Are You Sure?

The door is locked. I’m certain. I know this because I locked it. I remember putting the key in, turning it, hearing the deadbolt catch, and pulling the handle afterward. As I reach for the handle again my thumb catches on the hangnail I’ve been picking at since yesterday. I pull once more, then immediately start wondering whether the first pull counted. This is an important distinction—not a reasonable one, but important if you happen to be me.

I am standing in front of the door with my car behind me in the driveway. My coffee is in the cup holder, my phone is in my pocket, and I have everything I need to leave for my sister’s wedding rehearsal. It starts in forty-three minutes and is twenty minutes away if traffic cooperates. I turn toward the car and get a few steps before the question arrives: Did I actually pull the door to check it after I locked it? Yes. I did. I remember doing it. Except now that I’m thinking about it, do I remember doing it this morning, or do I remember it from another morning? Oh, good. We’re doing this already.

That is usually how it starts. Not with panic, but with a question small enough to sound reasonable. Did you? Are you sure? People without OCD apparently have these thoughts and keep moving. I’ve watched them lock doors and walk away without turning around to make sure the door was locked. I really envy those people.

I turn around and go back. One more check, then I’m leaving. I grab the handle and pull. Locked. I pull again because the first pull was too quick, then immediately recognize what I’ve done. There is no such thing as too quick. The door was either locked or it wasn’t.

“The door is locked,” I say aloud. Saying something while I do it is supposed to make the memory harder to question later. Across the street, Mr. Henson is dragging his trash can toward the curb, and he looks over. For reasons I cannot explain, I feel compelled to clarify. “The door. Locked.”

Mr. Henson gives me a thumbs-up. “Good to know.” We now have a witness.

I head toward the car and almost reach it before my brain points out that I touched the door while checking it. What if I unlocked it without noticing? I didn’t. I pulled the handle. I know I did, but knowing has never been the issue. Whatever answer I give, I can usually find something wrong with it.

People sometimes joke that they’re “so OCD” because their desk is organized. I usually let it go because correcting strangers is exhausting. I am not especially neat. My kitchen junk drawer is a disaster, and there is currently a sock on my bathroom counter that has been there long enough to qualify as decor. My OCD is less interested in order than in whether I have made a mistake without realizing it.

I know I locked the door, but maybe the memory is unreliable. I checked it, but maybe I didn’t pay enough attention. The worst part is that I have forgotten to lock it once. Last spring Rachel came by and found the front door unlocked. Nothing happened, but my brain kept the incident as evidence. Give it an answer and it will ask whether the answer can be trusted.

I check the time. Thirty-nine minutes. I sit in the car, put the key in the ignition, and take it back out.

“No,” I say, though it isn’t clear whether I’m talking to myself or the house.

My therapist says it helps to identify the urge instead of automatically obeying it. I know this is the urge to check. I also know feeling uncomfortable does not mean something is wrong. Both facts sound much more convincing in her office than they do in my driveway when my father is probably already at the church checking his watch.

I put the key back in. The thought that the door might be unlocked is still there, waiting for me to engage with it, so I start the car before the discussion goes any further.

My phone connects to Bluetooth and resumes the audiobook I fell asleep listening to last night. A British narrator begins explaining medieval disease, and I shut him off before he finishes the first sentence. Then, as I put the car in reverse, I notice the garage door. It is closed. I can see that it is closed, which should be enough, but my brain doesn’t ask whether it is closed. It asks whether I remember closing it.

I stare at the garage for a second. This is one of OCD’s better tricks. I answer one thing and my brain finds something else to ask.

I back out of the driveway and make it to the end of the street before I wonder whether I locked the back door. I did. I think I did. That qualification is enough to keep the thought alive. Did I check it this morning? Yes. How many times? I don’t remember. Apparently the number of checks is now evidence.

My phone buzzes at a red light. Rachel wants to know if I’m on the way. I send her a thumbs-up emoji, then stare at the screen to make sure nothing else went with it.

The person behind me honks when the light turns green. “Thank you,” I mutter. “I had not noticed.”

