welcome to crazy town
I hear her through the wall, the rhythmic way she flicks the light switch on off on off on off.
“Okay. Okie dokie,” I hear her say. “Okay. Okie dokie. Okay, and yes, I the lights are off.”
I hear the thwoosh of a tissue jerked from the tissue box so purposefully that the decorative acrylic cover jitters on the bathroom counter. I hear her rubbing hard, waging war against a few random water droplets that must have scattered when she washed her hands. But wait, did she wash her hands? I imagine her standing there in the momentary silence, looking in the mirror and then down at her fingers, wondering. And then I hear the snap of the light switch on, the clack of the faucet, the rush of water until, very shortly, she smacks it off again. Always better to be sure.
“Okay. Okie dokie,” she begins again. “Okay. Okie dokie. Okay, and yes, I have washed my hands.”
I sit back against my desk chair. Okie dokie, and welcome to crazy town. I call it crazy town not because my daughter is crazy, but because I feel that in one minute more–it’s ticking off now, like a bomb, tick, tick, tick–something inside me that holds things together will finally wiggle loose.
The towel holder screeches as Riley lets go of the hand towel beside the sink. And then, again comes the rhythmic sound of the light switch on off on off on off.
“Okay. Okie dokie. Okay. Okie dokie…”
So, it’s a bad day. All of our illnesses–physical, emotional, mental, spiritual–wax and wane, like storms gathering and losing strength. We have good days and hard days, and today is a hard day. Resigned, I push back from my the quiet reflection of my journal. I open the office door and walk around the corner to the bathroom. When I knock, Riley instantly falls silent, arrested mid-ritual, and then, after a pause, she says rather tentatively, “Yes?”
“Riley, are you okay?” She is not; it’s a silly question, but I fumble, looking for an introduction.
“Yes,” she says faintly. “I had to go to the bathroom.” Riley doesn’t like me to draw attention to her compulsions, at least not in the middle of her captivity. On a good day, she’ll tell you herself and ask you to pray for her; she’s not particularly private except when she can’t seem to get free. On bad days, the attention feels like criticism, and Riley doesn’t quite understand how the invisible bonds came to be tied about her wrists.
“I realize that, but you’re spending a lot of time in there and it’s getting late; it’ll be time for school soon,” I say carefully, trying not to let on that I’ve heard her monologue. In my mind, this works as a plausible reason for interrupting her. But the press of time pushes the invisible panic button that unleashes Riley’s anxiety; it tips the boat. Rushing doesn’t work on a hard day.
I recognize my mistake too late, when finally free of the bathroom, Riley tries to take her medicine and gags. Anxiety triggers gagging and gagging triggers more anxiety, and left unchecked, the slithery monster wraps about her throat and squeezes until she runs out of breath. Tears gather in her ocean eyes as she looks at me waiting for her in the kitchen. “I don’t know why I always have this anxiety,” she says desperately, gathering her long brassy hair in her hands, tugging it away from her ears. I can see Riley crumbling, one tumbling tear at a time. Every sign points to an impending avalanche. Her tone pleads for answers, but she knows I don’t have them. After all, just now I’m crumbling myself.
“Dear God, please help me take my pills,” Riley says suddenly and forcefully, turning away from me, and then I wonder if she really intended that pleading tone for me at all. “Please help me not be afraid. I need these pills so I won’t have seizures,” she says, explaining to God as she would to me, even though she knows we already know why she needs her pills. “Please help me stop doing my rituals so I can go to school, because we’re going to be late.”
“Amen,” I say softly, as Riley pivots back toward me, dabbing at corners of her eyes with her thumbs. Prayer, bold and confident, conversational and right out loud, instantly brings a smile to my daughter’s wet face. Prayer has always been her defense against falling apart. Why, I wonder, had I not thought of that?
“Mom Jones, God Jones is always with me. He’s going to help me take my pills,” she says, as though this fact, like any other, isn’t open for debate.
“Yes, I know He will,” I say, returning her smile, and Riley giggles like a prisoner set free and ready to dance.
He is before all things, and in him all things hold together (Colossians 1:17). I look at my daughter and this truth I see, the clear reminder that it’s not some thing that holds us together but someone. Riley knows just the way to stop an avalanche.
Welcome to crazy town, friends.Fortunately, God lives here too.
In fact, as Riley says, He always has.
