I bolted out of bed this morning to the sound of her emptying the contents of her stomach into our once-immaculate bathroom. If she were anyone else, I’d have left her where she was, but Stacey is my roommate and one of my best friends. Instead, I grabbed the yellow rubber gloves from under the sink, Lysol, and layered on four face masks before setting foot in that bathroom to see what was wrong with her.
“Yes, you do. I had to burn my favorite pair of pj’s after helping you into the shower,” I groan as I toe off my sneakers, giving Imhotep a scratch behind the ears.
“You didn’t need to burn your pajamas, Michele.” Stacey giggles, burrowing deeper into the blankets surrounding her shoulders. “Besides, I think your cat is finally starting to like me.”
“I’m not sure that cat likes anyone but me.”
I found Imotep at the local rescue I volunteered at in high school and instantly fell in love. I adopted him that day and brought him home. You’d think with my issues, having a pet would only make things worse, but Imotep is a hairless cat. No shedding, no fleas, nothing. I can see anything wrong with him almost immediately, making him the perfect pet for me. Too bad almost everyone, besides Stacy and Kyle, thinks otherwise. But those are my two best friends. They don’t have any other choice but to love him. Imhotep and I are a package deal.
“Why can’t you just let me live in my delusion?” She rubs her hand across the top of his head and down his back. “He snuggled with me and has let me pet him a few times.”
“He’s probably just cold. I didn’t have time to put his sweater on this morning after cleaning up the bathroom.” I plop onto the couch beside her, but think twice about that before grabbing a small container of hand sanitizer and cleaning my hands.
Imhotep immediately climbs into my lap and purrs, causing Stacey to scowl down at him. “Traitor.”
“Don’t take it personally. I am his person, after all,” I respond, my head swiveling from side to side, looking for a safe place to put my bag down.
The skin on my arms feels like there are a million spiders crawling all over them. The urge to scratch at my skin is almost overwhelming, but I grip the strap of my bag tighter in my palm. The crush of the leather against my skin is a reminder that everything is okay. There are no bugs crawling over me, and breathing the same air as her won’t get me sick. Well, it might get me sick because there are germs everywhere, no matter how often I clean and disinfect. The average adult gets two to five colds a year, and that number can double if we include children. Eww. Children, they’re just freaking disgusting with all their germs and the inability to wash their hands before or after doing anything.
“And there was no getting around burning my pj’s if I wanted to sleep tonight.” I deadpan, pinning her in place with my stare. “I also had to take three showers at the therapy center before my shift because I didn’t want to take the chance of getting Mr. Snyder sick, as well. He just finished chemotherapy a few months ago and has already broken his hip once because of chemotherapy-induced bone loss.”
“Or it could be because he’s clumsy and steps down off the curb wrong and breaks his hip a second time.” Stacey unwraps the blankets from around her and moves closer to me on the couch.
I instantly move to the left, putting more space between us, regretting it immediately as the look of hurt flashes across her face, but it is quickly replaced with a forced smile. “What’s going on, Shell my Belle? I know you have a thing about things being clean and hate germs, but things are never this bad.”
I sigh loudly, trying desperately to stop my mind from spiraling any further. I scoop up Imhotep immediately, running my hand along his back, attempting to calm my nerves. After a few passes, he purrs loudly. Usually, his purrs are just the thing I need to calm down, even if only a little, but it’s not doing anything to help my mood. I’m too amped up, and I know it, but I also don’t know how to stop it.
I’m not usually all doom and gloom, but my anxiety is definitely getting the best of me today. And when my anxiety is high, it only exacerbates my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) tendencies. I have medications and all that fun stuff to help, but sometimes that’s not enough. Maybe I should call my therapist tonight. Our regular standing appointment is in a few days, but I have a feeling I won’t be able to last that long. Especially if Stacey is still throwing up. I can’t deal with being around people who are throwing up on a good day.
