In a rectangular motion I ran my fingers repeatedly up, down, and across, up, down, and across the edges of the dish all the while smoothing out the crinkled texture of the tin foil. It sat in my lap just as lukewarm as the smile mom gave me when we finally reached the hospital parking lot.

I handed her the dish and we walked in silence. When my mom went to check in at the desk, I began counting the speckles that filled each linoleum square on the ground.

“Hi, there. We’re here to visit Danny McCarthy,” she said cheerfully as if the painted balloons and animals pasted on the walls made up for the smell of disinfectant and the hush of cancer diagnoses.

He was in the second to last room on the right—24 linoleum squares from the elevator door. Mrs. McCarthy sat in a chair outside to greet us with exhausted eyes. My mom handed her the dish and Mrs. McCarthy managed a smiled for us both, “Thank you for the casserole. And I know you came to talk to him, but they’ve just knocked out Danny with some sleeping medication so he can rest up before his new chemo treatment tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to go in and see him though, Schuyler.”

Mom looked surprised, “How’d you know it was a casserole?”

“Lucky guess,” Mrs. McCarthy replied smiling to herself.

I walked into the room to see Danny sound asleep. His toes were tinged purple with lack of circulation and his once athletic legs lay limp and lean. I stood there for a moment transfixed by the rhythm of his chest slowly falling up and down with the steady symphony of the beeping machines. I think I could even see his ribs through the thin blue gown.

“Turns out I’ll be joining you,” I said to Danny’s toes. Feeling an itch in my throat I began pacing back and forth the small room. “I’ll be just a floor below you actually. The Pediatric Psych Ward. I’ll count the squares when I move in next week.” Danny would probably have rolled his eyes if they had been open. I stepped closer to the head of his bed to say goodbye. At an even closer inspection of his sallow complexion he looked nothing like Danny the energetic, easy-going soccer player who was the every compliment to my own personality uncoordinated introvert. Now, he was just Danny the kid with cancer. But as I surveyed the room before walking out, I realized Danny was still the kid everyone admired. This was clearly displayed by the whole window seat loitered with ‘Get Well Soon’ balloons, wrapped gifts, bags of candy, an assortment of teddy bears, and what looked like a collection casserole dishes.

…

There’s Danny sitting and licking sand off the fingers of one hand while pushing with his other hand the toy trucks…bumping then screeching them to a halt all across the wooden 4-by-4’s constructing the sand box. Then there I was—hands furiously at work while my eyes fixated on the sand below me. I sculpted what seemed like millions of identical gritty mud-pie balls made from sand and my red bucket of water.

And then the truck Danny had been pushing and breaking across the wooden sandbox “roads” veered from its path and onto my hours of work—on to my pile of perfection. I sat staring at the now meaningless pile of wet sand and my eyes glassed over while my face froze in unexpressed disbelief. Meanwhile, Danny’s eyes widened apologetically and a strained smile grew with anticipation of my reaction. My eyes did not well up with tears of disappointment. I did not scream. I did not hit Danny for ruining my work. Instead, with my gaze still fixed on the pile of sand, I stood up, exited the sand box, walked into the kitchen where Mrs. McCarthy asked what was wrong, and I began counting. First, I counted all of the white square tiles on the floor. Then, I carefully counted each of the black hexagonal tiles that lay at the corners of each square tile. Possessed by the quantification of the pattern on the kitchen floor I was unaware of Mrs. McCarthy’s watch. But, she did not say a word and eventually carried on with her own work in the kitchen. When I finally stood up from my squatting and shuffling, I noticed Danny had come inside, there was dinner on the table, and it was now dark outside. Danny and Mrs. McCarthy turned to me in silence.

“14,480,” I said in response to their wondering expressions.

“14,480 of what?” Danny asked scrunching his face up in exaggerated confusion.

“Of tiles. The white ones. And 3,620 of the little black ones,” I replied.

