Chapter 4: Self

I obsessed about it the whole way to HQ. What did I do wrong? Or did I even do anything wrong? Maybe it was fine, but he just wanted me to do it again on a different day. Maybe that was it. But then I thought about how he didn't look very happy when I'd completed my task for the third time, and was right back where I started: I must have done something wrong.

But I opened the valve, charged the line. And I didn't do anything wrong, procedurally, in any of the steps that came before that, either.

Well, at least I wouldn't have long to wait to find out what the problem was. I parked closer to the HQ building than I'd ever gotten before, and strode up to the front door. I was trying not to be angry, at least until I heard what he had to say, but it was hard.

I stopped in the men's room on my way to Pritchard's office, just to wash some of the hose and truck grime off my hands and face. But my shirt—that was a disaster. I hadn't realized, when I left the hospital, just how much spaghetti I'd gotten down my front. The shirt was dark green, so on the one hand, some of the stains didn't show up at all, but on the other hand, the ones that were visible looked horrendous, mixing with the green of the fabric to make a brownish tinge, like dried blood. I wet some paper towels, and tried to get as much of the sauce off as I could, but I it ended up looking worse than when I'd started. It was slightly cleaner, but looked worse, because it was wet, too. And even though it was slightly less gross, it still wasn't anywhere near what I'd call clean. I put some hand soap on another wet towel, and tried again. The result was worse—now there were light-colored blotches where the soap had foamed up in the fabric, and the wet paper towel wasn't nearly wet enough to really rinse it out.

I felt like I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Pritchard was there in his office, waiting. I was probably already late—he was probably wondering where the hell I was, or if I'd misunderstood that I was supposed to show up at his office. But I couldn't go out looking like this. The guy at the academy, who probably already thought I was nuts for having to demonstrate skills for the department shrink, must've thought I was a complete lunatic, showing up with spaghetti all over my shirt. So I stripped the shirt off, and quickly ran the soapy parts under the faucet.

I ended up with a slightly cleaner but sopping wet shirt. I wrung it out the best I could, grabbed wads of paper towels, and pressed the shirt between them. Better. But I'd probably freeze in the over-air-conditioned office. Oh well. I supposed it was better to show up in a wet shirt, than in a shirt with spaghetti all over it.

The hallway that Pritchard's office was on was deserted. His door was wide open, but I knocked on the door anyhow.

"Come on in, Mike. And close the door behind you, if you will."

I closed the door, and took the same seat I'd had the previous day.

"I wondered what was keeping you—you pulled out of the parking lot at the academy before I did, and I've been here for ten minutes."

"Uh … sorry to keep you waiting," I said lamely.

"What happened to your shirt? It's all wet."

Couldn't he have just ignored that, politely?

"Well, I was in the bathroom down the hall, just washing truck grime off my hands, and I saw how much spaghetti sauce I'd gotten on my shirt, so I kind of … had to clean it up a little."

"Spaghetti? I hadn't noticed that. But now it definitely looks wet, and cold."

I didn't reply to that. I didn't see what else there was to say about it.

"We'll come back to that," Pritchard said. I was beginning to hate that phrase. "Tell me what you think happened tonight—why I want to see you go through that task again tomorrow."

"I'll be honest, Doc. I'm stumped. I did all the things I needed to do. Sure—I froze that first time—but I got past it."

"How?" asked Pritchard.

"Huh? What do you mean? I froze the first time, but then the second time, I guess I was taking it easier, or going slower, or something, because it wasn't a problem."

"I noticed you doing some things differently after the first time. You put your hand on each of the other controls in the same row as the one you needed to operate."

"Sure—I was just kind of, you know, warming up. After the first time, I thought I oughta kind of take it slower."

"And so you slowed yourself down by touching all the other controls before getting to the one you really needed?"

"I guess …"

"That was the first time you successfully charged the line. What about the second time? Why did you touch all the other controls then?"

"I don't know—I guess because it helped before."

"Helped, how?"

I had to think about that for a second, because I didn't really have a good answer. "I don't know—I guess the first time I did it kind of as a warm-up. Slowly getting to where I needed to be, rather than rushing in." Where angels fear to tread. Did that make me a fool? Probably.

"Okay—I'm asking about the second and third times, though. How did it help you those times?"

