Skinny Dipping Season Read Free

you have to stop. You’ve been standing there forever. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
    But I wasn’t finished and I shook my head. At least, I think I did. I don’t know how much time passed, to be honest. When I finally looked up I was startled to see Grandma crying. I had never seen her do that. But she stood next to me with tears running down the wrinkled ruts of her cheeks. It scared me. Then, Grandma lifted up both of my dripping hands until they were in front of my face.
    â€œWhat isn’t clean about this?” Her voice shook with emotion. “Oh darlin’, look—you’ve scrubbed so hard you’re bleeding.” She walked me into the bedroom and laid me down on her bed, talking softly while she smoothed the hair along my forehead until, somehow, I fell asleep.

    Several years of therapy taught me that there were certain triggers that made me worse. A lecture from my mother. A bad grade in school. Or a confrontation with my family . . . thus, the cracked skin on my fingers.
    My therapist always warned me about relapses. Over the years, I learned to catch myself before my behavior spiraled out of control. I was a little late this time. But at least I caught myself.
    Taking a deep breath, I grasped the faucet with both hands and turned it off. I grabbed a towel from the perfectly folded stack I had placed above the sink and patted both hands dry, careful not to abrade my chafed skin any further. It stung, and the pain actually felt good.
    That was bad.
    When pain felt good, I was in trouble.
    I reached for my purse and took out my therapy journal and a pen. There were things I had already marked today. I had pumped gas and bought groceries at the gas station and had not washed my hands right away. And I was wearing a frayed sweatshirt and jeans with a hole at the knee.
    Everyone with OCD had different issues. For me, there were three main things I needed to do every day: Avoid washing my hands excessively, expose myself to foods that triggered my contamination fears, and the biggie—allow myself to be imperfect.
    Besides practicing relaxation techniques, forcing myself to break obsessive habits was an effective treatment for the “little” OCD problem that had plagued me for the past thirteen years. I had promised my therapist I would keep up my homework by journaling daily steps I was taking to overcome my obsessions.
    Grandma’s old radio was propped up on the ledge that separated the tiny dining area and the kitchen. I turned the low-tech knob until I heard the beat of a pop radio station I would never have played at home.
    Reaching into the grocery bag, I pulled out a couple of impulse purchases I’d made at the gas station mini-mart that morning. I was ready to add a few unofficial items to my journal.
    Cigarettes and cheap wine.
    For months, I had stayed silent as the Ohio media had skewered my reputation. A picture someone took on their cell phone of me handcuffed had made a great front-page newspaper photo. The articles that went with the picture were even worse. I was a spoiled party girl. My job had been handed to me on a silver platter. I didn’t respect the average taxpayer. As a congressman’s daughter, I was supposed to be an example.
    When I had told my therapist I was moving to my grandmother’s house this summer, she thought it might be good for me. She said it was possible I was experiencing a late-phase teenage rebellion I had been repressing for years. I joked with her that if that was the case, I should sleep with a few lumberjacks while I was at it. She raised her eyebrows and said it wasn’t a bad idea. Too bad the logging industry in Michigan was dead.
    I pulled the wrapper off the cigarettes. My recently turned ex -boyfriend, Colin, hated cigarettes. Everyone thought it was just his reaction to the fact that they caused cancer and smelled bad. But it was more than that. Colin actually hated people who smoked. He once