THE JOSHUA WEINZWEIG REVIEW OF WRITING 2020-2021
CAPTIVITY TO FREEDOM ____________________________________________________________ by Alyssa Lucchese, Grade 11 Another day. Another dreadful one. This frigid, damp, hostile, exhausting, draining and deprecating building—yes, that’s my high school. My mistake: it’s more of a prison. Through these dull grey walls, towering and intimidating students, cafeteria food that tastes like metal grinding against the roof of my mouth, and classroom scents that compare to toxic cleaning products or death, I continue to ache. Enough with the chatter, Mia, you better rush right into school before you’re late or worse, taunted! Alright, alright, I’m going! Please, I honestly can’t handle this for another second! Oh, please! Enough with your nonsense! Woah, hold everything! You can’t step on that crack in the sidewalk. What were you thinking?! I’m here to set you straight to make sure that every —single —little —detail isn’t left uncrossed in your mind. In a split second, a harsh and heavy gust of wind knocks me in the intestines as I struggle to push open the impenetrable front doors of Crestview School. It never seems to get easier. Whether I’m writing an exam or peacefully sitting on my bed, there is this constant urge sitting and churning inside me to refine every minor detail in my life and to make sure that nothing falls through. I remember, years ago, coming home from school in a panic, fretting over whether I had insulted my teacher that day. “Ms. Carrie, why do you always sit by your desk?” I asked her. I immediately regretted my decision. I was five. From then on, my fear of upsetting others—along with plenty more inescapable terrors—developed. Mia, you must pray every night, or else you may endanger your mother! Do you want her to get struck by a truck? Oh my, Tristan in the ninth grade just threw his lunch everywhere! You have to go to the washroom to wash your hands, but make sure that you apply soap precisely four times! Oh my god, you didn’t tap each of your fingers twice. Repeat it! Repeat it in the correct order, or else you may fail your chemistry test next period! My mind feels so congested, as if my nose is constantly running. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. As I transfer from one class to the next, my heart races. More disturbing thoughts abuse me. Oh gosh, Mia, your algebra textbook isn’t in line with the others. Fix it quickly! Now shut your locker the right way. That way, your sister Melanie won’t get cancer. Damnit, you didn’t do it right! The next thing I know, I’m on my way home to make sure that twelve-year-old Melanie is all right. The anxiety eats away at me, piece by piece. I can’t bear the thought of hurting her. It is another day, and I barely make it to my fourth-period psychology class. As I stumble into the frigid, wooden seat, the word “OCD” blatantly appears on the projector up front. It mocks me. You just wait, Mia. Oh boy, has Mr. Blake got it in for you! Questions swirl through my mind… We are learning about OCD, obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD? It sounds like Greek to me. I scan through the textbook, my eyes meeting peculiar and somewhat familiar terms: repetitive, intrusive thoughts… sensations… lack of self-control… doubting oneself… self-harm… perfection…
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