reflection 55.1

and love in the volunteer office.

It was sometime in February, nearly a year ago. Outside, the early sunset begot painted flurries of bloodied oranges and yellows, and the season gave rise to frigid wind. The evening Wednesday shift communed in an undersized room, sitting on worn table ledges or resting against the chipped walls, waiting for demands from various nursing stations to be conveyed through the ancient telephone on the counter. Daniel was filing papers in the emergency room. Vi was discharging a patient from the third floor cardiovascular unit. The remaining seven high school students stood or sat, discussing television shows and arbitrary matters and completing various homework assignments in a lackadaisical manner. A conversation regarding NCIS or Bones or something of the sort quickly devolved into a monologue of serial killers and psychological flaws, with every supposedly informative point based entirely on media ploys and false facts.

“It’s proven that people with OCD are way more likely to become serial killers,” Melissa said, brushing her thin, dishwater blonde hair out of her face. Her fingers with the chipped electric blue nail polish gripped at a Seventeen magazine. “And how creepy, like I bet there are some people who have weird rituals when they kill people or something.”

I objected, of course. I told her that any statistics concerning a correlation between Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and murder was fabricated. But she did not relent, and instead insisted that a decent percentage of serial killers had OCD. I tried not to feel offended. She did not know I had OCD. I was her friend, and she, mine. But would she fear me if she knew of my own bouts of compulsions and the nagging, persistent thoughts that appeared as if conjured by the devil himself? Very few centuries ago, people afflicted with OCD were locked away and said to be possessed by a demon. In that moment, I felt the years melt away.

Perhaps being locked up would be best. The outside world was no place for someone like me— someone who, at the time, could not control many of my actions, let alone my thoughts. I was an aberration. I was a heinous and twisted collection of bones and tissue and skin and a deceptive and disloyal brain.

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is a widely misunderstood psychological disorder. It is typically given little social attention, although it can ruin the lives of those afflicted with it. The science behind it is reflection. 72