The Echo Room
don’t know how long I’ve been in this room, but it’s quiet here. I like quiet. The walls are white and smooth, and nothing moves unless I do. Sometimes, I forget to eat. Not on purpose. I just get... busy thinking.
There’s a window, but I keep the curtains closed. The sun is too loud. I tried opening them once, but the light spilled in like a scream. It made my skin itch. I shook for hours after.
My sister called me again today. I didn’t answer. She always asks questions I can’t answer: “Why don’t you come out more?” “Are you still seeing your therapist?” “You’ve lost weight again, haven’t you?” I turn off my phone when it rings now. It feels safer.
I have these rituals. They’re small, nothing serious. Like counting the tiles before I walk into the kitchen. Or checking the stove three times—four if I’m anxious. It’s not a big deal. If I don’t do it, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. My heart races and I start to panic like the room’s collapsing. But it’s not. I know that. It’s just me.
There’s comfort in repetition. In order. In sameness. That’s why I keep everything in even numbers. My shoes lined up, my cups stacked in pairs. It keeps the chaos out. It keeps the fear quiet.
I used to be different, I think. I used to laugh without worrying if I did it wrong. I used to sleep without needing the fan on medium, never high, never low. But that was a long time ago. Before everything needed fixing.
Now, I just stay here. In my echo room. Where I can hear myself think, and nothing bad happens—unless I let it.
You’re still here, aren’t you?Did you get it?Did you figure out what’s wrong with me, stranger?
The counting, the checking, the fear of everything goingwrongif I don’t do itjust right...It’s calledObsessive-Compulsive Disorder
.But I just call it my routin...
