The Weight of Routine

     Trigger warning: bullying

    My anxiety did not ignite until after my morning routine. I had a list of tasks to carry out and I habitually completed them; there was no desire to veer off track. Then I’d sit in front of the glowing display of my computer, mesmerized by the tiny, spinning compact disc while waiting for it to morph into an arrow. A beehive of responsibilities and obligations would swarm in my head and my two point five hours of tranquility would be over. This morning however, the first thing I thought about even before my eyes flittered open, was that something was out of control.

***

        Yesterday I rolled out of bed, stretched and shuffled to the bathroom. I took care of business, washed my hands and face, swallowed my vitamins, and wandered into the kitchen to make some breakfast. After filling the kettle with tap water and turning on the stove burner, I shook some honey oats into a bowl.

         Mondays I would have cold cereal, Tuesdays I’d scramble an egg and stick it in the microwave, Wednesdays I’d have a toasted bagel with strawberry cream cheese, Thursdays were oatmeal days, Fridays it was cold cereal again, Saturdays a muffin of my choice and Sundays I’d stuff a frozen waffle in the toaster. Each entrée was accompanied by a cup of tea with honey.

         After breakfast on Monday, I ambled back to the bathroom to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and take my antidepressant. Upon returning to the bedroom, I got dressed in the same clothes I wore the day before, and after straightening the sheets on my bed, I did a little yoga and a bit of cardio to get my heart pumping, then I pried open my laptop. My morning sequence never changed, with the exception that I’d put on fresh clothes every two days and change the bedding every two weeks.

         As I sat waiting for my PC to come to life that Monday, I began mentally itemizing a list for the grocery store. I shook my head to help me refocus. The computer was asking for my password, and I typed the usual seven characters in the white block. They are the same seven characters I use to answer that question every time it is asked. I have a pretty good memory, and I’m told that it is dangerous to always use the same password, but along with my need for regularity, I also crave consistency.

         The first unwelcomed feeling hit me when the smell of pepper and burnt butter wafted from the kitchen. My sister was making a fried egg sandwich. Robin came by each day to have her lunch and read the newspaper before returning to work. She left pizza here yesterday; couldn’t she eat that?

         Was it ignorance on her part, a refusal to accept my medical problem, or did she not believe the whole OCD condition? Whatever her reasons were for not cooperating with me, I was sure she would never understand me. That was my last egg. What was I going to do about breakfast tomorrow? My feelings of anxiety turned to anger.

         I yelled, “So you’ll buy me a carton of eggs.”

         “Sorry, I’ll bring them by after work,”            

         I clicked on the open envelope icon on the task bar. Typically, I’d glide the pointer across the monitor and let it hover over the trash can in the corner of the first email, my right index finger resting on the left clicker of the mouse. Then it began.

         Daily horoscope, delete, walk-in tubs, delete, your credit score, delete, win cash, delete, 1- 800-Flowers, delete, early bird specials, delete, shop your way, delete, 20% off of 3 or more, delete.

          Robin stood silently gawking at me from just outside the open doorway to my bedroom. I looked up from the keyboard. She informed me that Cliff had passed away on August fourteenth. He was my bully when I was in high school. I suppose she thought the news would cause me to see the guy that I despised in a different light, or it would give me closure on a horrible time in my life. Another example of her assuming she knew what was best for me. In actuality, I didn’t need something else to think about and now those painful experiences were resurfacing; the name calling, the isolation, and the instability I felt.

         I said, “All things come to an end including lives,”

         “Harsh,” she replied.

         “I was never a fan of his. But thanks for the update.”

         “Didn’t the doctor stress to you the importance of leaving the past behind,” She rhetorically asked before rolling her eyes and strolling back to the kitchen.

         I have been concentrating on the present, I even accept that I can’t control the future, but something broke in me when I heard the news about Cliff.

         I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder when I was seventeen. Prior to my diagnosis I was unaware of anything physically wrong that would explain my atypical actions and reactions and I often felt misunderstood.

         Cliff was the worst. He would call me weird, strange and even creepy. He belittled me, calling me stupid because I had a hard time concentrating on projects, despite my good grades. He tried to convince other kids that I was a snob, pointing out the times I would roll my eyes at their suggestions or comments. He would mimic me every time we made eye contact by tugging at his hair. I have since been educated on my unique symptoms resulting from this condition; I now know that twisting my hair and rolling my eyes was a response to my obsession and need for uniformity.

         I turned my attention back to my inbox and continued. 10% off sale, delete, a special message, delete, your weekly deals, delete, get inspired with these fourteen trending ideas, delete, customer support, delete. When it was empty, I moved on to my social media.

