Obsessive (21 page)
Authors: Isobel Irons
We can't control the way we think or feel, a lot of the time.
We can control the way we act, most of the time. Until something happens that breaks us, or we’re born differently, or something makes us lose that ability to separate impulse from intention. All we really have is our reality. Reality is a fluid, personal thing, but it’s basically defined by what we absolutely know in any given moment.
Here’s what I know. A few months ago, I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was to have everyone find out about my OCD. A few weeks ago, I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was that I’d disappoint my parents, or choose the wrong career. A few days ago, I watched from the back seat as I let my world shatter around me, before it slowly, painfully reassembled. And I realized that the worst thing that could possibly happen already had. I stopped caring, stopped fighting, basically stopped living. Nothing could be worse than that. Right?
Tash sits perfectly still, frozen, watching me as I process. My mind is still reeling with doubts, and fears, and questions. But because of my new perspective, or maybe because of the new medication I’m on, it doesn’t control me. This time, the OCD-exacerbated uncertainty doesn’t loom until it eclipses everything I think and feel. It leaves just enough room for me to process what’s important.
Tash and I, together we created something. Even if it was an accident, it’s the most important and most powerful thing either of us has ever done. But that doesn’t mean we have to let it define us, unless we want it to.
This moment is an anomalous event. Just one more totally unpredictable in a series of cosmic events that made the world the way it is. I think deep down, I knew something big was about to happen. Maybe that’s why I freaked out and crashed my car in the first place. Maybe some cosmic force was preparing me, by reminding me that nothing is final, except death. Nothing is truly disastrous in life, except losing the things you love.
I close my eyes, and take another deep breath. Then I open them again. Tash is still sitting there, still waiting. She’s hasn’t disappeared from my life, and for that, I’m suddenly and deeply grateful.
Finally, she can’t wait anymore. “For fuck’s sake, Grant! It’s your turn to say something now.”
“I love you.”
Her eyes fill with tears again, probably because she’s mad at me. I move forward, reaching for her, hoping she’ll let me hug her. She does.
“No,” she mutters into my neck. “I meant say something helpful.”
I hug her tighter. “I’m sorry, that’s it. That’s all I can think of right now.”
“Grant, I’m scared.”
“I know. Me too.” A few seconds go by, and then I say the most ridiculous thing. “But I’m not going to let it take over my life anymore.”
She sniffs. “What about your parents?”
I take a second to think about that. A few weeks ago, I would’ve said they’d die of shock. But now, I think maybe they deserve a little more credit than I’ve been giving them.
“Once we decide what we want to do, we’ll tell them. It’s not their decision to make, it’s ours.”
Tash pulls back, just far enough to look at me. “What if… I have no idea what I want to do?”
I shrug, but it’s a very important shrug. “Then we’ll wait until we figure it out. You keep saying ‘I’ like you think I’m going somewhere. I promise you, I’m not. No matter what you decide, we’re in this together.”
“What if we tell your parents and they get really mad?”
“They probably will, at least for a little while.”
I hug her again, but I let her keep following the rabbit hole, because sometimes that’s all you can do—explore the fear, to see if it really goes as deep as you think it does.
“What if they hate me?”
“What if they do?” I kiss the top of her head. “It won’t change the way I feel about you.”
There’s a long pause, and I look down at her, but then I’m distracted by the crumpled paper in her lap.
“Did you even read that?”
Tash makes an annoyed sound. “Of course I did.”
For some reason, I have this burning need to know what she thought of my stupid letter. Even though we’ve both got much more important things to talk about. I can’t help it.
“Are you sure you read the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, because I can read it out loud to you, if you want me to.”
Tash pinches me on the leg, hard. “I know how to read, jackass.”
I smile and hold her a little tighter. There she is, the tough girl. The girl I fell for.
PART V: KNOW IT ALL
I used to think I was smart, that I knew a lot of really important things. But now I’ve realized that the mark of a truly smart person is being able to tell the difference between what they know, and what they only
think
they know. (Which—as Tash would say, “spoiler alert”—is usually based on just one single, limited perspective. One reality: yours.)
So. Here’s what I know, with absolute certainty: Nobody is perfect. The harder you try to attain perfection, the harder you’ll fail.
All my life, I’ve wished for one perfect moment. A single moment of a single day, when I wasn’t being hounded by my compulsions, or plagued by intrusive thoughts that made me feel like a bad person just for existing.
If I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t had a perfect moment yet. But I
have
had perfect seconds. And I’m working my way upwards, one second at a time. Slowly adding facts to the good column, while also acknowledging the bad. Then I move on, before all the darkness and uncertainty in the world has a chance to drag me down.
That’s the trick, as it turns out.
Most people don’t realize it, but ignoring the bad things or refusing to utter them out loud just gives them that much more power over us. They’re always there hanging in the back of our minds, like a monster in your closet, or under the bed. Like Voldemort. Or The Nothing from “The Neverending Story.”
