Louise O'Brien

I have devised a counting system that stops me from dying.

Sleep is the first obstacle. Not sleep alone, but falling asleep. A ritual of spells passes my lips before exhaustion quiets me, hours pass. Curled in a coil of compulsion, cradling under the sheets. I whisper. Please, please, please, Polly. Please, please, please. Please don’t let me die tonight. Two fingers on my left hand spread apart. If they touch I will die. Two fingers on my right hand crossed. If they uncross I will die. This is my lullaby.

Mother takes me to school. Polly hates school. Cross-legged on the carpet, I look at the sea of bare legs and I’m afraid. There are socks that are all wrong. One is up and one is down. I flex my thigh muscles in sets of two, offsetting the uneven mess of the other children. If they knew, they’d thank me. I’m saving them. The pressure of my left ankle on the carpet is too great, legs must alternate at a steady rate, must not exceed the amount of pressure on the other ankle. I always wanted a brother or sister.

Polly wants to introduce the second part of her disorder: symmetry.

If everything is not even then I will die. A sensation must be experienced on both sides of my body equally. If I walk through a doorway and knock my left knuckle on the doorframe, I must turn and walk through the other way and knock my right knuckle on the doorframe. This is not the end. If the intensity with which I knock my right knuckle on the doorframe is greater than that of the left knuckle, I must repeat the process. The result is a dog chasing its tale, and the nature of my disorder dictates that I will never be content with which knuckle feels more even. I never put my hand up in class.

This leads to the final and most difficult aspect of my disorder: the influence of others.

The teacher, realising my escalating distress, must intervene and lead me away from the doorway. She does this by placing her hands on my shoulders. It is impossible to explain to another person that they must continue touching your shoulders until they have dispersed the correct amount of pressure evenly. This means I must mimic the actions of my teacher by continually touching my shoulders with my own hands. Mother always said I liked animals.

The other children think Polly is weird.

I can only take small steps. Bricks are difficult. I count my steps; one, one, one, one, two, two, two, two, three, three, three, three, four, four, four, four. The playground conspires against me. I watch the children run across the field of bark chips and am banished to a spiral of fear. I will my body to tread upon the small fibrous blocks but am overcome with terror. They laugh mockingly at my small legs quivering at the perimeter of normality. This is where I live.

I am late a lot for a six year old. Mother calls me for dinner an hour before its ready. I eat everything that is green and nothing that is orange. This has nothing to do with my disorder. Polly doesn’t like carrots. I stare longingly at the mound of peas and silently plead there is an even number. Each spear of my folk punctures the teal spheres, guiding them to my mouth in groups of four. The receding pile of green steadily unravelling the fate that awaits me. One pea left. One pea. I hate one. Nothing goes with one. The circumstance begins to induce sweaty palms and restlessness. A deliberate and rhythmic rocking soothes my tensed body. One pea. I take my folk and steady the green ball on my plate, pushing it down with a sick satisfaction. I spread the green remnants to the centre of my plate, and slowly exhale. My grandparents died when I was a baby.

Polly keeps her secrets close.

The bath is my medicine. Limbs and thoughts are drowned with the manifestations that keep them. Compulsion is warmed, and coercion calmed. I float at peace with the world, and for a moment I am free. Tiny bubbles gather under the weight of the water, taking my wishes to the surface as I chant. Please, please, please, Polly. Please, please, please. Please don’t let me die tonight. The warm liquid submerges my small mouth and nose, silencing the scurry of spells that circle my head, and so the control is shifted. Contemplation turns. The lullaby is silenced.