I just want to take her to get ice cream. She’s six – she’s a great kid, and I want to do something special – just the two of us.
But my OCD makes everything an epic battle.
My chest starts to constrict before we arrive. I want to act normal for her. We find a parking spot and walk hand-in-hand toward the shop. I reach my bare hand toward the door. I’m not using my shirtsleeve this time. Act normal.
A familiar voice angry-whispers inside my head: Don’t do that! What if we get sick?
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