one two three four five six seven eight nine
ten.

ten, i tuck my stuffed elephant under my arm.

i watch my mom read brochures in a silent waiting room i’ve never sat in before.

soon, i’m sitting alone with a blonde woman a few years younger than my mom. she asks me why i feel guilty all the time. i tell her that i’m a sinner.

she asks what guilt feels like to me. i tell her it feels like there’s a monster in my stomach eating away at my insides. i tell her about how i stay awake because it hurts too badly to fall asleep.

she takes a second and then asks me why i sometimes act younger than i really am. i tell her that it’s because i’m scared.

she glances at the clock and hands me a blue journal. she tells me to write down everything i do in a day that makes me feel guilty.

i accept the notebook quietly. on a piece of copy paper, she draws a tool box. she explains that she’s giving me certain tools to use when i don’t feel good. i don’t understand how a drawing of a hammer is going to help anything.

i’m ten. nobody bothers to tell me that i have obsessive compulsive disorder. all i know is that i’m a sinner. i’m scared of God. i’m even more scared of the feeling in my stomach. i’m scared of the way my mom spends hours with her computer light illuminating her face. i sometimes look at the screen when she walks away.

my mom has been crying every night. i hear her saying that i’m not myself anymore. i hate her for saying that.