#group therapy

You sit in the circle the same way you always do. Slightly apart. Close enough to be present, far enough to feel untouched. Your hands rest in your lap, but today they're not still. Your fingers move in patterns ‚tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, pause' a rhythm only you understand, only you need

It's been two weeks since the last session. Two weeks since you walked out. Two weeks since Wanda came too close to something you've kept carefully buried under layers of silence and routine and carefully constructed normalcy. You haven't seen her since and you certainly didn't take her offer with one-on-one sessions. Even tho you didn't decline either. It was a weird athomsphere, as if all of this was strangely floating between decisions or like watching a turning coin, waiting for it to fall and decide the outcome.

You almost didn't come today. But the paperwork didn't give you a choice. The "rehabilitative outreach program" has attendance requirements. Conditions. Obligations. So here you are, in the same chair, in the same circle, pretending the last session didn't painfully crack something open inside you.

Wanda noticed you the moment you entered. Of course she did. Her eyes found yours for just a fraction of a second; no pressure, no demand, just acknowledgment.  You lowered them instantly. You're here. She sees that. Then she looked away, giving you the space to settle, to breathe, to exist without scrutiny.

The group is the same. Six chairs. Wanda sits with you, not above you. The familiar faces around the circle shift and murmur, settling into their seats. Someone laughs. Someone sighs. The usual pre-session sounds.

You focus on your breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. The pattern helps. It always helps. Structure. Predictability. Control.

But today feels different.

Today feels wrong.

You woke up wrong.

The morning routine took seventeen minutes instead of fifteen. Your tea was too hot, then too cold, never the right temperature. Your shirt had a wrinkle you couldn't smooth out no matter how many times you tried. The dishes seemed to dirty to use, remembering the moldy bread you accidentally placed on one, thinking it was still good. Only in the last second you saw the green spots and luckily didn't eat it. But the contamination fear took a strong hold of you since then. It happened often, more than you remember. The amount of dishes you threw out was a statement itself.

The door to your apartment didn't lock correctly on the first try. Or the second. Or the third. By the fourth try, your hands were shaking. By the fifth, you were counting backward from one hundred. By the sixth, the door finally locked, but the wrongness stayed, buried deep in your knuckles and creeping into your bones with precise cruelty.

It followed you here. Into this room. Into this circle. Into the space between your ribs where everything feels too tight, too sharp, too loud. Wanda begins the session the way she always does. Soft greeting. Check-in question. Open space for whoever wants to speak first.

Someone does. A woman in her thirties, blonde hair pulled back, talking about her week. Stress at work. Trouble sleeping. Normal things. Manageable things. You catalogue her words automatically. Tone: measured. Cadence: slightly rushed. Anxiety: moderate. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.

But your hands won't stop moving. Tap, tap, pause, tap, tap, pause.

You press them together, trapping them between ypir thighs. Force them still. The wrongness doesn't go away. It builds. Like pressure behind your eyes. Like static in your ears. Thoughts are racing, screaming louder than vocal cords ever could. It burns in your throat and tastes bitter on your tongue as you lock the words away, building behind your teeth. If you would be at home you'd pace, up and down turn, heels, toes, one two, again. You'd ramble, you'd count, you'd repeat, you'd talk and talk and talk, trying to drown out the building stress.

Someone else speaks. Ripping your focus away. A man this time. Younger. He talks about his family, about expectations, about feeling like he's never enough. You understand that. You understand it too well. Still the thoughts linger, hating his voice, hating its tone, it's volume, his pronunciation.

But understanding doesn't help. The wrongness is growing. Spreading. The chair feels wrong. The distance between you and the person next to you feels wrong. The way the light hits the floor feels wrong. You count the tiles. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven-

No.

Start again.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight- No. That's not right either. Your breathing quickens. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for- No. That's three. That was only three. Start again. In for-

The cruel voices were creeping in silently like venom waiting to strike. They stayed quiet until they hit you with surprising full force that caused you to flinch and inhale sharply.

Cut his tongue.

Your jaw tenses and your eyes burn with a firm stare, directed at the carpet. You hate the intrusiveness, the way it makes you feel weak. Can't even control your own thoughts.

