I thought of the knitting-needle-in-my-guts moment before the date. The bad thoughts. Immediately my tummy began to swim in the extra adrenalin.
“Before the date…” I started. “I was…washing my hands…just the once…but then I wanted to wash them again…and again…” I remembered touching Ethan’s hand and winced. “And again.”
Unperturbed, Sarah asked, “What else was going on before the date? How were you behaving?”
“I dunno…I was a bit jumpy, I guess. Wound up. My brain did that thing where it stepping-stoned from place to place and my heart was beating all hard. But it was okay…but then I wanted to wash my hands. I’ve not felt like that in a while…” The throat lump soared up on the trampoline again, wedging itself just behind my tonsils. I tried to swallow. She gave me a moment to compose myself. They’re never “there there”, Cognitive Behavioural Therapists. They’re more like having a strict teacher that you know cares about their students deep down somewhere. The most sympathy I’ve ever got out of Sarah was a silent passing of the tissue box.
“We’ve discussed this, Evie, remember? That these thoughts could come back now you’re reducing your medicine?”
I nodded, looking at a scuff on the carpet. “I know. But I just sort of thought maybe that wouldn’t happen and I would get lucky or something. I must get lucky at some point, right?”
“What’s important to remember is that you’ve got all the techniques now, to deal with these thoughts when you have them.”
“Can’t I just never have bad thoughts? Can’t they just go away for ever?”
And, for once, there was a bit of sympathy in her eyes. Because that wasn’t going to happen. She knew it. I knew it. I just wished I didn’t know it.
Nine
Mum was cooking dinner when I got back – wearing the apron of doom. “Doom” because her cooking evoked fear in even the strongest-stomached of people. She heard me slam the front door and peeked round from the kitchen, over the top of Rose, who was engrossed in some awful music video on TV where none of the girls seemed to be allowed to wear clothes.
“How was your appointment?” She nodded her head towards Rose and gave me a stern look.
Rose didn’t even look away from the screen. “Yeah, Evie,” she said. “How was therapy?”
“It’s not therapy,” Mum butted right in. “Is it, Evie? It’s just a check-up?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Mum,” Rose said, turning round on the sofa. “I know she goes to therapy.”
I leaned against the wall and held my breath.
“Well…yes… but we don’t all have to call it that, do we?”
“Why not?”
Dad bowled into the living room then, brandishing a large glass of red wine. The smiley stain around his lips suggested it wasn’t his first. Dad tended to self-medicate himself before Mum attempted cooking. “All right, Evie?” he asked. “How was your therapy session with Sarah?”
“It was…great,” I said. As I always did. “Very…umm…” I looked at Rose who was pulling a face, and laughed. “Very therapyish.” And Rose laughed too.
Mum’s lips went all tight and she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Good, good, well I’m just going to read the news before we eat.” And Dad tapped me slightly affectionately on the shoulder before withdrawing to his study. I slobbed down next to Rose.
“She’ll tell me off later, you know,” I said, looking at the half-naked stick insects on the screen and immediately regretting eating a Mars bar at lunch. Stupid music video.
“I know. How was it anyway?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to you about it, you’re too impressionable.” I ruffled her hair with a cushion and Rose “oi”ed and batted me off.
“Anxiety isn’t chlamydia.”
“You, missy, are far too young to know about chlamydia.”
“I’m twelve. I have internet access. And boys at school who accuse each other of having it.”
“I’m scared for your generation.”
“Everyone’s always scared for someone else’s generation.”
“You are far too wise, little one. Far too wise.”
She was, Rose. Wise, I mean. I never really believed in the wise little sister thing – thought it was just a narrative device in indie films. Then Rose grew up and started spewing out wiseness like it was bogeys in cold season.
“I’d better go make peace with Mum.” I stood up and stretched.
“Why? You’ve not done anything wrong.”
“Ahh, dear Rose. But an easy life. Anything for an easy life. Plus you know how much she worries.”
The smell of spag Bol, slightly burned, wafted up my nostrils as I entered the kitchen. “Mmm, smells great.”
Mum frantically stirred a pan and didn’t turn around. “Evie, do you mind boiling the kettle for the pasta? Oh God, the sauce is too thick. How do I make it less thick?”
I steered past her to grab the kettle. “Just add more water and keep the lid on.”
She did as I said, but all clanging and banging with the pan. My stomach turned. Having Mum cook always made me stressed. She got in such a state about it, like every meal was as important as Christmas dinner. It was so much easier when we just heated up fish fingers.
“Dad’s home from work early,” I said.
“Yes…yes…” she muttered, now lifting up the lid to peer at the sauce with genuine fear. “So, how was your appointment then?”
“Okay. The usual.” I flicked the kettle on to boil.
“Did Sarah give you any homework I should know about?”
I shrugged, even though she wasn’t looking at me to see it.
“Just the usual. Don’t go mad again.”
She whipped round and a bit of sauce flew up and splattered her apron. I didn’t tell her.
“Don’t talk like that when Rose is around.”
“What? She’s watching TV. And she knows what’s going on!”
“Yes but still…she’s very young, Evie. It’s best not to…you know…make her more aware of it?”
“OCD isn’t chlamydia,” I said, copying Rose. “It’s not like she’s going to catch it off me.” Though there was some research to suggest OCD could be triggered by learned behaviours. They asked about my mum a lot when I went through psychotherapy on the ward…
She bashed the pan down, splattering more sauce. “Evie, that’s disgusting! I’m just saying, we don’t have to rub it in Rose’s face now, do we?”
I took a deep breath, knowing arguing only made her worse. Then she’d start crying, or blaming herself, or overcompensating for the guilt by following me around the house like a prison inspector, making sure I was following Sarah’s homework to the T.
“Can I help any more with dinner?” I asked, offering it like a peace pipe.
Mum pushed some hair back from her face. I tried not to think about the hair getting into the spag Bol. I failed.
“Do you want to help with dinner?”
“Yes, Mother. That is why I asked.” Another deep breath.
“All right then, can you lay the table too?”
I dutifully got out all the relevant cutlery and only released my big sigh once I was in the dining room. My mum – oh the issues. I know saying you’ve got issues with your parents is about as groundbreaking as saying “Hey, I have to poo most days”, or “You know what? Sometimes I get bored” but that doesn’t make the issues any less true. Oh, I love her. Of course I love her. And she’s a good person. I’d even go as far as to say she’s a great mother – until it comes to my “mental health problems” – then she’s…well…how exactly do I put this…?
… She’s a nightmare.
Okay, well, both she and Dad are, but she’s worse. Like, I’m sure it was very traumatic and all, to have me go just so very mad. But they’re so…scared of me now, that I feel almost like a shared science project between them – the “Let’s-never-let-this-happen-again” project. To be fair, in one of our family therapy sessions, the CBT lady at the unit told them they had to be “strict” with me, “for my own good”. Because us OCDers can be quite the manipulative bunch, getting everyone all worried about us, convincing them our fears are totally valid, becoming puppeteers of everyone around us, emotionally guilt-tripping them into behaving how we want them to so we don’t freak out and ruin the day. Mum and Dad were told not to “indulge” my worries. I just wish they hadn’t taken to it so enthusiastically. I know it sounds stupid, but it feels like they’re being mean. Like they’re against me. And it doesn’t help that Mum keeps twitching about Rose – worrying I’m going to break the only perfectly-functioning offspring she has left.