Danny’s eyes narrowed in disbelief as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, “No way.”

“I checked. Three times,” I confirmed.

“What for?!” Danny said while throwing up his arms.

“Cause I had to,” I said as if that was the most reasonable explanation for why I had just spent the past two hours shuffling across the McCarthy’s kitchen floor mechanically counting each tile.

Mrs. McCarthy smiled and said, “Isn’t that nice. Isn’t it Danny?”

His eyes narrowed again. But now they did not squint at me in disbelief, but with curiosity as if he were counting an intricate pattern of tiles across my face. Mrs. McCarthy nudged him.

“Oh. Thanks I guess. Um…and sorry about your mud balls,” he apologized.

“It’s OK,” I shrugged having completely forgotten about my pile of perfection.

Mrs. McCarthy laid her hand on my head and asked, “How does some Mac n’ Cheese sound, Schuyler?”

That was one of the first episodes I could remember. And it was like Mrs. McCarthy knew what was wrong with me but didn’t care. Later on, Danny told me that his uncle had an anxiety disorder and so his mom had grown up with a different understanding than most of how a mind like mine worked. She told Danny once that everyone should be able to find their own way of coping with life’s stresses.

…

Then, there was that one time in 5^th grade when looking back on it I wonder how my parents didn’t realize something was wrong with me. In Mrs. Aimes’ class we were studying the Holocaust. One day we were shown a documentary on how the Jews, homosexuals, gypsies, and pretty much anyone else who didn’t fit the prescribed norms were persecuted. I learned about how they made these people wear visible markings like the Jewish star on their clothing so as to easily identify who an individual was. The persecuted had to give up their lives and who they were in hopes of surviving. This all seemed so familiar to me.

When my mom picked me up after school I asked her, “You know the Holocaust right?”

“Yeah Schu what about it?” she said.

“I feel like I can relate to them. The Jews and all of them I mean,” I explained.

Rubbing her temples while pulling in to traffic she asked, “Now why’s that honey?”

“You know how they had to do things like hide, lie, and wear stars on their clothing or else they could be hurt?” I asked looking up to her face to see if she was listening. She wasn’t.

She responded almost frustrated, “Yes, I know.”

“They didn’t want to do those things,” I continued.

Exasperated she replied, “Of course they didn’t, they were unjustly forced to, honey.”

Nervously tracing my fingers around the car window sill I told her, “I feel like that.”

Her gaze seemed to snap out of the distracted trance she was in. “Like what?” she wondered.

“Like sometimes I have to do things I don’t want to or…or something bad will happen. But no matter what, something bad happens anyways.”

“What sort of things, Schu?” With her brows furrowed she cocked her head and finally looked at me.

“Like counting things. Or organizing everything,” I told her.

Listening but still distracted, she pulled into the driveway. I looked up at her face awaiting a response. Her gaze was unconsciously fixed ahead on the garage door and her knuckles turned white as her grip remained on the wheel. “Well those aren’t such bad things, Schu. It’s OK to want to organize things.”

“I guess,” I said and shrugged.

…

I knew that my urges to count and organize weren’t really OK, but after this conversation I figured I shouldn’t mention these feelings again. What also probably wasn’t OK was how I had to flip my stuffed animal’s faces away from me every night or I thought they would kill me in my sleep. Or how my closet doors had to be opened exactly 6 inches (I measured) every night; because six inches was shut just enough for the monsters to breath but not opened so much so as to invite them to come and eat me.

Sure, I grew out of some of my scrupulous routines but only to replace them with new ones as I grew older.

“Schuyler, can you not?” Danny asked me, annoyed.

“Can I not what?” I said looking up from my work, frustrated that he made me lose count. Now I would have to start all over again.

“Tap that damn pencil. Why do you keep doing that?” he asked me through clenched teeth.

With a last tap I let my pencil fall from my grip unto the table.