I drive for several minutes without checking anything, which is more of an achievement than it should be. Then I wonder whether I locked the car after getting into it. This is especially stupid because I am currently driving the car, but stupidity has never been much of a deterrent once a checking thought gets going. I press the lock button. The doors click. A second later I look at the indicator near the handle and almost press the button again because the first press felt distracted.

That is the part people who don’t do this may not understand. A check can stop counting if I wasn’t paying enough attention while I did it. I can turn off a faucet and immediately question whether I really registered my hand moving the handle. I can watch myself lock a door and still feel that I did not experience the moment clearly enough. The check has to feel complete. The problem is that I have no idea what complete is supposed to feel like for more than a few seconds.

I know the cycle. I have spent enough time in therapy to explain why checking gives me relief and why that relief makes the next urge stronger. I know going back will make things worse.

I turn around at the next intersection anyway.

I am angry with myself before I finish the turn. Knowing why I’m doing it does not make stopping much easier.

Mr. Henson is still outside at his mailbox when I pull onto my street. Of course he is. He looks toward my car as I approach, and for half a second I consider driving past the house so he won’t know I came back. Then I realize circling the block to conceal my return would be worse.

I pull into the driveway, and Mr. Henson calls, “Forget something?”

“Apparently.”

He gives me a look and goes back to his mail.

I walk toward the front door, then stop before touching it. If I grab the handle, I know what happens next. I check once and feel better, then wonder whether I checked correctly. The door is locked. I already checked it. Nothing has happened during the few minutes I was gone that would reasonably explain it becoming unlocked. My brain begins supplying unreasonable explanations anyway.

I stand there with my hands at my sides. This is the part people don’t usually see. The checking is obvious; refusing to check looks like nothing. From across the street, I am just a woman standing in her driveway staring at a door. Inside, I am arguing with every reason I have ever used to justify touching that handle one more time.

It will take two seconds. There’s no harm in making sure. If something happens because I didn’t check, I’ll know I could have prevented it.

That last one is always the difficult one. If I don’t check and something goes wrong, my brain treats the decision not to check as part of the cause. Reasonable care is not enough. I am supposed to know for certain, and if I don’t, then apparently I have accepted whatever happens next.

My hand starts toward the door before I shove both hands into my pockets. Across the street, Mr. Henson is making an impressive effort not to look at me. I take a step backward, and the anxiety gets worse. My therapist told me it would. She also told me I don’t have to make the anxiety go away before I leave, which seems like an unreasonable thing to ask of a person while still somehow being correct.

I take another step. “You know what? Maybe it isn’t locked.”

Mr. Henson glances over, and I tell him, “Just talking to myself.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” he says.

I get back into the car with my hands shaking slightly. I don’t feel triumphant. Mostly I feel anxious and irritated, which is an annoying reward for doing the healthier thing. Still, I start the engine and leave.

A few minutes later Rachel texts to say Dad is already asking where I am. Of course he is. My father believes arriving less than twenty minutes early indicates a moral failing, so I call her before she can send anything else.

Rachel answers immediately. “How far out are you?”

“Fifteen minutes. Maybe.”

“You said you were on the way ten minutes ago.”

“I was.”

There is a brief pause. I know what she is doing. She is putting the timeline together and giving me a chance to say it before she has to ask.

“Emily.”

I hate when she does that. “I went back.”

“For the door?”

“Once.”

Rachel exhales but doesn’t tell me the door is locked or that everything is fine. She learned a long time ago that reassurance only works until I find the next question.

“You’re coming straight here now?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Keep coming.” She pauses. “You have the rings, right?”

My eyes go to the small velvet box on the passenger seat. It is sitting exactly where I put it.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

I look at the box again. “I have the box.”

There is a beat of silence. Rachel says, “Emily, the rings are in the box.”

“I know.”

“Okay. I was just checking.” Of course she was.

