The Liberosis
by Eman Ahmad
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is an anxiety disorder in which people have recurring, unwanted thoughts, ideas or sensations that make them feel driven to do something repetitively.
My coworkers had become concerned about the number of times she would call me at work. Or maybe it was my strange replies that alarmed them.
“I’m okay.”
“I’ll drive slow.”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
Our house was clean and bright—not too bright but not too dull—just right. Two couches beside four bookshelves with twelve books on each row arranged in alphabetical order. Walls were adorned with photographs and paintings hung vertically, four frames dangling side by side.
She would say that she’s a free bird who doesn’t know its way but flies nonetheless, never settles. She was right. I remember how one moment she would grab my wrist, the next she’d slide her fingers between my knuckles. And finally, after another fleeting moment of disconcertment, she would place her palm on mine. “Never settle,” she would say.
I would lose track of time when I was with her. I had to. We were always late for dinners, parties, movies. She would check and recheck all the locks and windows. We’d drive back home to check and recheck the gas burner.
She was sick but she was a lover. A caring, gentle lover. A lover who would not let me take a sip of my tea for hours for it might burn my tongue.
I didn’t realise I was losing her when my I love you and I am here were not enough to arouse a feeling of reassurance in her. When my arms failed to be her safest place.
Holding her hand in the hospital, I was vaguely recalling that innocent look of discomfort in her eyes upon seeing something odd when the doctor muttered the number of pills she took that cruel night: forty... two.
It wasn’t easy to love her. And it certainly wasn’t easy to live with her. But I would do it all over again. I would sit on that uncomfortable couch with six cushions. I would sleep with two layers of blankets all summer. I would have bland, cold tea for the rest of my life without a word of demur.
“I’m okay.”
“I’ll drive slow.”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
Our house was clean and bright—not too bright but not too dull—just right. Two couches beside four bookshelves with twelve books on each row arranged in alphabetical order. Walls were adorned with photographs and paintings hung vertically, four frames dangling side by side.
She would say that she’s a free bird who doesn’t know its way but flies nonetheless, never settles. She was right. I remember how one moment she would grab my wrist, the next she’d slide her fingers between my knuckles. And finally, after another fleeting moment of disconcertment, she would place her palm on mine. “Never settle,” she would say.
I would lose track of time when I was with her. I had to. We were always late for dinners, parties, movies. She would check and recheck all the locks and windows. We’d drive back home to check and recheck the gas burner.
She was sick but she was a lover. A caring, gentle lover. A lover who would not let me take a sip of my tea for hours for it might burn my tongue.
I didn’t realise I was losing her when my I love you and I am here were not enough to arouse a feeling of reassurance in her. When my arms failed to be her safest place.
Holding her hand in the hospital, I was vaguely recalling that innocent look of discomfort in her eyes upon seeing something odd when the doctor muttered the number of pills she took that cruel night: forty... two.
It wasn’t easy to love her. And it certainly wasn’t easy to live with her. But I would do it all over again. I would sit on that uncomfortable couch with six cushions. I would sleep with two layers of blankets all summer. I would have bland, cold tea for the rest of my life without a word of demur.
Eman Ahmad is an English major from Lahore, Pakistan. She writes book reviews on Instagram @afewmorepagesleft.