Danny looked up at me apologetically, “Look man, I’m sorry.”

I was spending the week at Danny’s while my parent’s sorted things out. Ironically, I’ve found when people try to sort things out it only unleashes even more of a mess. So inevitably, it was right after this week that the messes of my family were finally unraveled. And as someone who has a hard time with the smallest of messes like spills and stains, one can only imagine the kind of pencil tapping and tile counting I urged to do.

Consequently, 8^th grade marked both my parent’s divorce and my most dramatic of episodes yet.

One night, in a storm of arguments my parents left to therapy. I stood in the hallway staring at the door that had slammed behind them. I remember listening to the rhythm of my heart escalate; counting each pulse as my head spun with panic. I couldn’t remove my stare from the door or my stance from the hallway. I began to experience an overwhelming feeling that something terrible was going to happen. The last thing I can remember was feeling an itching tic in my throat.

My parents came home to find the house divided precisely into two equal sides and their personal belongings neatly segregated. My dad’s collection of Allman Brothers CD’s were alphabetically piled in the living room while the dining room table housed tidy stacks of my mom’s collection of cook books. The rolls of dad’s blue prints were stacked in a pyramid on one side of the house and mom’s old art portfolios on the other. Shoes, coffee mugs, photographs, and magazines—everything was divided. Although everything was meticulously organized, the most deliberate of separations were my parent’s designated dining room chairs. My dad’s chair was placed on one side of the hall and my mom’s sat on the opposing side. The chairs faced each other while I sat in the hallway between them. After surveying the scene they asked me what I had done. With my thoughts and my pulse now neutralized I explained that if they were going to live separately their belongings had to be arranged as such. The house was split in more ways than one. Didn’t it make more sense this way?

We all later found out that I wasn’t just “making sense” of the situation. The psychiatrist told us that my severe anxiety surrounding my parent’s divorce brought on recurring and distressing fears about my own life falling apart. And so, in an act of control I performed compulsive rituals to organize the tangible to fit the emotional tone of the household.

In the midst of divorce my parents had been distracted and distanced from how things were affecting me too. So, it wasn’t until this incident that they finally began realizing I wasn’t just a hyper-organized thirteen-year-old and I wasn’t just day-dreaming when I would stare at the furniture in my house. I was obsessively sorting out the few things I could control and I was distracting myself from anxieties by counting the stitches and seams of the fabric. After explaining these urges and the incident at my house to my doctor, it became clear to him that I was exhibiting characteristics of an anxiety disorder called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or OCD.

With most mental disorders came the medications coupled with psychiatry. I was given Zoloft for my anxieties, and had to see a psychiatrist twice a week who told me everything I already knew about why I did what I did. My parents went through with the divorce and now I do in fact live in two separate houses to match the two separate lives my parents have chosen to live. Things were going relatively well until the summer before 9^th grade.

…

It was just a week after school got out for summer and I was packing my things to go over to Danny’s when my mom received a call. I watched mom’s face carefully as it went from smiling, to distressed, to devastated. Her smile was inversed and her eyes trembled with tears.

She pulled me in and embraced me. We swayed rocking back and forth, back and forth. With my head against her chest I could feel the sobs quake from her body through mine.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I said.

“Danny…he has cancer…. Schu it’s bad. The doctors aren’t sure how long—” she moaned not fully realizing the kind of anxiety that was building in my body as she continued to sob against me.

“What do you mean?” I suddenly yelled. There was that itching tic in my throat. I then ran to the kitchen and began systematically smashing every glass or plate that was out of place. Danny was the picture of health and he had so much going for him as a talented athlete, outgoing leader, and over all likeable guy—it just wasn’t right for him to be sick. So, if I couldn’t control all the things that just weren’t right in my life I could at least destroy everything that was out of place in my kitchen.

Finally, the itch subsided as I began to feel a new sensation of pain. A pool of blood gathered under my feet as I stood in the shards of broken glass.

