Phone Call
Imagine going over a bridge, by car or by foot. The sound of warping metal and cracking concrete fills the air. Gravity acts fast as the bridge collapses. The sound of honking snaps me back to reality.
Imagine the tunnels that support the weight of the entire city, slowly cracking until concrete, soil, and sewage crush my lungs. Subway cars halt in the narrow passages, wires failing, catching fire, suffocating me. The conductor announces the station and I step onto the platform. The promise of fresh air so close, yet so far away.
Imagine an earthquake hitting the city. Tall buildings sway in the wind, one blow away from broken glass and falling furniture attacking me on the sidewalk. Will I become stuck on a high floor as flames engulf the lower sections? The elevator dings on the 11th floor, and I enter my friend’s dorm room. I cannot look out the window.
When I travel on bridges and under tunnels, these thoughts permeate throughout my mind. A list of scattered childhood memories floods back: crying, panic attacks, therapy. My parents recount many of these events; I remember none of it. Where and when it presents does not matter to me, the end result remains the same.
Anxiety manifests in unique ways. No matter where I am, disaster looms in my mind. OCD barges in and so does the urge to organize my friend’s entire bookshelf by genre. I like to think I have more control over it than it does over me. I need instructions to be precise and informative. Without proper or extensive context, I fail to understand the concept. “Do or do not, there is no try,” Yoda said. I viewed the world in black and white, like the famed jedi master. The ADHD and Anxiety sides of my brain agree on the usefulness of guided directions.
Irrationality has my number. He calls me up at the worst times, saying some crazy ideas, “You are faking it, you know? Maybe don’t take your medication tomorrow morning. Prove that you don’t have it.” I hang up and wonder how he keeps getting my number.
Depictions online and on television represent people with OCD as extreme, controlling, and unsustainable, enforcing their diagnoses on those around them. I just want people to take their shoes off at my house. A personal rule includes cleaning dishes immediately after eating.
Irrationality calls again, he tells me, “The sink needs to stay clean or deadly, noxious mold will grow everywhere.” Once upon a time, in a galaxy not so far away, a younger Abby left dirty socks around the house and discreetly played Pokémon underneath the covers. I received a plethora of pesky lectures regarding (un)cleanliness and poor sleep routines, courtesy of a mother in medicine.
A new fear unlocked when I opened the bread and saw mold moved into the crust. I boycotted that loaf, but my family continued to eat it. In my adult life, food is thrown out on its expiration date, exiled to the trash. Fully aware of the date being a suggestion, I refuse to risk inviting unwelcome germs into the kitchen. If bread expires Friday, it becomes inedible past Thursday at 11:59 PM. My family attempts to have me break this rule by outright lying to me and hiding the expiration dates. I often buy my own food when I visit home, to avoid Dad’s pancake mix, older than my college career. At this point anyone may think I avoid restaurants. The cleanliness of their kitchens and the expiration date of their food remains a mystery. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. I do, on occasion, pick and choose my battles.
Ninth grade me would not believe me if I told them that our friends text from a group chat, daily. It began with a Sci-Fi Club meeting and the recognition of a kid named Adam at lunch. The following year, his friends turned into my friends. Their friends became our friends. It became a pyramid scheme of sorts. As of 2024, the group downgraded to six full-time members, including myself. We’re not the smartest, but together, we can harness the powers of Grayskull, becoming Masters of The Universe. They only pester me about my taste in video games, not any of my idiosyncrasies. Their blunt honesty remains a nice reprieve from the chaos of the world around me. Half of them thought I had Autism. Their issues often mirror my own, which reassures me that I am not alone.
Entering college became a unique experience. My entire first semester involved classes on a screen, courtesy of a worldwide pandemic. ADHD re-entered the arena, as my inability to process information only worsened during online learning. The rest of my college career I spent in a single dorm room, a luxury afforded to those with medical accommodations. Mental illness has some fantastic perks.
