. It didn’t matter how many boys I dated or how many Disney Channel celebrities I had a crush on or how many times my therapist just flat-out told me I was straight. My OCD always found some reason to doubt my heterosexuality.”
I stopped. Heaved in a deep breath. When I glanced at Karma, her mouth hung open, as if she was appalled by what she’d just heard.
Shit, I thought, averting my gaze.
