Esther Messe - Simon

 

 

As a kid, I was very carefree. I didn't care what anyone thought. I would do anything that made me smile, no matter what. But out of all my numerous unique traits, and trust me, I had a lot, there was one in particular that stood out. When I was a kid, I would always play these games. And when I say games, I don't mean tic-tac-toe or I Spy like every other kid at that age was playing. These games were my own personal games for me and me only. Like, if I walked in a room, I could only leave if I left the way I came in. Or, if I spun in a circle, I had to spin back around. These games were so simple, but it satisfied this urge I couldn't quite put into words. 

 

I'd be in my fifth-grade dance class. And after everybody would do the spin choreography, I'd still be in the back trying to sneakily spin back around without getting scolded and labeled a delinquent in front of my entire class. Like, Simon says-- Well, if Simon says was only played by one person but still. Simon would follow me around during the day, giving me gentle nudges whenever he felt in the mood to play. I never thought he was inconvenient. I was always able to brush his urges to the side if I really need to. Like, Simon says, “Touch your nose.” Simon says, “Raise your hand.” Simon says, “You did that terribly and you have to do it again until you get it right.” This was something that I grew up with. 

 

It was so normalized in my eyes and I never saw any reason for me to scrutinize over it. Things started to change as I got older though. I know that seventh grade is just a year that people universally never want to think about ever again, [audience laughter] but my seventh grade was especially significant. And I mean, Simon went crazy. [audience laughter] He decided he was sick of these dumb children games. Grabbed me by the collar and said, “Let's play.” These urges that were once so menial were now becoming restrictions inhibiting my everyday life. 

 

My once perfect transcript in attendance was completely and utterly shattered, barely being able to get on my door without some new rule being added. Out of the 180-day school year, 52 times, I chose Simon over my own education. I knew that the words Simon was spewing at me were empty threats and nonsense, but that didn't take away from the fear and the fact that I had to listen to him. And in the end, it even got to a point where I wouldn't leave my room, because I didn't want to play the game anymore. 

 

Obviously, my parents started taking notice that their once very peppy and honestly overly energetic child was now quite the opposite and decided it was time to get me professionally evaluated. I was brought to this building across town and I walked into this waiting room. The walls were white, and the ceiling was white, and the chairs were white and the carpet was definitely white. At some point, honestly, I don't want to know what happened to it. And in my head, I immediately started comparing it to what I thought isolation rooms looked like in mental hospitals. And despite it all, this is when the real panic started to set in. “Why would my parents bring me here? Do they think I'm crazy?” And maybe I actually am, because honestly, I don't have any other explanation. 

 

While I was sitting in that chair, I just wanted to go home. I didn't want answers, I didn't want to know and I didn't want to be sick. When I was finally called into that room, I was like 90% sure I was about to be shoved into a straitjacket. But instead, I was greeted with this lady who started asking me questions, you don't normally ask someone within the first eight minutes of meeting them like, “Hi. How are you? Do you ever have thoughts of inflicting bodily harm to yourself or others?” Like, “Let's just like slow down for a second.”

 

After waves and waves of uncomfortable questions that I'd rather not get into in 30 minutes of waiting, I was called back into the room, sits down, she looks me in my eyes and she says, “You have obsessive compulsive disorder, also known as OCD.” Girl, my room is the messiest thing I've ever seen. I have papers everywhere. I have clothes everywhere. I don't even know where my homework is. Tonight, you're either a fraud or you pass with like low Cs, [audience laughter] because I'm the most disorganized person I know. 

 

The next 20 minutes are then getting spent that OCD is actually consists of two components. There's intrusive thoughts and then compulsions which follow, which is anything to make that thought or feeling go away. When my initial stubbornness wore off, there was a sense of relief through me. If this was something identifiable, then this meant that there had to be others out there and this meant that I could be fixed. But that small sense of relief was very short lived and very broken by none other than the internet. Once, I started going on every website and sketchy forum that I could find looking up symptoms, and throughout all that, I could not find ones that exactly pinpointed what I experienced. 

 

So, at this point I was like, “Okay, this has to be some bullshit, because how am I not even normal within this category of not being normal?” I carried that thought and a whole bundle of shame with me everywhere I went. I didn't want to tell anyone or get the help that I needed, because I just wanted to pretend it didn't exist. But in the end, I only succeeded in shutting out my friends and my grades were slipping. A few months after my official diagnosis, I was walking to school with a group of my friends and this girl who was new to my school. I only knew her in some of my classes and I didn't have any more than surface level conversations with her, so I didn't really know her that well. But I was dozing off in my head rather than engaging in whatever seventh graders talk about at 08:00 AM.

 

When I suddenly snapped back to reality, when I heard someone say the word OCD, I was so startled. I initially thought people found out my deep, dark and terrible secret that I instinctively asked, “Why are you talking about OCD?” in a much harsher tone than I intended. But before any of the girls had time to figure out whether or not I was being offensive, the new girl stepped in and she told me that she had exposure therapy later for her OCD. That was a big moment for me. The rest of that day consisted of a lot of self-control, trying to contain myself from running up and shaking her and being, “Me too, me too. I had that too.” But instead, I had to wait very patiently throughout my day, which I am not patient to understand that. 

 

When the final bell rang and school was over, I was able to pull her to the side and have her be the first person I ever willingly told about my diagnosis. We were able to open up and rely on each other. Even though her OCD was very different from mine, just knowing that we weren't alone meant so much, because reading a statistic online is so different from experiencing it. She helped me feel comfortable accepting the things that I couldn't control, and she pushed me to get the help that I needed. Even though it was a really long process, now I'm even at a point where I can think back and smile. 

 

The truth of the whole matter is that there isn't a way to beat the game. You just have to accept the fact that if you and Simon are going to be spending this much time together, you have to learn how to get along. Thank you.