“I’m going to go take another shower and change. That should give you enough time to wipe down and disinfect the condo for you to be comfortable enough to sit down and relax a little. Then we can have some tea while you tell me what has gotten you so worked up.” Stacey waits for me to put some more space between us before pushing to her feet.
“I’m sorry. I’m so—” My voice trails off, not knowing how to finish this sentence.
This wouldn’t be the first time I was apologizing to someone about the way my brain works, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Most people don’t know how to deal with me when my anxiety is so high it kicks my OCD into the stratosphere.
Most people think of OCD as a compulsion to flick light switches multiple times or unlocking and relocking doors, ensuring they’re closed properly. And it is, but every person’s symptoms presents differently. Mine focuses on cleanliness. My mind hyperfocuses on germs, dirt, and just general contamination of things. Trust me, on a good day, it’s not usually as horrible as it sounds. Especially with the help of my medication. However, today is a bad day. A terrible day, it seems.
“Nope. None of that.” She reaches toward my hand but decides against it. “You are exactly how you are meant to be, and I love you for it.”
My throat clogs with emotion as she heads toward our bedrooms at the back of the condo. I almost tell her to make sure she cleans the bathroom when she’s finished, but we both know I’ll just go behind her and do it myself.
The minute she disappears into the bathroom, I rummage through my bag and find my anxiety medication. After shaking a pill into my hand, I pop the tiny white pill into my mouth and swallow. The chalky taste hits my tongue as it goes down my throat. Hopefully, it takes the edge off a little so I can at least sit down and have a discussion with one of my best friends.
Imhotep bumps my hand, double-checking to make sure I’m all right. “It’s okay, Bud. Just a bad day. I promise, Momma is gonna be okay.” I give him a scratch behind the ear before picking him up, bringing his face to mine, and planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Thanks for keeping Stacey company today.”
He meows at me before wiggling in my hands, signalling he wants to be put down. “Down you go. Let me get this cleaning finished, and then I’ll feed you.”
The only answer I get from him is another meow as I place him on the floor. He doesn’t spare me a backward glance as he heads towards the back of the house, no doubt searching for some additional warmth.
I probably should follow him and put his sweater on him, but the itchy feelings continue to spread across my skin, demanding my attention. I inhale deeply as I look around our condo, checking to see if there is anything noticeably out of place and needing to be cleaned. Who am I kidding? When I get like this, I need to clean every surface at least once, some more than once, before I’m able to sit down.
We have the perfect two-bedroom end unit condo situated right in the Alphabet District of Portland, Oregon. I despise the city, with all the people and—nope, not going there right now—but since the best chance for me to find a job as a physiotherapist is to be in the city, here we are. The good thing about having an end unit is that it’s quiet, and we have no unit above ours either. Another bonus, along with a pretty kick-ass view of Mt. Hood and the city, is that we can walk to just about anything we want or need, including work.
We have a galley-style kitchen that runs almost the entire length of our living room. Unlike some other units in the building, we have a dedicated dining room off the living room, closer to the bedrooms, that we use as an office. I don’t need to bother cleaning in there because I'm usually the only person who spends any time there. It was supposed to be a dining room according to the floor plan, but with those two built-in bookshelves on either side of the arched doorway, how could I have made it anything else but my own personal office? It was an even trade-off because Stacey got the master suite with its two closets and en suite bathroom, although she allows me to use that amazing soaker tub she has in there as long as I clean it.
“Might as well get to work,” I mumble to myself before heading back toward the entryway and hanging my bag on the hook before moving right into the kitchen to grab the basket of cleaning supplies.
Since Stacey doesn’t feel well, I’m going to start with the living room. Mainly because of the empty packets of saltines and empty water bottles lying on the coffee table in front of the couch. She hasn’t moved from that spot all day. I doubt she has anything planned but lying there and watching trashy reality shows on our newly installed television that my dad hung over our fireplace a few weeks ago. According to him, no living room is complete without a television. I never heard that saying before, but I have a feeling he wanted a free place to come watch the game when my stepmom was hosting her book club.