Pathetic.

Maybe they're true, what if that's what you think. What if you're a horrible person. What if you loose control. What if-

"...and I know it's silly, but I literally had to check my stove like five times this morning cause i almost left it on yesterday. I swear I'm becoming so controlling about it."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Like the last time. Your eyes snap up. Fast. Precise. Automatic. But this time, they don't drop back down. This time, something inside you fractures.

The man who spoke doesn't even notice. He's laughing. Laughing. Like it's funny. Like it's relatable.

Like it's nothing.

Like it's nothing.

Like I'm nothing.

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth ache, grinding with a low ache. Your hands curl into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms. One, two, three, four. Four points of pressure. Four anchors. Four-

No. Not enough. Not right.

The wrongness explodes. It's not anger. It's not even offense. It's wrongness made manifest, crawling up your spine, flooding your chest, filling your mouth with the taste of metal trickling out of the tip of your tongue, you bit too harshly and panic and the desperate, screaming need to fix it, correct it, make it stop.

Your hands move before you can stop them. You press your palms against your thighs. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Again. Again. The rhythm is wrong. The pressure is wrong. Everything is wrong.

Someone is still talking. Words layer over each other, messy and imprecise and wrong, wrong, wrong. You stare at him, eyes spitting fire that only burns yourself. The fine hairs on your forearms feel like needles, punctuating in all the wrong places.

Rip them out. Burn them off.

Throw the chair, punch his teeth out, stab him with a pencil.

The pulsating intrusions make you flinch, flooding your brain without consent. Those are not yours, you don't want them, thy disgust you. Still they stay. No they don't just stay, they take. They control. They rip away your composure and leave you raw. They strip you of all control. They burn down all you have.

You stand.

The movement is too fast, too sudden. Your chair scrapes against the floor,a harsh, grating sound that makes your skin crawl. Wrong sound. Wrong pitch. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The conversation stops. Six pairs of eyes turn toward you. You can feel them. All of them. Watching. Staring. Perceiving.

Your breathing is too fast now.

In for-no, that's two-in for-no, three-in for-

You can't get the count right. Your hands move to your arms, gripping, releasing, gripping, releasing. Four times. No, five. No, four. It has to be four. Even numbers. Even numbers are safe. Odd numbers are wrong.

Start again.

Grip. Release. Grip. Release. Grip. Release. Grip. Release.

Four.

But it didn't feel right.

Again.

Grip. Release. Grip. Release. Grip. Release. Grip. Release.

Your nails dig into your skin through your sleeves. The pressure grounds you for half a second before the wrongness swells again, pulling you under crashing waves.

"Hey, are you- " someone starts. "Fuck you." The word rips out of you, sharp and raw and too loud. Your voice sounds wrong. Foreign. Broken. You step back. Away from the circle. Away from the eyes. Away from the wrongness.

But it follows you.

Of course it follows you. It's inside you.

Your hands fly to your face, pressing against your temples. Four points of pressure. Symmetrical. Even. But your left hand is pressing harder than your right.

Uneven. Wrong. Again.

Press. Release. Press. Release.

Not right.

Again.

Your left fingers are Millimeters higher. Fingers spread incorrectly across flushed skin.

Your breathing is ragged now, pulling in air too fast, pushing it out too hard. The room tilts. Or maybe you're tilting. You can't tell. Everything feels off-axis, misaligned, broken.

Wanda stands. She spoke but you didn't hear.

You see her move in your peripheral vision. slow, deliberate, non-threatening. She doesn't approach. Not yet. She's calculating. Assessing. Watching you fracture in real-time.

"I need everyone to step outside for a moment," she says without taking her eyes off you. Her voice is calm. Steady. Authoritative but not harsh. There's a pause. Confusion. Hesitation. "Now, please," Wanda adds, firmer this time.

Chairs scrape. Fabric rustles. Footsteps move toward the door. You hear it all in fragmentstoo loud, too close, too much.

Your hands drop from your face to your sternum. Fingers tapping against your chest. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Four. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Four. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Four. The hollow drum against your ribs vibrates throw your body that decided to start a war against yourself.

The door closes.

Silence.