         Cliff’s obituary topped my newsfeed; a fellow classmate posted it. I commented with a sad, tearful emoji because I figured it was the right thing to do. I scrolled downward and read a few inspirational quotes, clicked a few likes, wrote a couple of comments, and noted that my OCD group welcomed a new member. Then I saw another photo of Cliff. It was his graduation pic. His intense gaze seemed to mock me with a narcissistic glare. His thin lips were pulled taut into a smarmy grin. I squeezed my eyes shut but I could not block out his gibes. Hello, anyone home? I could hear his fingers snapping as if he were trying to regain my attention.

         Then the door slammed and I returned to the present. My sister left, I heard her lock the door behind her. I reminded myself that Cliff’s bullying had ended.

         In front of me, an email notification popped up in the lower right-hand corner of the monitor; donations wanted, I clicked the trash can. Moving right along, I started typing my latest blog entry when another pop-up appeared, e-book deals. I growled in disgust and sent it to the deleted file. I typed two more paragraphs. Another pop-up, virtual greeting cards, delete. Then I just sat there, staring at the screen. After a few seconds, I began to type.

         Another pop-up. It was from my brother, so I saved my blog and returned to my inbox to read the daily joke he always sent. A little levity was exactly what I needed, so I minimized the page I was working on and brought up the mailbox.

         My eyes widened and I sighed with dismay when I noticed the number next to the folder titled, junk. Since that number was larger than the number next to my inbox, I completely forgot about the note from my brother. My concern was to get rid of my unwanted mail, otherwise, the task I started this morning would be another failure. And so, it recommenced. Designer jewelry sale, delete, cool summer gifts, delete, adorable sweaters for your pet, delete, 40% off select styles, delete.

         Eventually I finished my blog entry, thankful that I got through it without further interruptions. The usual feeling of accomplishment I got when my entry was complete, was missing; I could not close my laptop until I was sure that damn mailbox was empty, so I clicked on the envelope, the icon last in line on the taskbar.

         “Nooo,” I squeaked. Squeezing my eyes and compressing my temples at the same time. It had to end. Lives ended. Bullying ended. Everything ended! And yet again. 100% stretch lace, delete, last chance deals, delete, gifts for every occasion, delete, invest with us, delete, a safer home, delete, printer ink & toner, delete.

         I sauntered into the kitchen and unlocked the back door, anticipating Robin’s arrival and the eggs she promised me. Coincidentally, her car was trundling into the driveway, so I trotted to the idling car as the driver’s side window slid down. She robotically apologized once again and handed me the half-dozen eggs. We agreed to see one another the next day, and she backed into the road then sped away.

         I scampered into the house and put the eggs in the fridge. The three slices of pizza my sister stored on the bottom shelf drew my attention. Reheated pizza, a high school staple, I thought, then I scurried to the bedroom to resume my mission of emptying my mailboxes.

         My inbox was still empty, and I think I felt some relief, or maybe it was hope. I definitely felt hungry; back to the kitchen to grab a cylinder of yogurt. I was behind schedule, I missed the optimal time for gardening, my artwork would be due in two days, but I wasn’t convinced that the unwanted emails had stopped. I had to be sure, so I put the cup of yogurt on the desk beside the sleeping laptop and nudged the mouse to awaken it.   

         The list was back in my junk mail, and so it began again. Car insurance, home warranty, magazines. Delete, delete, delete. Wait for it. Delete. Wait. Delete. Hours passed and I grew groggier. The only thing that kept me alert was my left index finger periodically tapping the space bar each time the display turned pink and filled with floating bubbles.

         When my head fell forward as if it were too heavy for my neck, I jerked upward and my left hand twitched. My index finger shifted from the space bar, and I repeatedly tapped the ALT key to no avail. The floating bubbles on the screen saver lulled me to sleep.

         I must have been dreaming because I was freaking out, trying desperately to force my eyelids open with my fingers. My eyes felt like they were glued shut. I rubbed them frantically as if I were weeping but instead of slippery tears, I felt the pickiness of tiny abrasions; I was rubbing my eyelashes out with my calloused fingertips.

***

         I woke to the sound of incessant knocking. Struggling to my feet, I staggered to the back door. My sister was in mid-knock when I opened it. Robin’s look of surprise and concern snapped me into alertness. She asked me what happened, as if I knew what was wrong. I could only stare back at her questioningly.

         She realized something was amiss when she saw that I was wearing the same outfit for a third day in a row and I was briefly impressed by her awareness. I assured her that I was fine, but I don’t think she was convinced because she offered to make me lunch. After she entered the house, I hurried to the bedroom to change my clothes. As I was passing my open laptop, the screen now black, I paused and pressed the power button. I had to finish deleting that list.

         I sat in the office chair and then I began. Daily horoscope, delete, walk-in tubs, delete, your credit score, delete, win cash, delete, 20% off of 2 or more, delete, 10% off sale, delete, a special message, delete, your weekly deals, delete.

         It has to end! Cliff's life ended! Everything ends! So, I’m waiting for the end. There’s no going back now.

End