The Third One From the Top

photo courtesy Cappellmeister

You wouldn’t know it just by looking at me, but I like the third one from the top.
Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly brave, I try to settle for the second.

But rarely the first; that’s just crazy.

I’ve broken a lot of dishes this way.

My mom’s voice cracks when she tells me about the day she decided to quit her job to stay home and help me

how helpless she felt as she watched me succumb to obsessions she couldn’t hear and

compulsions she couldn’t see.

Funny

I don’t remember it that way.

I was too busy counting.

I tell my therapist I have certain words I hate to hear

words I cannot force my lips to say.

She tells me to stand up and when I do the couch makes a noise like it’s sighing

like it knows what’s coming and feels sorry for me

She grabs my shoulders, pulls me in so close I can smell her shampoo and see the faint lines of her eyebrow pencil.

“Die!” she yells at me and I cringe under the waves of nausea while my knees threaten to buckle under the weight of fear

“Die!Die!Die!Die!” she keeps yelling and at first I want to run but after a while her voice melts into a puddle of meaningless sounds and I spend the rest of the session silently saying my name until it no longer belongs to me, until it disappears and becomes something bigger and better and less afraid.

I tell her about touching my fridge and pantry

(three times each)

if I so much as glance in their direction.

She asks how much time I think it takes away from my LIFE and I tell her I cannot count that high.

“What would happen if you just walked away?”

She sounds like an amateur and my hands grip one of the couch pillows in agitation.

“Bad things,” I reply, in a tone that suggests her degree indicates she should already know this.

“You are not that powerful,” she tells me.

“You     are          not       that        special.”

She spaces the words out and waits for my neurotransmitters to take heed while I count to three in my head.

***

Five minutes ago.

I was supposed to leave five minutes ago and now I’ll be late and I’m getting pretty tired of being late.

I walk by the fridge and pantry.

FUCK.

I’m ALWAYS LATE.

I walk away.

I come back.

I walk away.

I come back.

You are not that powerful.

You are not that powerful.

You are not that powerful.

And suddenly I’m running and I’m nauseous and I’m gagging

and I’m doubting and I’m crying and I’m tired

and as I make it out the front door

I cover my head and close my eyes

and wait for the sky to fall.