…

After this episode it didn’t take much discussion for my psychiatrist to convince my parents that I should be sent to a pediatric psychiatric ward for further observation and psychotherapy. This would mean missing an undecided amount of school and not seeing my friends or family for day’s maybe even weeks at a time. The psychiatrist explained that in a case like mine, after experiencing traumatic events that often trigger more destructive OCD behaviors these were necessary measures to take.

…

Before checking in to the psych ward, my mom and I stopped by to see Danny. He was too sick to see any visitors at the time but Mrs. McCarthy didn’t mind the company.

“So, how’s school been Schuyler?” Mrs. McCarthy asked me.

I began to explain, “Well, uh I’m actually not—”

“…not caught up on your homework! So we really better get going. Send our best to Danny,” my mom interjected.

“What was that about?” I asked, confused and a little insulted.

She stopped walking and averted her gaze from my eyes towards the painted elephant on the wall, “Schuyler, most people don’t really understand a disorder likes yours. The way your mind works…it’s just not something they can wrap their heads around.”

“Everyone seems pretty OK with understanding Danny’s cancer.”

“Well, people understand cancer,” she sighed.

“But I’m not even sick. Danny’s the one that’s sick.”

“That’s just the way it is Schuyler,” she explained with a tinge of disappointment in her voice.

“People are more comfortable with the death of cancer than the differences of a mental disorder…” I questioned aloud.

“I’m sorry to say that that may wrongfully be the case, honey,” she said with a strained but sympathetic smile.

“So no balloons?” I sarcastically exclaimed.

She laughed and said, “No balloons.” She wrapped her arm around me and guided me through the door labeled ‘Pediatric Psychiatric Ward.’

“Not even casseroles?!” I almost yelled and the receptionist gave me a look.

Playing along my mom joked, “Not even casseroles.”

…

Communities are united by cancer. There are walks, runs, charity galas and even televised, celebrity-laden concerts all for the cause of cancer. My school even organized a cancer research charity soccer game in honor of Danny McCarthy’s fight against cancer. Danny’s fight lasted nearly six months but the overwhelming support for him and his family never subsided.

Meanwhile, my three month absence from school was left unexplained. I never told anyone where I was or especially why I was sent there. Some far-fetched rumors were cultivated as result of my silence, but I couldn’t help thinking that most of the rumors were better than the truth. Don’t get me wrong—I did try to explain my situation to some inquiring classmates once. But the minute I mentioned a ‘psych ward’ or ‘mental disorder’ the looks on their faces said it all: “He’s crazy.”

Even my parents were left in the shadow cast by the stigma against mental disorders. When my parents would try to explain to closer friends and family members our situation; they would only inquire about the strength of my medications rather than bring offers of encouragement. A casserole won’t cure cancer and it won’t keep me from counting; but sometimes what matters most is having that support even in the form of baked cheese and noodles. I guess my mom really was right. Most people just don’t get it. Sometimes the more definite things, even death, can be easier to understand than the intricacies of a mind.

Machlan, Beth Boyle. "Two Way Mirror: Facing a Daughter's OCD."The New York Times. New York Times,9 July 2012. Web. 6 Mar. 2013. <http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/09/two-way-mirror-facing-a-daughters-o-c-d/>.

Mayo Clinic. Mayo Clinic, 25 Dec. 2010. Web. 6 Mar. 2013. <http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/obsessive-compulsive-disorder/DS00189/DSECTION=treatments-and-drugs>. 

Wilson, Diana. "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)-Diana's Story." NHS Choices. NHS, 10 May 2012. Web. 6 Mar. 2013 <http://www.nhs.uk/Conditions/Obsessive-compulsive-disorder/Pages/Realstoriespage.aspx>. 

WebMD. WebMD, 21 June 2010. Web. 6 Mar. 2013. <http://www.webmd.com/anxiety-panic/tc/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd-medications>.