We hang up, and I keep my eyes on the road, but the damage is done. I have the box. That is not the same thing as knowing what is inside it. I watched Rachel put the rings in there last night. At least I remember watching her. That should be enough, except now my brain would like to review the memory for accuracy. What if the box is empty?

The thought becomes more specific because vague fear apparently wasn’t getting enough attention. Imagine getting to the church and opening an empty box. Everyone would be waiting while I explained that I had successfully transported a small velvet container and neglected the only objects anyone cared about.

I could pull over and check. It would take ten seconds.

“Then what if,” I say aloud.

The words surprise me, though they shouldn’t. My therapist has been trying to get me to practice this. Maybe the door is unlocked. Maybe the box is empty. The goal is not to prove those things impossible; the goal is to stop requiring that proof before I continue with my day.

That is much harder than it sounds, but I leave the box closed. The anxiety stays with me, and I keep driving.

I reach the church with nine minutes to spare and park. Before I get out, I wonder whether the headlights are off. They’re automatic. Then I wonder whether the car is actually in park. The dashboard says P, and I decide to accept this unusually persuasive evidence.

“Stop,” I tell myself, grab the ring box, and get out.

I lock the car once. My thumb stays on the button for a moment because pressing it again would be easy, and easy has always been one of the better arguments for checking. It will only take a second. I’m standing right here anyway.

I walk away.

Rachel is just inside the church talking to the coordinator. She sees me and points. “There she is.”

My father checks his watch, because of course he does. I hold up the ring box. “Before anyone asks.”

Rachel takes it, and for half a second I want it back. I need to know the rings are inside. Before I can decide whether to ask, she opens the box and there they are.

The relief is immediate, which is the irritating truth about checking. It works. For a little while.

Rachel closes the box and looks at me more closely. “You okay? You look sweaty.”

“Thank you.”

“Bad morning?” she asks.

“The door.”

Rachel’s expression changes. “You went back?”

“Once.”

“Did you check?”

I shake my head. “I stood there for a while.”

She studies me. “And then you left?”

“I’m standing here.”

Rachel gives my arm a quick squeeze. “That counts.” Rachel has always liked problems she could do something about. When we were kids, she carried Band-Aids because I was always falling off things.

The rehearsal begins, and for a while I manage to stay with what is happening in front of me. The coordinator explains where everyone should stand, Dad shushes me after I make a quiet comment about the minister’s hand gestures, and Rachel practices walking down the aisle. Somewhere in the middle of it, I realize I have gone several minutes without thinking about the door. Naturally, that makes me think about the door.

Did I lock it? Yes. Probably. There is that word.

Probably means I could be wrong, which is exactly why my brain hates it. Most people live with probably all day and barely notice. They lock a door and believe it is probably locked. They send a text and assume it probably says what they meant. They don’t require a signed affidavit from themselves before moving on. I have spent years trying to turn probably into definitely.

By the time the rehearsal ends, the thought has faded enough for me to enjoy talking with Rachel for a few minutes before she leaves with her fiancé. Then I get into my car, and before I have even started the engine, the front door returns to my attention.

I could open the security camera app on my phone. I installed the camera partly for safety, which was technically true, but I also knew exactly how I would use it. The app is right there, and one look would settle the question. Except it wouldn’t.

I might wonder whether the image was current. If the feed looked frozen, I would refresh it. After that, I might keep watching long enough to make sure nothing changed. There would always be another question if I kept answering them.

I put my phone face down on the passenger seat. My brain makes one more attempt: if the door is unlocked, I’ll regret not checking. If something happens, I’ll know I could have looked. Maybe. That is the answer I have been trying not to give all day, because maybe is not reassurance. It doesn’t prove anything. It leaves open the possibility that I am wrong. I let it.

I start the car with the anxiety still there and pull out of the parking lot. The house is twenty minutes away, and I do not know with complete certainty that the front door is locked. I know I locked it. I remember checking it before I left. That is enough reason to believe it is secure, even if it is not certainty. Maybe it has to be enough.

My brain asks anyway: Are you sure?

I keep my eyes on the road. “No,” I say, and keep driving.