But it's not silent inside your head. Inside your head, it's screaming. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong-

"Hey." Wanda's voice cuts through. Quiet. Close, but not too close.

You can't look at her. If you look at her, she'll see. She'll see everything. She'll see the wrongness, the brokenness, the pathetic, desperate need to make everything fit into patterns that make sense, patterns that keep the world from dissolving into chaos.

Your hands are moving again. Faster now. Tapping your thighs, your arms, your chest. Counting. Always counting.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

"I need you to breathe with me," Wanda says.

Kick her.

You shake your head. Sharp. Jerky. Wrong movement. Do it again. Shake. Shake. Shake. Shake. Four times. Even.

Hit yourself. Hit your head against the wall until it cracks, stain her pretty carpet.

"You're safe," she continues. "You're here. You're safe." Safe. The word almost makes you laugh. Almost makes you scream. There is no safe. There's only the exhausting, relentless effort of holding everything together, of keeping the wrongness at bay, of performing normalcy so no one sees how much energy it takes just to exist.

Rip off your skin. Peel it. Shed it. It tickles beneath it. Scratch it. Bite it. Cut it.

Your knees buckle.

You don't fall you catch yourself, sinking to your knees with more control, hands slamming against the floor. Four points of contact. Palms and knees. Symmetrical. Even.

But the floor is cold. Carpets are warm, why isnt that one. Wrong temperature. Wrong texture.

Its damp. Is it damp? Mould. Mould grows on damp. Damp. Contagions. Spreading, through veins, through fabric. It's on you. Can't wash it off. Mould kills. Inhale it. Throw up. Drink bleach. Bleach kills mould. Or does it? Wash your hands in acid.

You pull your hands back, press them against your chest. Four fingers on each hand. Eight total. Even. Divisible.

Safe numbers.

But dirty.

Contaminated.

Contaminated.

Sick. Dirty. Disgusting. Contagious.

But your heartbeat is wrong. Too fast. Irregular. Chaotic. You press harder, trying to slow it, control it, fix it.

Fix yourself, fix your clothes. They're wrinkly. You're pathetic. Straighten up. Imagine the impression you'd create.

"I'm going to come closer," Wanda says. "Is that okay?" You don't answer. You can't. Your throat is closed, locked, filled with all the words you've never said, all the explanations you've never given, all the truths you've buried.

She moves anyway. Slowly. Predictably. She lowers herself to the floor a few feet away from you, mirroring your position. Sitting. Grounded. Present but not intrusive.

"You're experiencing something very intense right now," she says quietly. "Your body is trying to protect you. But it's okay. You're not in danger."

Protecting. Not in danger. But you are.

You're in danger of being seen. Of being known. Of having someone witness the ugly, exhausting reality of what it takes for you to function.

Your hands move to your hair, tugging. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. The pull is sharp, grounding, real. Again.

Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

"Can you tell me what you're feeling?" Wanda asks.

You shake your head. Four times. Even number.

Safe. Unsafe. Dirty. It's in your hair.

"Can you show me?"

Your eyes snap to hers for the first time since the breakdown started. They're wide, glassy, red-rimmed. Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches.

Wanda's expression is open. Calm. Not pitying. Not judging. Just... present.

"Show me what you need," she says softly. Your hands are shaking. Trembling. You hold them up between you, fingers splayed. Four fingers and a thumb on each hand. Wrong. Have they always looked like that? Your pale. Sick. You're being sick. It's in your system.

You curl your thumbs in. Four fingers. Four fingers. Eight total. Even.

But it's still not enough. Still not right.

You press your palms together. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

Wash them. Rub skin raw.

Wanda watches. She doesn't interrupt. Doesn't try to stop you. She just... witnesses.

"You're trying to make things feel right," she observes gently. "You're trying to create order."

Yes. Yes. God, yes.

The acknowledgment cracks something open. Something raw. Something that's been held too tightly for too long. A sound escapes you half sob, half gasp, tearing through your vocal cords as if it's trying to split your throat.

Your hands fly back to your face, covering it. Hiding. Dirty. Everywhere. Disgusting. Lick it.

"It's okay," Wanda says. "It's okay to feel this."

