One…two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Eight. Nine. Ten. Elven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty—
If
I stopped I just started over. Numbers rolled around endlessly in my mind.
Every step I took had to be added to the previous number. Counting. I was
always counting. Sometimes I still do count. Every now and again I’ll catch
myself slipping into my old ways. One…two…three—Rachel, stop! You don’t need to
count each step you take. It’s okay. Relax. Just walk. One…two—Rachel…stop it.
Okay.
I’ll stop.
But
when I touch a pen with one finger, I have to touch it with all the other
fingers on the same hand. Twice.
When
one chair isn’t in place like all the others, it takes everything in me not to
push it in the right way.
If
I chew for so long on one side of my mouth, I have chew on the other side for
the same amount of time.
It was Second Grade that I remember my quirks
in their full glory. My parents just thought I was odd. I was a military brat,
had already moved roughly six times in my seven years, and hadn’t talked in
preschool or kindergarten. At this time, we lived in a place of water, of sand,
of perfumed air masked by the pollution of natives, wannabes, and tourists in
too small a location. Sometimes it would rain in the front yard and be sunny
the backyard.
I
did a lot of walking there. So, naturally, I did a lot of counting. I had my
flip flops. Probably blue or pink, depending on the day. Sometimes we went
barefoot.
My
second grade teacher really liked me. She thought my quirks were interesting.
For a while I had a nose tic. I would wrinkle my nostrils. One after the other.
Back and forth until it felt just right. I didn’t know what just right was
until I found it. I didn’t know why I did it. She called me a rabbit.
Back
and forth to computer lab where we still used floppy discs. One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve—
Up
and down the stairs. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—
When I heard “Step on a
crack, you’ll break your mother’s back.” I was terrified. I always said I
didn’t believe it. But, deep down, I think I did. I had a wobbly relationship
with cause and effect. I loved cause
and effect, but it was how I lived my life. If I stepped on a crack, wouldn’t
it break my mother’s back? I didn’t want that to happen. I couldn’t ever let
that happen. I still avoid cracks. I don’t believe it. But if something did
happen, I don’t want it to be my fault.
My dad is a griller. He’s
been one as long as I can remember. We’ve enjoyed burgers and hotdogs and steak
and the best grilled chicken west of the Mississippi (or wherever the Army
happens to put us). In the place of sunshine and geckos and Hibiscus, we had a
little concrete slab in our backyard. Heavenly aromas wafted around our
neighborhood and into my too-often-wrinkled nostrils. Like a faithful student
who never learned but only reaped the benefits of their master’s studying, I
sat at my dad’s feet and awaited a taste test of the juicy steak sizzling on
the slats.
My dad cut a small piece
off and I began to chew. It was delicious. Ugh…who could resist such
delectable—the unthinkable happened. I began to choke. The steak lodged itself
in my throat and I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t chewed it enough and I was about
to die. That’s what I believed. It was my fault for not chewing well enough and
it had caused me to choke—maybe it was the steak’s fault.
For weeks after this
incident, I wouldn’t eat solid food. My daily bread was not bread but pudding,
soup, applesauce, yogurt, ice cream. It took me a long time to eat solid food
again.
When I did, it was
slowly. I probably started with something soft and simple like Rice a Roni or
bread and butter. And then I would chew. Forever. One side, then the next, then
the other side again, and back until the food became like pulp—less than
pulp—in my mouth. I had to chew until it felt just right. I wasn’t reaching for
a certain number of chews, although I was, without a doubt, counting each one,
but, for me, it had to feel right.
There isn’t really a
better way to explain the “feeling right.” When I got there, I knew.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
White and blue foam.
Colorless water. Over and over into the sink. Brushing my teeth took me too
long. Each side of my mouth had to be scrubbed equally. Over and over again
until it felt right. Then came the longest part. I stood, bent over the sink,
lights shining down on me, spitting and spitting and spitting. I had to get the
toothpaste out of my mouth. One. two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The number was
never lower than ten. I spit until I couldn’t spit anymore. I spit until my
mouth was so dry I couldn’t spit
anymore.
Anytime I touched
something my brain deemed as unclean, I had to wash my hands. This also took me
a really long time. I had to make sure soap covered every part of my hands, and
I had to run them under water, rubbing them until all the soap was completely gone
and my hands were germ free. Sometimes I used more soap and did it again. I
washed my hands all the time. All. The. Time. I had to feel clean and know I
was clean. I can’t remember what exactly triggered this. Sometimes it was just
from touching things. But I wonder if I washed my hands when I had a bad
thought.
I’ve never been the
neatest person. I don’t have to have everything just right all the time. Sure,
I like things to be straight. I like my pens to line up. I like my cords to be
wrapped the right way. But I’ve gotten to the place where if things aren’t
straight, if my pens are in disarray, or if my cords aren’t wrapped correctly,
it doesn’t eat me alive.
Learning how to cope is a
process. Above anything, it’s an unlearning
process. It’s a step by step process. It’s an I-won’t-count-my-steps-anymore process.
So, for now, I’m taking
it one step at a time.
