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“I have your coordinates”, says Doug, a new friend.
“You do?”
I’m curious, scared, excited, and mostly, relieved.
For so long I’ve been mapped tightly. Walked into each room or conversation knowing exactly how much I was allowed to reveal or wander.
OCD is a fun game of mental tetherball. Whipping in circles and just as I lash out wildly I wind back even tighter.
You know that pull of liking someone, and as soon as he walks into the room, you walk only in relation to his profile. Or you mark your steps only as far as you can still hear her laugh. A locus point to keep you in orbit.
As soon as I passed my driver’s test, my locus became my mom’s green Toyota. I prayed in there. Sang prescribed songs in there. Begged forgiveness in there. Circled the block over and over again, looking for the people I was sure I’d hit. Later, I’d pound my fists into my skull as I sat parked at the edge of a lot. Wherever I was, I knew where that car was. I came to hate it. Each day waiting for me in the driveway, pulling me closer.
I did break free of that car in college. Found new rituals and obsessions to wind around. Walked into most parties and scoped out
1. Boy I like over here.
2. Forbidden chips over there.
3. Open wine box here.
I spiraled for too many years around starvation, obsessive prayers and alcohol. When my husband walked me into an eating disorders clinic I sobbed because the days were so long and unstructured.
I know given the opportunity I will always wrap myself into a tight circle. Find one focus point and loop and loop and loop. These days, if I go to a party I’m sure to bring my kids so I can wipe noses and dole out crackers and have a purpose.
Only pre-K is about to begin now.
I haven’t drunk wine in years.
My newest writing project is in the hands of an agent and I have no idea what to start next.
It feels all to easy to find another tetherball court and whip around a new obsession.
While NASA sends robots to Mars, I’m trying to map every step of an unstructured afternoon. I've worked so hard to loosen up with my rituals and food restrictions, only to feel abandoned in this open space with no tracking devices. Sure, my kids need to be supervised and I’m not out for more than a few hours at a time, but those hours feel precious and frightening.
When I next see Doug, I bring him a stack of colored note cards. On them I’ve written all my possible next steps:
Red for possible sources of income.
Yellow for artistic dreams.
Green for things I've always wanted to do like learn the ukulele.
Pink for meditation and therapy.
“Why don’t you start here?” says Doug, pointing to Meditation.
Then we look at the cards together for a long time, wondering.