But it's not okay. It's never been okay.

This is why you don't talk. Why you don't connect. Why you stay silent and separate and safe behind walls of routine and ritual and carefully constructed distance. Because this this breaking, this exposing, this shattering this is what happens when the walls come down. This is what happened every day behind closed doors.

Your body rocks slightly. Forward and back. Forward and back. The movement is automatic, soothing, rhythmic. Four rocks forward. Four rocks back. Again.

Four forward. Four back. Wanda matches her breathing to your rocking. Slow. Steady. A visible rhythm you can latch onto.

"In," she breathes audibly as you rock forward.

"Out," she breathes as you rock back.

"In."

"Out."

Hit her throat.

You flinch. You tremble. You try. You really do.

Your body begins to sync with her. Not consciously. Not deliberately. But gradually, your breathing starts to align with the pattern she's creating.

In. Out. In. Out.

Four counts in. Four counts out. The wrongness is still there. It's always there. But it's... smaller now. More contained. Less overwhelming. Your rocking slows.

Your hands drop from your face to your lap. You're exhausted. Hollowed out. Wrung dry. Wanda doesn't move closer. She stays exactly where she is, a safe distance away, her presence steady and unwavering.

You did really well," she says quietly. The words feel wrong. Hollow. Like they're meant for someone else, someone who deserves them.

You almost laugh. Almost. Because there's nothing "well" about what just happened. Nothing controlled or managed or acceptable. You cursed at someone. You collapsed. You're on the floor like a broken thing. Pathetic.

And your hands. Your hands are still wrong.

You stare at them in your lap. They're trembling slightly, fingers twitching with residual tension. But worse than that, worse than the shaking, worse than the soreness, is the feeling.

Contaminated. Your hands. Your face. Your clothes. Your lungs. your throat. Your hair. Your veins.

The carpet. The floor. Whatever was on it. Mold spores. Bacteria. Dirt. It's on your palms now, seeping into your skin, crawling into your pores, working its way into your bloodstream.

You can feel it.

You know you can't actually feel it.

You know that's not how contamination works. But knowing doesn't help. It never helps.

Your fingers curl inward, nails pressing into your palms again. Not for the count this time. To contain it. To keep it from spreading again. Further.

"What are you feeling right now?" Wanda asks. Her voice is still soft, but there's a thread of something sharper in it now. Focus. She's watching you carefully. You don't answer. Your throat is too tight.

"Your hands," she observes. "You're holding them differently now. Not counting. Something else. Can you tell me how they feel?"

Dirty Dirty Dirty Of course she notices. Of course she sees. Your jaw clenches. You want to hide your hands, tuck them away somewhere she can't see, somewhere no one can see.

"They feel wrong," you whisper. The words scrape out, rough and broken.

"Wrong how?"

You shake your head. You can't explain it. Can't put words to the crawling, insidious wrongness that's taken root in your skin. "Dirty," you finally manage. The word tastes bitter. Shameful.

Wanda doesn't react with surprise. Doesn't flinch. She just nods slowly, processing. "The floor," she says. Not a question. A statement.

You nod once. Sharp. Quick.

"What do you usually do?" she asks. "When this feeling happens?"

Usually? Usually you'd be home. Usually you'd already be at the sink, shower, water scalding hot, soap lathering thick and harsh, disinfecting. You'd scrub until your skin turned red, raw, until the feeling finally, finally receded.

But you're not home.

You're here.

And there's no sink.

No soap.

No escape.

The panic starts to build again, different this time but just as vicious. Your breathing quickens. "I need-" you start, then stop. Your voice cracks.

"What do you need?" Wanda prompts gently, guiding.

"Wash them." The words come out desperate, almost pleading. "I need to wash them."

Wanda is quiet for a moment. You can see her thinking, weighing options, calculating the best path forward.

"Okay," she says finally. "There's a bathroom down the hall. I can take you there."

Relief floods through you sharp and immediate and almost painful in its intensity. But then she adds: "But before we go, I want you to try something with me. Just for a minute. Can you do that?" The relief evaporates. Your hands curl tighter.

