Some things cannot be ignored—as hard as we try. We try to tell ourselves, “No, I’m fine—there is nothing wrong with me”, however, that isn’t the reality. I’m not saying everyone has something wrong with them, I’m just saying that everyone has something. Some things may seem ridiculous, like the girl who washes her hands and goes through a bottle of soap a week. Yeah, but isn’t that okay? She’s at least keeping the germs away! Well, there is truth to that, but she’s keeping so much more away.

It’s hard to describe the girl with the soap. She’s pretty normal on the exterior—she does well in school, sports, and has perfectly suited social circle. She’s usually upbeat, laughing and smiling, but what does the exterior say about someone, really?

If you saw her brain, it would look something like this; think of it as an irrational CDC-esque voice, yelling out orders this way and that. “Wash your hands, you’re going to get sick and die if you don’t! No! Don’t undercount, there are patterns for you to follow! If you don’t…” And well, it goes on from there.

Now, for a while she didn’t know what it was. It started out in a science class, nothing too significant—except for the fact that while the class was growing bacteria, she grew terrified and faked being sick to get out of the lab. Another funny thing about this girl—she wouldn’t wear those jeans again. It grew from there. She stopped eating meat (or trying to prevent herself from too much), because her fear of parasites and e-coli. Which in turn, lead to the hand washing, and the “sudden allergy to peanuts” (she got over those thankfully—she loves steak and peanut butter).

She didn’t realize how complex her thoughts were, which budded more problems. She felt the need to pressure herself more and more, to do well, because she had to, so she could have a good future. Future and irrational fears (to her), was the mix of a perfect panic attack, which happened in school. The fun part is that it was in front of her whole English class. Which told her something was wrong.

And something is wrong; she just doesn’t know what to do.

This may seem uninteresting to some of you (and at times it probably will be, humans aren’t always eccentric or sadly amusing), but it really won’t matter. If you enjoy a good laugh, a good cry, and a fair share of repetition, you’re going to love her, well; you’re going to love me.

So, hello everyone, I am a teenage literature connoisseur, who dabbles on the side in shut out thoughts and music lyrics. I ponder our existence, and when I will be able to move out of a small town and into a big city. But, the future is a bit of a ways away, and I’m trying to learn to slow down. Trying. 

 
Through the years I’ve learned that there are a million ways to do something, and a million and one ways to do that thing wrong. Sounds ominous, but I find it to be true.

When I was younger, I never thought much of myself. I was quiet, shy, and overly sensitive—which isn’t a bad thing, but when you end up crying near a tree on various recesses, it’s kind of a problem.  I was short[er than I am now] and well, to put it lightly, childishly chubby. When I made friends I was hesitant that they liked me, and found myself changing for them. My best friend, from first grade to fourth grade, moved to a different country, it devastated me. Sure, I had friends, but I had just lost a best friend at age nine, I wasn’t going to try and be best friends with anyone else (but of course, it eventually happened, I was a kid).

Elementary school (for the most part) was pretty good. I mean, I did have a lot of issues with myself. One of the only things I thought kept me sane and whole at the time was reading, and writing—it still lives with me today.
There was this girl, and she absolutely detested me. Just because I was good friends with her “best friend” (as you will learn, hasn’t been my first time in that rodeo). She would get other girls to gang up on me. There would be rude comments that would be passed on by a set of people we called “messengers” (yes, we gave those people names). That lead me to finding a comforting spot near lilac bushes, where I would cry at recess, like the young ball of emotions that I was.

The girl and I had a history. I moved from another town from kindergarten to first grade, and my mom wanted me to make friends. At my birthday party, we invited all the girls in my class. I had this play room with all my dolls and toys that I had proudly kept tidy for the occasion.  In a change of my plans, the girl, completely (in my mind) obliterated everything. I got annoyed and told her off. After, my mom called us down for cake, so as kids do, we ran down the stairs.

She ended up tripping because she was running so fast. And just like that, started wailing bloody murder. And the real kicker was this: she told my mother that I did it.

Classic.

I don’t know if she detested me then, but I personally held a grudge for the longest time.

The most iconic thing she had ever said to me didn’t even happen in school. Our after school group had a snow day service at another location. When snow days would happen my sister and I would go there—and so would the girl. One snowy day, I walked into the building and she saw me, and told me something I find (to this day) utterly hilarious, “You may be the queen of the elementary school. But here? This is my town, so back off”. Oh the wonders of adolescence.

How odd it is that things that made us cry, we look back on and only laugh?

I ended up having to see our school guidance counselor, for about a year—due to the girl. We had meetings with her, in hopes we could try to reconcile. We eventually did, but the next year my family had to move again, so the newly found truce didn’t matter.

We moved to another small town within our school district, where I finished off my fifth grade year. I really started to come into my own then. I had a growth spurt, and most of the baby fat settled. I also really got to know myself, since it had been 2 years since my best friend left. I learned that the person I was then just really wasn’t me. I shed the shyness, and took on a more social role.

Being social was a huge deal for me. I was a shy little girl for the longest time. Insecurities were obviously the main reason I was so shy. I really cared about what the other kids thought of me, which lead to a quiet and unsure mask I would wear every day.

