#ocdau

“Jesus, Ava.”

It’s not like Ava even wants to be here. She doesn’t want to have sex with Connor in the first place, but she’s in his bed, and as soon as he sees the scars and scabs on her chest, his face twists in disgust and it hurts far too much. 

“This is disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” she counters, pulling her shirt back on. “Do you even know what it’s like? I don’t want to be doing that either, and besides, I don’t even want to have sex with you. I was just going along with it so you’d be less of a cunt.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Flattering.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Nah, I’ll hit up that cute new psych resident instead.”

“Sacrifice,” the therapist says, “is something you’ve all seen. Your friends, coworkers, and loved ones have all made sacrifices for your comfort. I’m not saying that’s something you should feel guilty about, but it is something to consider when you have to make sacrifices too.”

“Who says we don’t?” Crockett mutters to Ava.

The two of them understand, maybe better than anyone else at group, what it means to have to endure the anxiety and the overwhelming panic and the compulsions in order to do their jobs. Giving into every single compulsion would put lives at risk. 

It’s selfish, Ava knows, to expect everyone to cater to her illness, but there’s part of her that wants them to. It would be easier if everyone just understood how hard it is, and let her do what she needs to do to feel safe instead of yelling at her to hurry up when the extra minute won’t harm the patient- especially when they’re still waiting on Connor to come back too. 

“Sacrifice is a part of healing. You have to sacrifice the comfort of your compulsions to heal and learn to live without them.”

The therapist gives Crockett a very pointed look. He hasn’t dropped or slowed any of his, and in fact, has become more insistent about them since he and Ava first met at this stupid group. She thinks he’d do better in one-on-one therapy, but telling him so made him shut down. 

“Your assignment for this week is to sacrifice a compulsion. Choose one, and do your best not to indulge it.”

Crockett has religious-type OCD and so his are kind of “nonsensical” in that it’s certain behaviors and actions that he feels he needs to take in order to prevent himself or people he cares about from being punished or harmed in some way by God, such as being victims of accidents and/or going to hell. Most commonly he tends to cover up the name on his scrubs. He also takes the petals off of flowers, he fixes his hair a lot, and he has to eat a certain way. 

“By a show of hands, who was mandated to come?”

Ava raises her hand, and notices that everyone else does. Good. That makes it easier to be bitter, she thinks, especially noting that another member is wearing black scrubs with a photo of a flower haphazardly taped over where his name would be embroidered into the fabric. Ava, at least, took the time to switch to leggings and a soft sweater. She watches him clench his fists over and over. After a moment, he watches her too, meeting her eyes. He blinks almost violently and looks away. 

“I know it can feel like it, but this isn’t a punishment,” the moderator of the little support group says. “This is to help you. You’re here because your compulsions are affecting your daily life, and you need help. We’re all here to support each other. I have OCD as well, and have been managing it for over twenty years. It is part of you, but it is not all you are.” She adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses and surveys the group, pausing on the man in scrubs just as Ava did because he’s moved onto piulling a little on his thick hair. “Would anyone like to share?”

The man raises his hand and waits for the mediator’s nod. “My name is Crockett, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“This isn’t AA.” She sounds annoyed.

“It felt relevant. The drinking helps the thoughts.”

“I think we’ve all been there. Would you like to elaborate on that?”

He tugs at the hem of his shirt and Ava is struck with the sense that she needs to wash her own shirt because being here makes it dirty. She pulls at its hem too. She wants it off her body. She needs it off. 

“I got sent here because I was- because I was drinking ‘on the job.’“ Crockett makes finger quotes around that last bit. “I wasn’t. I’m a surgeon. But after I clocked out, I started drinking in the doctor’s lounge because it makes the thoughts stop. It was a bad day. My supervisor saw me and mandated I get evaluated by Dr. Charles. Once he classified it as OCD, he sent me here. Also sent me to AA.”

“Dr. Charles from Gaffney?” Ava asks. The mediator gives her a sharp look; they’re supposed to respect privacy. But Crockett nods slowly. “I’m also a surgeon there. CT.”

“Trauma.”

They share an understanding in that moment, of what exactly it feels like to be in charge of people’s lives when their own minds are a complex map that seems determined to tear them to pieces. But there is nothing more satisfying than scrubbing in, which she says when it’s her turn to share, and Crockett nods like he gets it. 

“Want to come light up in my car?” Crockett asks after the meeting, showing her a battered tin of what is likely no longer mints. “It helps too.”

"My name is Crockett, and I'm an alcoholic."

"This isn't AA."

"It felt relevant. The drinking helps the thoughts."

"I think we've all been there."