"I can't," you say. Your voice is shaking now. "I can't-it's- I need to-"

"I know," Wanda interrupts, but not unkindly. "I know it feels urgent. I know it feels unbearable. But I promise you, one minute won't hurt you. The contamination you're afraid of: it's not real. Not in the way your brain is telling you it is."

Not real.

She's mocking you. Run. Far, far away.

The words hit you like a slap. It IS real. It feels real. The crawling, the wrongness, the certainty that something terrible is happening inside your skin, that's REAL. Scream. Show her. Proof her wrong.

"I know what you're thinking," Wanda continues. "You're thinking I don't understand. That I can't possibly know what this feels like. But I do understand. This is OCD. This is what it does. It takes a normal concern, cleanliness, safety and it amplifies it until it becomes torture."

OCD.

There it is again. The word. The label. The thing you've never said out loud, never acknowledged, never let exist outside the prison of your own mind.

Liar. Liar. Liar. Maybe you're not sick. Nothings wrong with you. You made this all up. You want attention. You're an attention whore. Stealing her worthy time.

Your hands are shaking harder now. "Look at me," Wanda says. You don't want to.

She gently repeats herself, a firm tone underlaying her voice and wrapping around you warmly, the sound tugging your chin upwards gently. slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to hers.

"You can wash your hands in a minute," she says. "I promise. But right now, I want you to just sit with this feeling. Just for sixty seconds. Can you do that?"

Sixty seconds.

It sounds impossible. It sounds like an eternity.

But something in her voice,something steady and certain and unafraid, makes you hesitate.

"I'll count with you," she offers. "You don't have to do it alone."

You swallow hard. Your throat aches. Then, barely perceptible, you nod.

"Good," Wanda says. "Keep your hands where they are. Don't hide them. Don't try to clean them yet. Just let them be."

Let them be. Let the wrongness sit. Let the contamination spread. Your entire body rebels against the idea. Every instinct screams to move, to fix, to wash, to make it stop. But you don't move.

„I can't its disgusting" you whimper, your voice a pathetic excuse of the strength tha betrays you.

„I know it feels like it. It's not I promise. Do you want me to show you?" her words are careful, warm and soft but their meaning is beyond terrifying. You stare at her, eyes hollow and silent questions spilling out.

Proof her wrong.

„Let me show you. Can I touch you?" You flinch at the question, the meaning it implies. She glances at your hands in your lap. You don't answer but you don't pull them away either, slightly outstretched.

Slowly she reaches out, giving you enough time to draw back. You don't.

She gently grasps your hands with a tenderness that make you want to cry. Her slender digits slowly wrap around your palms. Warm, heavy on your lap, grounding. You sigh and a hiccup follows. Her grasp softly tightens. Not squeezing yet. Holding. As if she's holding your heart.

"One," Wanda says. The first second stretches out, elastic and torturous.

"Two."

Your fingers twitch against her hands. Your skin is cold against hers. Damp from the stress.

Damp. Damp. Mould. Thoughts return. Rip them away, cut them off

You press them harder into hers.

"Three."

The crawling sensation intensifies. Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's the same as it was. Maybe it's just your focus on it that makes it worse.

"Four."

You can feel your pulse in your fingertips. Thudding. Insistent. Wrong.

"Five."

Wanda's voice is an anchor. Steady. Predictable.

"Six."

Your breathing is uneven, but you're still breathing.

"Seven."

The intrusive thoughts creep back in, quieter now but still there. Whispering. What if you're dying. What if it's already too late. What if-

"Eight."

"Stay with me," Wanda says, gently squeezing, as if she can hear the thoughts clawing at the edges of your control.

"Nine."

You are still here. Still sitting. Still holding.

"Ten."

Ten seconds. You've survived ten seconds. Wanda doesn't stop. She keeps counting. Slow. Measured. Relentless.

"Fifteen."

Your hands are still dirty. Still contaminated. But you're not dead, neither is she.. is she sick? Is she pale? You glance up. No. She's not. She smiles warmly, softly. Cheeks rosy, eyes sharp and forehead not damp from fever. You haven't collapsed. The wrongness hasn't consumed you.

"Twenty."

It's still there. It's always there. But it's not growing. It's not spreading the way your brain insists it will.