"Um …" I thought about how I was feeling at each step of the process. "I guess maybe just touching those controls made me feel less anxious—like, because it worked before, it would work again. A lucky charm, or something." I was getting annoyed and nervous at the same time, because I really didn't see where he was going with all this. And I didn't like feeling like I was about to be blindsided.

"All right," Pritchard said. "I can agree with you that the first time you touched the controls, maybe those actions did actually have a real purpose—to slow down your movements, or to 'warm up' somehow. So I think it's fair to say that touching the controls 'worked' the first time."

"Why just the first time? I mean, it worked the other two times, too."

"No." Pritchard shook his head. "It didn't."

I shook my head right back at him. "How can you say that? I was able to pull the control when I needed to. So it worked!" I was trying not to raise my voice, but it was hard.

"It didn't 'work,' Mike. You were performing a meaningless action only because you'd associated it with a positive outcome before. The action itself contributed nothing to your success. If you hadn't touched those other controls the last time you opened that valve, you still would've been able to open it."

I had to think about that for a minute. Then I realized what he really meant.

"My brain did that thing again, didn't it, where it believed Event A caused Event B. Except this time, Event A was touching all the controls, and Event B was being able to open the valve without freezing up," I said glumly.

He nodded. "Exactly." He paused, to let it all sink in, and continued. "Let me ask you something. Do you think, if you'd continued repeating the task, that you would have continued your ritual of touching all the controls before opening the valve?"

I thought about it. "Probably," I admitted. "I might've done it faster, maybe, but I probably still would've done it."

"And that's why I stopped you, Mike. I didn't want to let you set that behavior up into a pattern that would be hard to break."

"What do you mean?" I was puzzled. "You could've just said 'don't do that,' and I would've stopped."

He looked at me, without saying anything, for a few long, long, seconds.

"Maybe," I said. He was still waiting. "Or maybe I would've frozen again when I wasn't doing that thing. Because my brain had already decided I needed to do that in order to not freeze up," I concluded.

"Very astute, Mike. The reasons I didn't just stop you and tell you not to touch the other controls any more were that, (a), I didn't want you to have the possible experience of freezing again, and thinking it was because you didn't do the ritual you'd started, and (b), I wanted to talk about what you were doing before trying the task again."

"Okay," I said. "So let's talk about it."

"I'm wondering, Mike—are there any other little routines or habits you have like that? Where you do something that might be a little odd, because it 'works' in some way?"

I had to think about that. "Well, there's things like always putting knives tip-down in the dish drainer, so I don't stab myself when I'm taking them out. Is that what you mean?"

He shook his head. "No—that's an action with an actual purpose—you're truly less likely to stab yourself with a knife if its tip is down. I'm thinking about behaviors that don't have any true function, other than to make some following task feel easier."

I thought for a few seconds. Nothing was coming to mind.

"Think about things you do often at work—maybe things that are challenging, or dangerous."

Oh.

"There's this thing I do," I said slowly, "when I'm going to back the engine up."

"Tell me about it," Pritchard said gently. "Take your time."

"Backing the engine is really tricky—you can't see out the back like you can in a car. You have to use the side mirrors, but there are still lots of blind spots. Nobody loves backing an engine. And anyone who's done it regularly has hit something. Guaranteed." I paused, thinking about my habit, which, when I thought about it, was really weird.

"Go on," he said neutrally. "And try not to be concerned about telling me about this, even if what you do sounds really strange to you now that you're thinking about it."

I shook my head. "You're like a mind reader, or something. That's exactly what I was thinking. But anyhow—the thing I do, is before I shift into reverse, and I have it in neutral, with my foot on the brake, I use my clutch foot and I tap on the floor between the clutch and the brake, three times. Then I shift, and back up." I could tell my face was flaming red with embarrassment. "I don't even know where that came from—I just do it, and it … makes me feel like it's safer to back the engine. Which I guess is really dumb."

"Don't worry about how it sounds—I'm just glad you have an example that you were willing to tell me about, because that's going to be really helpful." said Dr. Pritchard. "So. What I'd like you to do now, is close your eyes and imagine that you're behind the wheel. You're about to have to back the engine up—not into the bay at the station, but someplace unfamiliar, and tricky."

"Backing up a hill on a narrow street where you can't turn around," I suggested. "That's always a bitch."