And yeah, now that you mention it, I
have
been watching a lot of really trippy fantasy movies lately. That’s Tash’s latest pregnancy thing. Creepy magical stuff with lots of puppets. And backrubs. And black licorice—which apparently she used to find disgusting.
I can relate on some level, though, because there’s a lot of things I used to find disgusting that I don’t anymore. Like holding hands, and touching doorknobs. And drinking from an actual, made of glass, glass. (As long as it’s been washed in really hot water, of course.)
As for the rest, I’m working my way up to it. One tiny little risk at a time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“THE LETTER”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Twenty is not a multiple of seven. And I’m sorry, but I’m really not comfortable with that fact. Not yet.
So sue me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There we go. All good.
THE END
APPENDIX
Acknowledgements
Honestly, it’s getting to a point where I’ve got too many people to thank.
I realize that means I’m totally blessed, because too many people in my life are incredible. But it really doesn’t make me feel any less like an obnoxious actor at the Oscars who goes on and on about all these people the average viewer has never heard of before and don’t really care about…I mean, thank your wife and your mother. Do that for sure. But do we really need to hear about that guy who gave you your first day player role on “Days of Our Lives,” or the guy who makes you coffee in the morning, or that Hollywood agent who gets paid to tell people you’re awesome?
I don’t know, it might just be me. But I’ve always sat watching those speeches and secretly wondered: do those actors ever bother to personally thank the people they’re gushing about on live television? Or is that one blanket broadcast just kind of supposed to count toward “all the little people who I stepped over to get here”? Not to mention, forgetting someone in that public list—especially someone really important—can be disastrous for a person’s relationships.
So this time, instead of trying to list the names of all five thousand or so wonderful, amazing and kind-hearted people who helped me get through the writing of this book, let me just say this:
If you have ever taken the time to teach me
anything
, whether it be the alphabet, or a swear word in another language, or how to change a tire, or even if you’ve just led by example and made me want to be like you in some way…you’re basically fucking awesome, and I love you.
If you read and enjoyed this book, I already adore you beyond compare. Because you get me, man. But if you also find the time to share this book with a friend or family member, the love I have for you at this moment—which is currently vast—will seem like a mere grain of sand compared to a universe of beaches. That’s how much I will love you if you take the time to review, or blog about, or otherwise spread the messages contained in this book. Endless love.
If you have ever stood up for someone who was bullied or ostracized because they were different, I retroactively dedicate this book to you. Actually, scratch that. I dedicate the entire Issues Series to you and your big ass heart. I would hug you right now, if I could.
Hell, if you’ve ever had a hard time relating to someone, because they were different than you, and you maybe kind of secretly wanted to avoid them…but instead you made the effort to look past those differences and find out more about
their
reality, you sir or madam, are a badass.
Come to that, if you’ve done any of those things mentioned above in the last year or so, I still think you’re pretty amazing. Keep that shit up. You’re golden.
Finally, I’d like to thank everyone I’ve ever met who gave me any kind of material for the books I write…which covers basically…
everyone I’ve ever met
.
Even and possibly especially that guy who screamed at me in front of an entire restaurant full of people and made me cry, seven years ago when I was waitressing at that steak house, because you felt your steak was overcooked and decided to blame me for it.
You sir, are a gigantic asshole. But thank you for the experience. I hope you learned from it, I know I did.
That’s all for me tonight, folks.
Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
About the Author
As you might have already guessed, I kind of have a thing for hats, and Isobel Irons is a pen name.
In real life, I am (among many things) an indie film director and TV producer with a deep–some might even say obsessive–appreciation for onscreen storytelling and a lifelong book habit that I just can’t seem to kick.
In film, there’s nothing I like better than a JJ Abrams “show, not tell” character reveal, or a Joss Whedon banter session. Or an Erik Kripke-level “bromance.” And of course, I’m a die-hard fan of the will they / won’t they trope, where the fans start shipping two characters agonizingly long before they share their first kiss.
In my novels, I use my visual storytelling skills to show the reader an entire menagerie of hidden worlds. When it comes to imagination, there is no production value and no budget. But if there was, I would spend it all and then some. To me, my characters are real people, who just happen to live in my mind. Before I write, I scout locations to set the scene, I hold exhaustive casting sessions to find the perfect quirks that will ignite the maximum amount of conflict. Then, I throw in some tricky, but believable situations that allow my characters to expose themselves–sometimes in a figurative, emotional sense, other times quite literally.
Rawr
.
Finally, I sit back and let the story unfold. If it sucks, I cut it. I tell my characters–sternly, but calmly–to reset and do it again, but this time give me MORE. Show me MORE. Make me laugh or cry or want to hit something MORE. And then, when I realize I’ve read through the entire thing in one sitting and–
Holy shit, is it really that late
, and O
h my God I am SO hungry!
H
ave I even eaten today?
That’s when I know it’s ready to be unleashed into the world.
Vivid characters. Vibrant settings. Realistic ISSUES. Together, these elements combine to form the Ultimate Literary Crack. Or, as I like to call it, “Promoting Literacy through Shameless Fiction Addiction.”
Join me in Shameless Lit & Film Addiction here:
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