You Can Tell Me

“Wait, me too!”

Oops. I wasn’t supposed to say that.

My hands are shaking now. At first I try to push away the thoughts, but that never works. It never has.

What have you done?

You weren’t supposed to say that.

You weren’t supposed to tell anyone that.

It’s over. You’re over. What have you done?

We’re in my kitchen eating Mexican takeout. We haven’t seen each other since college, but now that we live in the same town again, of course we wanted to reconnect. At first we just talked about the good old days, moments and people we miss, funny memories. Sitting and talking with a good friend is like standing in shallow water at the beach, though; the longer you talk, the deeper the conversation gets, like the way you sink into the sand as the tide sifts the sediment around your ankles the longer you stay in place.

She tells me she’s been having a hard time, so of course, we talk about it. I wasn’t expecting our problems to be so similar, though.

She tells me she found out she has OCD. She tells me what kind.

“Wait, me too!”

And that’s when I start to panic. Because I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that. Long before I knew what intrusive thoughts were, I swore I would never tell anyone what was happening in my head. No one. Not my parents, not my siblings, not my friends.

But I just did, almost by accident.

Logically, everything’s okay. She gets it, probably better than anyone else would, but all I can think is that I broke my most important rule, the rule that keeps me from being ostracized and abandoned by everyone I know and love, the rule that keeps my fragile little world together.

No one is allowed to know.

But now she knows.

My heart is beating really fast. I feel the need to sit down, so I just sit on the floor with my back against the fridge. I feel dizzy, nauseous. There’s static under my skin. I try to focus on my breathing, try to slow down my breaths.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! What can I do?”

A few minutes later, we’re watching Bluey together on the couch because we needed something wholesome and mindless to get lost in while my body figures out how to function again. I’m wrapped in a blanket like a toddler, clutching a pillow to my chest, overly aware of each and every fluttery beat of my heart.

I’m such a terrible friend. She opened up to me, and I fell apart. I should be comforting her, not the other way around. I keep apologizing, but she keeps telling me it’s not my fault, that everything’s okay, but nothing is okay. I’ve failed so fantastically in so many ways in such a short span of time. It’s almost laughable.

You weren’t supposed to say that.

You weren’t supposed to tell her that.

What have you done?

The truth is, though, we’re just… sitting here. Nothing happened because I told her—well, nothing apart from the panic attack on my end. She didn’t leave. She didn’t even flinch. I know the same thing about her, and I’m not running away, either. If anything, I feel closer to her now, knowing we share this burden.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

She glances at me, her eyebrows pulling together a little as she tries to read my face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she says.

“...No,” I say. “But I’m here to listen if you do.”

So she talks about it. She talks about how much it sucks, all the parts of her life that are constantly in question because of it, all the things she feels like she has to do to try and fix it or just endure it. How it’s made it harder for her to connect with people, even people she cares about. How it’s made it harder to just go about her day and do what she needs to do.

I get it. It’s taken up so many pieces of my life, too.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wish… I’m sorry. It sucks.”

She nods.

“Yeah. It sucks.”

OCD is such a strange affliction, especially this rare breed we have that seldom extends beyond the mind to manifest in physical compulsions. I look into my friend’s eyes, wondering at the invisible storm raging behind them. Wondering how many other turbulent minds I cross paths with every day without ever knowing.

Maybe… maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s okay to—

No, you can’t tell anyone else.

You weren’t supposed to tell her.

No one will understand.

They will hate you. They will leave you.

Your life will be over.

What have you done?

I open my hands when I realize I’ve been digging my nails into my arms. Am I breathing? I inhale quietly and let it out slowly.

We’re both trying to watch the show again, but I notice that she’s holding a pillow in her lap now, too. She’s gripping the sides so tightly that her knuckles are turning white.

“You okay?” I say.

She lets out a breath. Smiles, but not with her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says.

I open my arms, and she scoots across the couch cushions to accept the hug. This is going to take some time, but I think this is… good. To open up, especially to people who understand. To break an arbitrary rule and realize there are no repercussions, not the way we feared. Maybe someday I’ll be able to open up to people who don’t understand, too.

They will hate you. They will leave you.

They will mock you. They will ridicule you.

You’ll be all alone. Forever.

That day is… not today. Today wasn’t perfect, but it was a step in the right direction for both of us. I won’t notice it tonight, or tomorrow, but soon I’ll realize that my chains feel a little looser, knowing someone else can see them and that she doesn’t think they’re my fault. She doesn’t think they’re a reflection of who I am or what I want, and I don’t think that about her, either.

“We’re going to be okay,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says.

“You’re going to be okay.”

“...Okay.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“I’m glad you told me, too.”