Little eight year old me walked into the pediatricians office with a pep in my step and a smile on my face. I suddenly felt as if my hands were dirty. I stood up and quickly ran to the bathroom. I plopped a big glob of soap onto my hands and scrub, scrub, scrubbed. Causing them to become as red as a tomato and as dry as the sand on a hot summer day. I continued to wash them until I felt they were clean enough. Aren't we told to wash our hands after we play outside, go to the bathroom and before we eat? I’m just doing what I'm told. 

As I walked out of the bathroom, I slowly sat down on a large wooden bench waiting for my mom to finish talking to the receptionist. I made sure only the covered parts of my body touched it so that I would not become infected with germs. 

“You’re in room three” said one of the women at the desk. I quickly stood up and made my way to the end of the hallway. When I got to the door I eagerly waited for my mom to push it open.

“You can open it Charlotte, I'll be right there” my mom said.  I could not risk any germs getting on my hands, especially because I was in a dirty doctor's office. 

“No, I can wait, '' I yelled back. When my mom made it to me she pushed open the door revealing my pediatrician. I walked in and hopped up onto the examination table holding my hands out for her to see. 

“I believe it's probably just eczema, but better to be safe than sorry” my mom said to her. The doctor examined my hands back and forth, taking in the peeling disaster. 

“how often would you say you wash your hands Charlotte?” asked Dr. Chris 

“All the time” I responded. How could it be a bad thing that I'm constantly washing my hands?

She gave my mom a worried look, a look only a mother could understand. The one where your forehead starts to wrinkle and the happiness is quickly drained from your face. The rest of the appointment continued as normal. I'm fine, like I said before I'm supposed to be washing my hands. As we walked out of the office, I could tell my mom was stressed. I stayed purposefully quiet on the ride home. 

That night my parents sat me down on my bed. They both had a worried look on their faces, their muscles were tense and their smiles started to dip. 

“What's wrong?” I said with my head tilted and eyebrows scrunched. My heart started to beat faster and my palms started to sweat. My parents noticed my nervousness and embraced me in a giant bear hug. 

“You are going to see a doctor for your mental health, '' my dad said. My arms developed goosebumps as I struggled to get a solid breath of air. What could possibly be wrong with me I thought to myself. 

My mom rubbed my back as she explained to me “It's like you are going to see a tutor, instead of being tutored in math or science they will help you understand what is going on with yourself.” 

They know I don’t like talking about my feelings, what were they thinking making me talk to a stranger. I turn away and snuggle into my blanket. How could it be a bad thing that I'm constantly washing my hands?