It always starts with the light switch.
Light switch on. Light switch off. Light switch on. Light switch off.

The band of tightness in my chest eases.

Now the front door.

Lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock.

With each click and glide, more relief. But more to do.

I make my rounds around my room next, straightening already straight piles of books, papers. Next, I touch the wooden bird paperweight I got in Arizona a few years ago.

But the touch wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.

I could almost scream. It wasn’t right. I have to start over. It only works if it’s right.

If you don’t do this, your parents will die. Something bad will happen. It will be all your fault.

The anxiety nearly crushes me. And so does the anger. At myself, at my inability to let this go. Why can’t I stop? Briefly, I wonder what people at work would think if they knew. They always joke about my fastidiousness, calling me “OCD.” They don’t know how right they are.

My parents caught me a few times. The handwashing had been more obvious, especially when my hands would bleed. I can see the redness swirling down the drain, the pain of the scalding water on my skin, a penance. I changed tactics so they wouldn’t make me go back to therapy.

I couldn’t handle the worried looks. They didn’t know I was doing it for them.

You do these rituals to try to control what you have no control over.

But I can control it! I just have to do it right.

The meds worked I guess but they made me numb. So I stopped taking them when I moved out.

Forty-five minutes later and I’ve finally done it right. I jump into bed, hoping sleep takes me before more self-loathing blankets me.

***

I do pretty well at work. Though I still have my rituals, which I try to do as subtly as possible.

Your parents will die and you will be all alone.

I find myself knocking on the wood under my desk. Always three times.

From the outside, I’m just another 32 year old woman. I’m successful at what I do.

What do I do? You’ll laugh. I’m an actuary. I have my rituals at work, but I long ago figured out how to hide. Where my coworkers see a neat desk, I see 18 items that have to be placed in a specific position. Bright green stapler, always in the upper right corner. Four blue pens, equally spaced within the cup. Nine paperclips, laid out in a leather tray, in three rows. It goes on.

It’s been a long time since someone called me out on my behavior. But that’s strategic too. I don’t let people get too close. They might see.

My assistant pops her head in the door, smiling.

“You told me to remind you about your date tonight. It’s on your calendar but I wanted to make sure you remembered.”

Damn. I had forgotten. To be honest, dating is the hardest. With people and environments I’m not familiar with, it’s harder to control the anxiety. And to know what rituals I can get away with. But there’s a part of me—a big part of me—that’s lonely.

You’ll definitely be lonely if your parents die.

My throat closes up and the next 30 minutes are spent knocking on wood and straightening my desk. Until I can breathe again.

***

It’s midway through the date when I feel it. It’s been a while but some old part of me recognizes it. Joy. That’s what it is.

The date started just as awkwardly as all first dates. Maybe more so because of me. But now I’m laughing, my cheeks hurting from muscles that aren’t often used.

Laugh while you can. You won’t be laughing when your parents die. You won’t be laughing when you’re in pain.

My mood takes a downturn after that, though he doesn’t seem to notice so I must do a good job of pretending. I have enough practice at it.

When he drives me home, he holds my hand. And just for a few minutes, I let myself imagine what this life would be like. To have someone to hold me, to help keep the anxiety at bay. But really, I know he would be one more person for me to worry about.

After he leaves, I close my door. The warmth of tears down my face startles me. I know I won’t call him. It isn’t safe. That happiness isn’t for me. It’s for someone else. Someone normal.

Wiping furiously at my face, I shrug out of my coat and hang up my purse on its special hook in the closet. I hang my heart there too. Stupid, so stupid to think I would ever break out of this cycle. It’s both my comfort and my pain. And I just can’t stop.

I walk into my room and stand in front of the light switch.

It always starts with the light switch.

Tiffany Chaloux is a doctor, mother, and Montanan. She completed her doctorate at the University of Washington after obtaining a Master’s of Science in Psychology. Her research interests centered on people’s reaction to their own mortality. In between stints of schooling, she worked in marketing, writing copy for a banking software company. She has only recently entered the world of fiction writing. When not working, she can be found chasing after her two boys.