“And do you still get these urges?” said Clara.
I visit Clara once a week. She’s older than me. Maybe twice my age? Her office is nice, cozy, lots of wood and brown leather. But no windows, which bothered me until it didn’t.
When I see her, she sits behind a desk and listens to me and makes eye contact. I reciprocate, unless we’re discussing something that makes me feel strange, self-conscious. When I feel this way I look down. Or I look up, past her, at the wall with her diplomas and pictures of her family.
Or sometimes I zone out.
“Eddie?”
“Sorry,” I came back, “what was that?”
“I said, do you still get the urge to turn the lights off and on when you walk in a room?”
“Oh… no.”
“And when did that go away?”
“I dunno,” I met her gaze, “high school?”
Clara made a note. “And did anything take its place? Any other compulsions?”
I looked up again. Some pictures hung crooked. “I guess I knock on wood a lot,” I said.
“A lot?”
“Yeh.”
“Like when?”
“All the time.”
“But does something trigger you?”
“Oh, I see, well… bad thoughts, I guess.”
“Bad thoughts?”
“Yeh.”
“Like what? For example?”
I crossed my arms. “You’re gonna laugh.”
Clara didn’t say anything.
I took a breath and told her about what happens in the sauna, about how I can’t stop thinking the rocks on the heater will get so hot they’ll explode, like grenades, puncturing my face and chest and legs, burning me from the inside out, disfiguring me.
“That’s not funny at all,” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s a bad thought, very bad, but do you think it’s rational?”
I shook my head. “No, but I can’t help myself,” I said. “Knocking makes me feel better, like I’ve neutralized the risk, or the thought, or whatever.”
Clara made a note. “And if you don’t knock?”
“And if I don’t knock I feel tense, like something bad will happen.” Clara made a note. “I know it won’t,” I said, “but it still feels like it will.”
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“Mm,” she nodded, “and do you feel this irrational tension anywhere else? In another context?”
I took a beat. “Sure, yeh," I said, "when I'm at work, writing.”
“Oh? Tell me about that.”
“Well," I said, "if I don’t write… or if I can't write, I feel it.”
“And what if you knock on wood? Does it go away?”
“No,” I said, “it’s there every day until I start working.”
“Does that bother you?” she said. “Would you rather spend your time elsewhere?”
“Yes,” I said, “with my family.”
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