Where the sidewalk ends. Where the sidewalk ends? Where the sidewalk ends! No, no, no, I knew of no such place. This could not be the case. There was always something, something to count, an infinite, indefinite, never-ending amount. Everywhere cracks broke the concrete. I timed my life to a broken beat. Where the sidewalk ends, just another begins. Comfort came only in steps of time; it’s how I lived that life of mine. My mind, when it was not a ticking metronome, found another irrational home. Images of anxieties and fears constantly previewed heart-throbbing tears. Over and over not a thought left sober. A picture, a song, a phrase, a beat, any of it, all of it stuck on repeat. Turn it off! Make it stop! I craved the silence to hear a pin drop. I did things, I thought things, I never knew why. At six years old I couldn’t even try.
The sidewalk never ends for an obsessive-compulsive six-year-old. No, I never kissed doorknobs (so many germs, what an OCD noob thing to do), but the prior passage was a recounting of my childhood mental affliction, or one of them. I was a hand-washing, door-locking, tile-counting, crazy-eyed little freak-a diagnosed obsessive-compulsive.
Looking back I find my irrational behavior and fears a definite side-splitter, but I probably would have kicked you in the shin if you laughed at me then. Granted, my sense of humility was not fully ripened yet.
But now all that is left is all a blur of climactic moments, fragmented pages from the diary of an obsessive-compulsive adolescent.
Houdini’s Suspended Straight Jacket Restraint was the beginning to one of my most memorable flapjack flips. Ironically, that is probably what I should have ended up shoved in by the end of the night.
We had taken a vacation with my dad’s side of the family to Disney World, and all the adults had gone out to get drunk with Mickey Mouse, leaving my eldest cousin in charge of us younglings. Little did he know, I was Woody-Allen-whacked.
Prior to this trip I had become interested in magicians and magic shows. This interest developed into an unhealthy obsession, which became a concern with the magician’s well being during their suspenseful stunts (I know what a humanitarian I am). This of course transformed into concern for my own well being, manifesting a fear of my own entrapment (and we’re back to being a selfish bastard). That fear finally cultivated a solid obsessive-compulsive phobia of slow asphyxiation.
So there we were, five kids packed into a Disney down under-themed suite (a.k.a a marketable way to say cramped and damp) watching Disney’s live feed of their dinner shows. Which I would like to point out, were shows that kids with parents who loved them more than booze would be attending in person. But anyhow, tonight’s main feature was a magician performing the great works of Harry Houdini.
Oh boy, I was stoked like a bro at a kegger. Overwhelmed with excitement I was momentarily ignorant my new anxieties. As the tank was locked on the suspended magician I began to get a tingling feeling as my fear crept up like a bike-trail-rapist on a 16-year-old runner.
He could not breathe! Could I breathe? I can’t breathe! I CAN’T REMEMBER HOW TO BREATHE!
Frantic thrashing ensued as images of my blue, oxygen-deprived body flooded my mind. I flailed around the room, flinging myself on the floor, scooting around and grasping my throat while my terrified cousin frantically tried to get a hold of our parents. They were out of reach, and the best solution hotel management could conjure was sending an entire basket of candy and stuffed animals. But luckily, you have to breath to eat candy, so three snickers later I was back to reality.
And four psychologists, three years of medication, two straightjackets and one sketchy case study later, my dream of being a magician’s showgirl is now permanently revived.