"Okay—so imagine that's what you're about to do. So close your eyes, and imagine that you're going to back up a narrow, hilly street. Put your hands on the wheel. Shift into neutral, and keep your left foot on the clutch for now, and your right foot on the brake."

I cooperated, feeling slightly ridiculous. My feet were on the floor in front of me, acting like they were on the brake and the clutch. My hands were in the air in front of me, at ten o'clock and two o'clock. I was sure I looked ridiculous. But I was starting to bet that Pritchard had seen worse.

"Now keep the image of the narrow, hilly street firmly in your mind. Keep your foot on the clutch—no tapping—and shift into reverse."

I went through the mental imagery, and the physical motions, and tried to shift from neutral into reverse. My heart started beating faster, and I could tell I was getting nervous.

"I don't like this," I blurted. I opened my eyes.

"How did you feel, trying to skip your ritual, even in your imagination?"

"Nervous! I felt like I was going to run into something, for sure." I admitted. "Even though I knew I was sitting on a chair in your office, I got nervous just thinking about backing up."

"Okay," said Pritchard. "Does your ritual make you feel less nervous?"

"Yes," I said instantly. "That's why I do it."

"It's an interesting ritual," Pritchard said. "Nobody knows that you're doing it but you. It's completely invisible. It's harmless, really—takes maybe, what? An extra second?"

"If that," I said. "But—you know what? I never even considered what might happen if I didn't do the ritual. I just do it. I considered it a harmless little habit. But now? I'm starting to wonder if it's really a problem."

"In isolation, a single habit, magic charm, whatever you want to call it—isn't a problem. But from what I see, Mike, it seems you might be prone to developing new ones. Like you were starting to do tonight, with the valve controls. But some people collect vast numbers of rituals like that, and can hardly do anything without having to do a ritual first."

"Oh," I said. I'd never heard of anything like that, but I sure didn't want to have my life taken over by meaningless rituals.

"Sometimes," Pritchard said, "these rituals, habits, routines—whatever you want to call them—crop up when things are particularly stressful. Like, for instance, just now, it looked like you were getting ready to develop a new ritual, without even knowing what you were doing. And I would say that the past few days have probably been pretty stressful for you, is that right?"

"You bet. The freeze-up at work, and getting sent home by Cap, and having to get signed off by you—yeah, I'd say that's stressful."

"Is there anything else that's particularly stressful for you at the moment?"

I decided that honesty was the best policy, considering that I really felt like this guy would be able to help me fix whatever the hell was going wrong. Which I was starting to see had maybe been going on for a long time, without my even know it was a problem. So I told.

"Yeah. Um, the person that I broke up with—there's a lot of stuff left in my house that isn't mine. It's almost like they wanted to still have some kind of hold on me, by leaving all that stuff in my house—that used to be our house. So it's like, it's not really possible to move on, as long as this stuff is still in my house."

"What are you going to do about it?" Pritchard asked.

"Well, we had a long conversation yesterday—at least, long for us these days—and I said that I was going to pack all the stuff into boxes, which could either be collected in person or by a friend, and that if that didn't happen within four weeks, I'd put it in storage somewhere, and put the bill and the key in the mail to Boston."

"Good for you," Pritchard said. "It does sound like by leaving so many of his things in your house, he was trying to hold on in a way that really wasn't helpful."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But then he accused me of being 'overly-controlling,' which I didn't really think was fair, since it's completely reasonable to not have all that stuff in my house. I mean, I need to just move on."

"And it sounds like he wasn't ready to admit that," Pritchard said.

"Well, by the end of the conversation, he actually—" I swallowed, hard, and looked away from Pritchard for a good minute.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"Because you went to great grammarian lengths to avoid using any pronouns with gender. You used 'they' a lot, and stated things passively. For instance 'the boxes could be collected in person.' That's a lot harder to say than 'he could collect the boxes.'"

I sat there for a moment, contemplating my future. Or possible lack thereof.

"You said everything was confidential, unless I was a danger to myself or others. Can this be confidential?"

"Of course."

"Do we need to talk about it more?"

"Probably. But not right now, unless you want to."

I didn't, really, but I wanted to get just one thing out of the way.

"We can talk about it more later, but I just want to say right now that I don't think it's part of the current problem."