My Bed remains spotless and hygienic at all times and serves as my only reward after a long day of classes. My exhaustion remains inconsequential to cleanliness. I must take a shower every night. My feet committed the unforgivable sin of wearing the flip-flops that touched the germ-filled floor. This being the same floor from which a mouse stared at me before running out underneath my door. A draft stopper now guards that gap. It makes a sound when I open the door, a small price I am willing to pay. Soap cannot clean the decades old carpet, a remnant of a time where nuns walked my dorm halls. I must cope, knowing the prehistoric floor contains germs that predate the moon landing. This is one of many things that I cannot control, so I try not to ruminate over it. Five semesters in this room, only one more to go.
New clothing must pay the entrance fee. Nothing on my Clean Bed without it being thoroughly washed. Having it gives me peace of mind. It’s something that keeps me stable in the constantly unstable world. I know these actions are not considered normal, and I continue them while acknowledging their abnormality. Unless I am sleeping at a friend's house, these are rules, always.
A clothes dryer last year in my dorm was found with mold inside it. Although it received a thorough cleaning, I refuse to touch that machine. Moldy ghosts haunt its crevices and I hate dealing with “poltergeists”. I do laundry in the basement early Saturday morning. The best time on a college campus. Everyone is asleep, and I can choose the clean dryer. A nagging thought breaks through on occasion. Irrationality found my number again.
“Maybe they switched the dryers around. Maybe both dryers are contaminated. You have to go to the laundromat a mile away.”
Rationality is finally on speed dial, “That’s a lot more work. That laundromat probably has more germs and mold than here. And no way is that going to make things better. You’re way too lazy to go all the way there and back on a Saturday morning. You can do better things with my time.”
The reasonable part of me knows that I can achieve similar results with the past of least resistance. Everything has germs, whether I walk a mile on the dirty sidewalk or use a moldy dryer. Watching Star Trek is easier when my laundry is in the basement.
I made two new friends since high school, but it remains difficult to interact with people who do not struggle with similar issues. The repeated explanations about my mental health to others becomes exhausting to me, so I am rarely upfront about it. One of my closest friends stared in confusion when I mentioned my anxiety in 2023. I stared back and reminded her that we met in group therapy. Habits I thought were obvious to everybody, obviously were not.
My anxiety influences my budgeting behavior, only buying items deemed necessary. This prevents me from cluttering up my room. I indulge in some important accessories, as I type this next to my modest Funko Pop figurine collection, their black eyes staring into my soul. I wonder what they think about behind those blank eyes. I make sure to set my 8:30 AM alarm before starting my nighttime routine. Sleeping at least six to eight hours a night is paramount to my continued existence. The Clean Bed requires the “entrance fee” of brushed teeth. Both the wallet and phone stay parked on the desk for easy access. Whilst going out, I bring a portable charger, as my iPhone battery dies faster than The Flash.
Living in a coastal city during college means helpful exposure therapy. The sound of people shouting obscenities and stressful classwork drown out my intrusive thoughts. I take subway trains beneath my city, and cross bridges, to pick up family from the airport. Music blasts in headphones to distract me from the thought of imminent demise. If the city collapses, it will be to the soundtrack to The Lord of The Rings. Food remains edible for me the day it expires, sometimes even the day after, if I am feeling brave. On occasion, I even hold my phone in bed. I must sanitize my hands afterwards, as I feel the phone remains more disgusting than Shrek’s outhouse.
Dealing with these issues continues to be an arduous task. Whenever I return to my parents’ suburban home for holidays, the town feels like it gets smaller, compared to the city I live in. The college routine ends soon, yet it feels like it just began. Parents comment on cousins that received fantastic job offers or continued their education. That only worsens my concern for what life brings next. The uncertainty of the future renders more anxieties. I need to keep one foot in front of the other. Like Frodo Baggins in Fellowship of the Ring, this will be a taxing journey, but I have a group of friends around me to aid in my travels.