Part V: Growth and Death

It was October 29, 2021, when I finally got the courage to read my childhood OCD notes.

It was then, at 21 years old, that I no longer was just nodding in agreement when Ronnie, my therapist of five years, told me how much I have grown; I finally was able to see it myself.

I knew that memory wouldn’t give me a childhood redo or change the result. It wouldn’t comfort me and show me a “me” that I necessarily wanted to see. It wouldn’t downplay the pain or forget the suffering. It wouldn’t explain the why, but I didn’t need to know why yet. I needed to remember the how. Memory would tell the brutal truth. It would show me what made me a part of who I am. It would allow me to try to explain to you why it seemed so important that I forget. Understanding these things made me feel ready.

Ten years after my last therapy session with Dr. Whitlock, I called my childhood therapist.

I left her a voicemail. I don’t remember what I said, but remember smirking while I thought, “God, she’s never gonna see this one coming”.

I got a text back at 3:39 on Friday October 29th. It read:

“I just listened to your message. Congratulations on being at U of M. Although I do remember you, I no longer have your chart, which would have the details needed to answer any questions and provide information. Charts are routinely shredded after 10 yrs of no contact. All I can suggest is to take some time to see if any memories surface regarding your time in therapy with me. Perhaps talking with your mother about her recollections would be helpful. I wish you the best & am sorry that I cannot be directly helpful. Dr. Whitlock”

I stopped at the word “shredded”. And I repeated it in my head. Shredded. Shredded. Shredded. My childhood OCD notes are shredded. I shut my eyes tightly in hopes that my mind was playing tricks on me, and when I opened them, it confirmed my worst fears. 

The amount of growth since age four seemed pointless. It didn’t matter that it took years and thousands of therapy sessions, or that I finally stopped the worst of my rituals. It didn’t matter that I no longer had bedtime rituals anymore or that I stopped writing the letters altogether. It didn’t matter that I no longer seek the same kind of reassurance that I did. It didn’t matter that, although I didn’t master it, I learned how to control my thoughts.

I felt like someone stabbed me in the gut and was standing there laughing while, with my hands pressed over my face, I screamed and cried and wailed. I shimmied off my bed, onto the floor, and looked up to the ceiling.

“Why is this happening?”, I whispered, trembling.

I abruptly got up and made my way over to the wall, which I proceeded to kick as I yelled “FUCK” repetitively until I became even more unsatisfied with my attempts to dissipate my frustration.

It felt like a part of my childhood was taken away from me. It feels like a part of my childhood was taken away from me.

Those notes contained memories that are still, in many ways, a part of who I am.

To this day, something will randomly trigger the memory of receiving that text; even typing “shredded cheese” onto my grocery list makes me wince.