"Thirty."

Halfway. You can do this. You hate that you can do this.

"Forty."

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. Your shoulders are rigid. But you're still here.

"Fifty."

Almost done.

"Fifty-five."

Five more seconds.

"Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine."

One more.

"Sixty."

Wanda stops. The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the weight of what you just endured. "You did it," she says quietly, her thumps gently caressing the back of your hands. The friction doesn't feel like sandpaper anymore, doesn't burn, doesn't worsen it. It's warm, it's calming, it's safe.

Safe. You did.

You sat with the wrongness. You didn't wash. You didn't fix. You just... existed. In the discomfort. In the fear. And you're still here.

"How do your hands feel now?" Wanda asks, slowly releasing them, pulling her own back, letting them rest in her lap.

You look down at them. They're still trembling slightly. Still curled. Still wrong. But... not worse. Not better. But not worse.

"The same," you whisper. "Exactly," Wanda says. "They feel the same. Because nothing happened. The contamination you were afraid of, it didn't spread. Now within you, not onto me. It didn't hurt you. Your fear told you it would, but it didn't."

Your throat tightens. You want to argue. Want to insist that it's different, that she doesn't understand, that the contamination is REAL.

But the evidence is right there in front of you.

Sixty seconds.

Nothing happened.

"You can still wash your hands," Wanda says. "I'm not going to stop you. But I want you to notice something first. Notice that the urge is still there, but you survived not acting on it. Even for just a minute." Survived.

That's what it feels like. Survival.

You take a shaky breath. Then another.

"There's more, isn't there?" Wanda asks after a moment. "It's not just the contamination. There are other thoughts. Harder ones."

Your entire body goes rigid. She knows. Of course she knows. "I don't-" you start, but the words die in your throat.

"Intrusive thoughts," Wanda says, and her voice is so gentle it hurts. "Violent ones, maybe. Thoughts that scare you. Thoughts that make you think you're a bad person." Your eyes burn. You blink hard, fast, trying to keep the tears from falling.

"You're not," she continues. "You're not a bad person. Those thoughts: they're not you. They're symptoms. They're your brain misfiring, showing you worst-case scenarios that you would never, ever act on. Do you understand darling?"

Would never act on. You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her.

"I would never-" you choke out, and your voice breaks completely.

"I know detka," Wanda says firmly. "I know you wouldn't. And the fact that these thoughts horrify you? That's proof. People who actually want to hurt others don't agonize over thoughts like this. They don't hate themselves for having them."

The tears come then, hot and fast and unstoppable. You cover your face with your hands, still contaminated hands, dirty hands but you don't care anymore.

You're so tired.

So tired of fighting. Of hiding. Of pretending.

"I'm so tired," you whisper through your fingers.

"I know dear," Wanda says. "I know you are." She doesn't tell you it's okay. She doesn't say it will get better. She doesn't make promises she can't keep.

She just sits with you. In the wreckage. In the exhaustion. In the truth.

After a long moment, she speaks again. "You're going to wash your hands now," she says. "And that's okay. You've done enough for today. But I want you to remember that you waited. You sat with it. And that's huge." You nod weakly.

Wanda stands slowly, carefully, and extends a hand toward you.

You stare at it for a moment. Her hand. Clean, probably. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just as contaminated as everything else.

But you take it anyway. Her grip is firm. Steady. Real. She helps you to your feet. Your legs are shaky, unsteady, but they hold.

"The bathroom is just down the hall," she says. "Take your time. I'll bring you there and wait outside. I won't watch. Do what you need to do, to feel alright sweetheart." You nod again, then move toward the door on autopilot, her steady besides your broken posture. Hand firmly holding yours yet never loosing its warmth.

You walk, you follow, you glance sideways, finding her caring eyes. "Thank you," you whisper. It's barely audible. But it's there. Wanda's expression softens.

"You're welcome," she says. "And when you're ready, really ready, we'll work on this together. One step at a time."

One step at a time. It sounds impossible. But maybe... maybe it's not.

She leads you out of the room and find the bathroom. The water runs hot, almost scalding. The soap lathers thick between your palms.

You scrub. And scrub. And scrub.