Part I: An Unfamiliar Place
I grip my mom’s right arm with both hands as I bury my head behind her legs. My whole body seems to resist, yet I somehow manage to put one foot in front of the other. Before I know it, I am entering the doors of an unfamiliar place. Two smiling faces approach and greet us with an enthusiastic “welcome to Pre-K4!”. With my head down, I squeeze my mom tighter and shut my eyes.
The next thing I know, the teachers are telling us to gather on the rainbow rug in a circle. The smiling lady sticks her hand in my direction and, still holding my mom’s hand, I slowly reach out to grab it. It’s cold. My mom squeezes my hand, “I love you sweetie; I know you can do it.” She pulls away gently and I allow my hand to let hers go, grazing my fingertips against hers as I let go of what I later found was the last feeling of comfort I felt that day.
The first tear slides down my cheek when my mom turns away—her blond hair and dark roots fall perfectly to the back of her head. I closely watch her as she exits through the open door; the heel of her boots makes a clicking noise as they step into the stoned hall. She turns her torso back around when she is outside the door and mouths another “I love you” and continues down the hall. I listen to her walk down the brown stoned hallway until the clicking of her boots gets softer, softer, and softer—and watch her until she gets smaller, and smaller, and smaller…until I can no longer see her. Tears fill my eyelids and almost instantly drop to my toes. My body quivers as I realize she probably left the first set of doors, and again when I think she makes it to the second.
A cold hand squeezes mine and I hear my name, but don’t hear anything past that as I begin to wail in pain. She must be outside by now. Or at the car. Maybe even in the car. Did she drive away? When is she going? When will she be back?
I can’t ever recall how I got through that first day. All I remember is putting my face in the chest of the woman who called herself Mrs. Tucker, refusing to open my eyes. Tears rolled down my face, escaping my shut eyes and onto a soft cotton that must have been her shirt. Voices came from every direction, small voices, voices of boys and girls, and another lady who seemed to be trying to calm them.
On a day that seemed to last more than a lifetime, I waited for my mom. Every thought I allowed myself to think was about her. She was coming. She was coming. She had to be coming back.
My four-year-old brain could not begin to comprehend why I had to spend full days at this new and strange place, and not just 8 a.m. to noon like it had been at Pierce Elementary. Soon I realized the worst part: it was not just full days; it was full days five days a week. It was as if I had been thrown to the lions. I was told it would get easier. But every day for a year, I felt the same.
My mom would drive me to school and I wouldn’t get out of the car. Fifteen minutes later when I did I would walk between my mom’s legs through the decorated hallway, ignoring the scary voices and hellos. Sometimes, I would open my eyes briefly—only to shut them seconds later and allow my mom to guide me the rest of the way to the Pre-K4 classroom. When we got to the same door, it was still new to me. My mom would leave, and the tears would fall, and they never stopped falling. I never talked to anyone new. I wouldn’t leave Mrs. Tucker’s side under any circumstances until I saw my mom again. And this new place is where it all started—where perfectionism begins.
When I was diagnosed with OCD at age four, my parents cried. When you were four years old, though, your parents probably cried because you walked up the stairs on your own for the first time. Mine cried because someone could recognize as early as age four that something was wrong with me. They cried because they knew their child wouldn’t have a normal childhood—because they knew it wouldn’t be easy, for me or for them. They cried because they questioned, why my child?