The self discovery continued throughout the fifth grade. I made friends. I grew up as much as I thought I knew how, settled in to all of the change in my life, but things don't always stay the same.

Sixth grade rolled around, and I found myself slipping. Everything I had worked for, the person I was glad I became, soon melted.

Slowly. Dripping. Away.

This was due to only a few things I could conjure up. For starters, all of my friends (the people who I assumed were my friends), were in another pod than me. It lead me to not making any new friends on my team. From the beginning I knew I wanted to switch pods. I felt unhappy. When I finally did decide to make friends on my team, I was changing myself to try and be friends with people I couldn’t relate to. In my trying, I lost a lot of old friends that year.

And the second reason would be that of my twin sister. She has a learning disability (unnamed), and our mother wanted me to look after her in this big new school. She requested for us to be put on the same team. That is where we went.

Throughout that whole year, my plans of switching teams seemed like a far cry. I was unhappy and couldn’t find a way out. Then I had an idea--my sister. She could benefit from this plan more than I could--she could gain the independence she needed to be given to her. She needed independence from me, to grow and learn on her own. So I gave it to her. It was one of the best things for her, she's more social than she's ever been, and I like to believe I helped in that.

The real reason, aside from my sister and the overall unhappiness, was the science class. I don’t remember what happened. It was like one morning something in me shifted. I wasn’t afraid or paranoid of germs until then. I can remember everything. I remember the petri dishes, the Q-tips picking up samples to grow bacteria--I remember the pit in my stomach that I now know all too well. Something came over me, and all I could think about was Is the bacteria dangerous? Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m going to die...I’m going to die. I need to get out.
I told my teacher I felt sick, and ran to the restroom. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, but there was no getting rid of what was happening in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and with every scrub, every pump of soap, I felt more and more trapped. I washed and washed the clothes I wore that day, but I ended up reasoning that they would always be dirty--to never be touched or worn again. The class grew worse, I became paranoid about parasites--stopped meat for about a month. Nobody could know. I didn’t even know. I thought I was insane.

It became a part of my routine after a while. The washing, the counting. I grew tired. It went on--it still goes on.
Everything ended up working out for me. I switched pods going into 7th grade, not carrying any baggage with me-or so I thought. The weird little ticks I started getting from that day in science class grew worse. I dismissed it.

The year went on so well for me. My grades and new friends were wonderful (The friends I switched for, well, it didn’t end up working out so sweetly with them). But, at the same time as things were good, something inside of me was switching. I began to become more panicked and stressed about life than I ever had before. And I couldn’t stop washing my hands, trying to scrub away any trace of anything that could hurt me. Three pumps, four pumps, eight pumps, 12 pumps....it wasn't enough. No amount of soap could wash away what was wrong--what is wrong.

However, I still shook this off as nothing. I didn’t know what it was then, so I assumed it was some phase. This was all before I reached my breaking point.

I had a full blown panic attack in my 7th grade English room.

There was a project I was so excited for, that I worked hard for, but stressed greatly over. I needed everything to be perfect. But on that day things kept going wrong. I forgot the paper with what I needed to do for the project, everything I had prepared. It was easily fixed. Printed out within minutes.

I tried to relax, I really did. But my skin got hot and my hands became clammy. Soon it was my turn to speak--the cross-examiner in a trial. As soon as I got up to the podium, I remember this clear as day. I looked at my classmates, and broke down. The walls closed in, and I could not breathe or think. I remember saying, “I can't do this”, and running out of the room.

I had snapped.

I held everything in far too long, and now I couldn’t ignore the problem. I started to see my school counselor, my parents thought it was just the stress of a project. It wasn’t. The next year of my life things got worse. But, I finally figured out what was wrong.

I read up on what I was feeling, and diagnosed myself with OCD and generalized anxiety disorder. It was terrifying, but it made sense. I didn’t want to have anything “wrong” with me. I wanted my mind to work like everyone else's.

It took a while before my parents did anything about it, they still thought it was a phase. They would get angry at the girl with the soap because she was using too much. They told her to stop, but she couldn’t control it.

A few months ago, they finally realized how deep I was into this, and how it wasn’t just a phase. I was ready to get better, it’d been over two and a half years. So, we called up therapists, saw my doctor, and I was diagnosed and medicated. And now, here I am, talking about my journey thus far.

This isn’t a sob story, I don’t want sympathy. This is how I live, and it may be hard sometimes but life isn’t easy. At all.  We all carry something around with us every day, and this is the weight I carry. Sometimes it's heavier than other times, sometimes its lighter.

Sometimes I look back on the girl I knew in elementary school, and wonder if all of those years of emotional stress somehow triggered this, but I’ll never know. Maybe she did. And if so, it’s odd for me to thank her in a way. She gave me strength. I learned from all of those days. I grew up. She also gave me a lot of stories to tell, and God knows writers need lots of those.

I’ve found that writing about this is much easier than talking about it. Behind the words and paragraphs I can speak freely and tell someone the most personal part of myself. And it could make for one hell of a story someday.

This isn’t the end of her story--the girl with the soap. She’s on a journey of finding out who she is today, and is on the path to getting better. She’s looking at life with a keen eye, and trying to slow down.

Trying.