"Are you comfortable with your sexuality?"

"Except for the fact that I can't ever, ever be found out at work, oddly enough, yes. I've never tried to talk myself out of it, or try to live the life of someone I'm not."

"All right. Let's get back to the current problem, then. Can you summarize, please, what the problem was with how you did the exercise today?"

"I, uh, was starting to do a strange and useless set of actions to try to make the task easier."

"And why did those actions start?"

"Because the first time I was actually able to charge the line, I'd touched all the controls to try to slow myself down. And my brain maybe decided that since I did that the time I was able to open the valve without panicking, I should do it the next time, too, so it would 'help' again. Except it doesn't help. And I might get, like, hooked on it. Like the clutch foot thing."

"Exactly."

"So, uh, how do I stop doing that stuff? I mean, I can't just stop with the clutch foot thing—not cold turkey—or I'll freak out. Even though it's a pointless thing."

"We'll get there. Right now, it doesn't seem like you have any rituals that are really getting in the way of your work—slowing things down, or appearing odd, or anything like that. Is that correct, from your perspective?"

"I'm not actually sure," I admitted. "I might have other weird things I do that I'm not even aware of any more. I don't know." The idea that I might have a lot of bizarre, useless anxiety-quelling rituals that I wasn't even aware of was really unnerving.

"Why don't you talk to Captain Stanley," Pritchard suggested, "and see if he's noticed anything."

A knot formed in my stomach. "But … but … how do I even ask him that, without sounding like I've completely cracked up?"

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Please do."

"I would just ask him if he's noticed any habits you seem to have that are odd or out of place, and leave it at that. I've met him before, and he's a reasonable fellow. I think that kind of question would work fine."

"Okay," I said, feeling sicker by the minute. "I guess I kind of have to."

"If there's someone else at the station you'd be more comfortable asking, that would be fine, too."

"No," I said. "No—I'll ask Cap. He's really observant, and plus he won't give me shit about it."

Pritchard looked at me closely. "How are you feeling about all of this, Mike?"

My voice shook as I answered. "Really, really shitty. Scared, I guess. I mean, I thought this was going to be a little thing—figure out why I froze up and make it not happen again. But I guess I'm more screwed up than I realized. A lot more screwed up."

"Mike, these are all things that we can work on. In fact, if I can see you charge a line tomorrow without doing any rituals, I'll be comfortable signing you off to return to work. We need to continue to work together, because it does appear that this is something that could develop further if it's not addressed."

"Okay," I said shakily. "But what if I can't do it? What if I freeze up again?"

"If you do, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. All right?"

"Okay."

"Do you want to talk any more, or would you like to go home?"

"I just want to ask one more thing. These things that I do—are they some sort of disease? You said something about how there are people that have lots and lots of these rituals."

"There's a condition," Pritchard said carefully, "called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. You meet some, but not all, of the criteria for that diagnosis."

I didn't like the sound of that at all—none of those three words sounded good.

"What does that even mean?" I asked. "I mean, I understand all the words, but put it all together and it's medical mumbo jumbo."

"OCD is very complicated—and as I said, you don't meet all the criteria. But in a nutshell, it's an anxiety-related disorder where people have unwanted and repeated ideas or thoughts, which are sometimes called obsessions, that make them feel driven to do something to make those feelings go away—and the things they do are the compulsions. Sometimes the compulsions turn into rituals, and not doing the rituals can cause great anxiety. And sometimes, the rituals get so out of hand that they interfere with life and work."

I felt a trickle of sweat fall down my spine. "Is that why I don't meet the criteria? Because things haven't gotten out of hand enough?" I asked.

"That's one reason, yes. But mainly, the reason I'll stay away from that diagnosis at this time is that I think what you're really dealing with is a more generalized pattern of anxiety, which I feel is really at the root of the difficulties you've been having lately."

I glared at him. "I don't get how you can even say that. I mean, I'm not a fearful person—not a coward. Cowards can't do my job."

Pritchard shook his head vigorously. "No, no—I'm not implying you're a coward, not at all. Or that you're afraid of a lot of things. I'm sorry you thought that. In the psychological realm, the word 'anxiety' is used to mean excessive worrying or excessive thinking about a variety of things."

"Oh. Like what I was saying yesterday about worrying about stuff and not being able to switch it off and think of other things."

"Exactly. That's a good example of anxiety. Everybody does that sort of thing sometimes, but it becomes a problem when it interferes with life." He paused. "Now that you know what I mean by anxiety, do you feel like there are ever times when anxiety interferes with life or work?"

I thought about that for a good long time, but the answer was pretty clear. "Yeah," I admitted. "Like when I can't sleep because I'm going over and over and over some stupid thing I said or did. Or like how I don't talk much at work, because I'm afraid I'll accidentally say something that will out me, and then that's it for me in this career."

"Can you think of anything that happened today, aside from the practice with the engine, where anxiety might have gotten in your way?"

That one took me a second—he must have had something in mind, so it must have been something I talked about or— "My shirt. I was ten minutes late because I was worried about how my shirt looked. And I don't like being late, but I was so worried about the god damned shirt that I was anyhow. And then I was worried about being late."

"Exactly." He folded his hands, like he was showing me he was done writing anything down. That was fine with me. "I know there's not a lot of time between now and our next appointment, which is tomorrow morning at ten, but I'd like you to try something in the mean time."

"Okay," I said warily.

"Take something from your daily life, your daily routine, that you're very particular about, and try to do it a slightly different way. Think about how you feel when you do it differently. I don't want to make you extremely uncomfortable, so don't let it go that far. Just push a little bit, to see what happens. And we'll talk about that tomorrow."

"But … like what?"

"Well, you said people might think you're a neat freak. Try doing something tonight that makes a mess. Just a small one. Don't clean it up, and see how that goes."

I didn't love the idea—I mean, let's face it: I am a neat freak. But I'd try it. Just to prove to myself that it wasn't a big deal.

"Okay. I'll do that."

"All right." He handed me a card. "And I should have given you this yesterday. This is the number for my answering service. If you have any kind of emergency outside of regular hours, please do call, and they'll get a hold of me right away. Any time of the day or night, all right?"

"Okay. But I don't want to bother you or anything."

"Think of it this way. What if people didn't want to bother the fire department in the middle of the night? If it's an emergency, you'll know it's an emergency. Call."

"All right." I put the card in my wallet. "So, can I go?"

"Absolutely. I'll see you tomorrow at ten."

"Thanks, Doc," I said, as I stood up to go. "Really—thanks."

I drove home, thinking about everything Pritchard had said. Did I have other 'rituals,' as he called them, that I wasn't even aware of?

I went into the house, and took my shoes off by the door as usual. Is that a ritual? No—lots of people don't wear shoes inside the house. Plus, shoes track in dirt and scuff up the floors.

I realized I was hungry again, and made myself a sandwich and ate it. As soon as I was done, I washed my dishes and put them in the drainer. Was that a ritual? No—leaving dirty dishes around is untidy. But am I too tidy? What would happen if I left the dishes every once in a while?

I decided to try do an experiment, like Pritchard wanted me to. I cut up an apple on a cutting board, and left the core, the knife, and the cutting board out on the counter. I would clean them up in the morning. I ate the apple at the bar in the kitchen while I read the day's mail. Junk, all of it. I filed it in the wastebasket.

I set up the guest room bed, since my bedroom was half painted and had no furniture in it. With any luck, I could finish the walls tomorrow and tackle the floor the next day. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up for bed. All the while, I thought about the cutting board and knife on the counter. Was I just thinking about them because Pritchard had gotten me all worked up? Or was I thinking about them because I couldn't help thinking about them? I really didn't want to think about them—I wanted to climb into the guest room bed and sleep.

I lay down in bed. My mind kept wandering to roaches, fruit flies, mold, germs—possible consequences of dirty dishes being left out. I tried to ignore these ideas—I mean, what could happen overnight? But I lay there for over an hour, trying desperately to think of something else—anything else—but I failed. Eventually, I decided I wasn't going to get any sleep with those dishes sitting there on the counter, so I got up, and washed them.

I went back into the bathroom to get a drink of water and take another leak before trying again to sleep. I scrutinized my mirror image, my backwards self. I thought of myself as a person who is in control of things. But it was beginning to feel like the exact opposite—that the things that I worked hard to control, were actually in control of me.

And I just didn't see how I was ever going to get out of this vicious cycle.

TBC