The Invisible Bully (Short Fiction)

Jake knew that there was no point in trying to fight it.

He knew that there was no point in trying to ignore that overwhelming sense of wrong he felt in his head, no point in simply walking away and going about his day, no point in doing anything except focusing harder on his efforts to right it, to fix it, to feel the temporary sense of relief that told him his mind was, at least for now, balanced again.

His initial four attempts at making his way through yet another one of these ritualistic routines had been beaten back by that domineering, disembodied voice, as they so often were, his resolve broken a little more each time, as it so often was: his concentration appeared to be working with him even less than usual, this morning. Some days were worse than others, and today already had him approaching a new level of mental exhaustion before he had even left the house.

The thought reminded Jake that he needed to get to school, and he quickly turned his full attention back to the dresser drawer. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he began pulling it outwards by its small, round metal handles, going slowly to keep his focus, silently telling himself that this one, menial mental task was the only thing in the world that mattered. All he had to do was get through this five times - always five times - without letting the images and interruptions flood his head again, and things would be fine.

Open, shut, he told himself, closing his eyes. Open, shut. Five times. Just five easy pulls, five easy pushes, that’s all I need to do.

Just a few simple seconds to keep his mind completely cleared, and this would be the last time he would have to do it.

Open. Shut. Open -  

Unbidden and immediate, a mental image of a math test with a large, angry D- scrawled in the top corner appeared in Jake’s thoughts, and he took his fingers off the drawer handles as yet another wave of frustration overcame him: he had not concentrated hard enough. If he gave up now...

He opened his eyes, trying to stem the sudden flow of visuals in his head: failing math, failing ninth grade, being left behind in school, never getting into a good college or University, never getting a job or a car or a house and so on and so on until he pictured himself homeless and dead.

All events certain to happen, certain to come true until he was successful at completing the ritual.

That had just become more difficult: he would have to attempt it at least three more times, now. The sense of mental wrong that drove him to do these things did not seem to be satisfied with specific numbers, and six and seven were two of them. Finishing it on either was just as null and void as not taking any action to begin with.

On the eighth try, Jake felt the mental click that told him the itch had been scratched, that he could go about his day. Relieved, he grabbed his bag and headed out the door to walk to school, giving an unconscious sigh at the thought - despite his supposed mental defences against failing today’s test, he thought there was a very good chance it would happen anyway. He had never been good at math.

Concentrating on avoiding the sidewalk cracks, Jake walked in the cold, crisp autumn air and thought about the unexplainable epidemic that continued to take over his thoughts, day after day, with all of these threats. He did not know exactly when it had started, but such was its strength and forcefulness that he did not think it would ever stop now that it seemed to have settled in his head.

The subjects of the threats always varied, but they all had the common thread of falling under the category of his worst fears: failing classes, losing a loved one, dying. They appeared in his head like a sudden rainstorm whenever he attempted to make his mind focus on anything, no matter how minute, and all with the distinct impression that they would, without a doubt, come true unless Jake took part in whatever bizarre rituals they demanded.

He consoled himself with the fact that he at least able to hide the behaviour in public, for the most part, although he did get a few strange looks when he was unable to resist opening and closing the same door or taking the same item in and out of his locker two or three times. He didn’t blame anyone for staring, though. It must look odd.

But he had to do it. He had to do it. He had to open and close that door four times, or he’d get hit by a car and die in the hospital. He had to take that item off of the shelf and put it back three times, or his dog would get sick and have to be put down. He had to count to fifteen before going to sleep every night, with the numbers paced just the right amount of seconds apart, or he’d never get his dream job, or any job, when he finished school.

On and on it went, for most of every day and every night. It seemed to be too much for a ninth-grader to take, and while he had often considered telling somebody about it, he was not sure how it would sound or what they would think. What if they shipped him off to a mental hospital?

Jake blinked. He had arrived on school grounds without realizing it, and his stomach gave an involuntary clench as thoughts of another full day of classes and concerns, of attempts to keep the mental itch satisfied with his actions while his teachers taught, began to race through his mind. He briefly considered going home sick before sighing again and walking towards the large double doors.

He barely paid attention in science, though he did note Ms. Vinson's announcement that there would be a test the following Wednesday. Another test in another subject in which he fell far, far short of excelling, another thing that would surely trigger that strange sense of wrong in his head and threaten him with failure unless he did whatever nonsensical ritualistic actions it wanted. That was when he stopped fully listening, starting to envision the mental intrusions, the waking nightmares about having to repeat science, the ninth grade...

Math was as he had predicted: the test was difficult, and as he had thought regardless of his compliance this morning, he was not very confident he had passed. He didn’t even fill out all of his answers, an action that earned him a frown from Ms. Kortz as he turned in his paper at the end of the class, avoiding all eye contact as he headed for the door.

French and gym were no better, and by the end of the day he was exhausted to his mental limits from both school and the fact that the sense wrong in his head refused to be righted for more than a half an hour at a time.

Thankfully, he had no homework that night, and shortly after dinner he retired to his room, trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts long enough to read before his eyes gave way and sleep overcame him, finally leaving him safe - for a time - from the exhausting efforts of keeping his mind clear.

*

The next day was much, much worse.

It had started out as such a simple demand, as far as they went - but then again, most of them did. This time, though, it seemed that no matter how hard he concentrated on taking his pen out of his bag and placing it on his desk the ‘right way’, making sure he did it ‘perfectly’, his mind refused to feel that sense of balance that told him he had satisfied the need for yet another bizarre, ritualistic gesture.

I am giving you perfection, Jake thought, beyond frustrated, practically sweating in his seat. Just leave me alone! Leave me alone!

But the unscratched itch, the notch out of place, remained. The wrong that he felt simply would not be righted, and his panic and stress continued to increase with every repeated attempt.

“Jake!”He opened his eyes, pen halfway between bag and desk, to see Ms. Kortz frowning at him from the front of the room. The whole class turned to stare, some smirking, some stifling giggles.“Are you here,” she demanded, “to make a fool of yourself? Of my class?”

“N - no,” Jake stammered.

“Put the pen down, Jake, and come here,” said said softly, her eyes glittering with a malice that suggested it was not a suggestion.

Slowly, heart pounding, Jake made his way to her desk, but before he was halfway there she pointed towards the board, where an equation he could not begin to understand adorned its otherwise clean surface.

“Solve it using the method I just explained,” she said in the same soft, deadly voice.

Jake stared, dumbfounded, not knowing where to begin, looking back at the class for he did not know what reason.

“Don’t look at them for help,” Ms. Kortz snapped. “Figure it out, if you think you can act like you’re bored to a trance while I teach!”

He turned helplessly back to the board. He shook his head, humiliation washing over him like a wave of polluted water.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

“What was that?” Ms. Kortz barked.

“I can’t,” he said, louder.

She smirked. “You’ll see me after class, Jake.”

And when class was dismissed and he was asked to explain himself, Jake could not bring himself to admit why he had been doing what he had been doing: he was simply too worried that Ms. Kortz would think he was crazy and recommend he get some sort of medical evaluation. Whatever the reason this…condition had made its way into his mind, he definitely did not think it was a normal thing, and did not want to draw attention to it at school.

Ms. Kortz had therefore reprimanded him for being “lazy and disrespectful” and had written a note to his parents, which he had not yet given them. He was not sure how they would react to it, and even less sure what they would say if he told them the truth about what was going on in his head - no doubt they would be much more sympathetic than Ms. Kortz would have been, but how seriously could they take him? How did he explain what he was experiencing? That he was forced to tuck his desk chair in and out eight times - always eight times - every night before he went to bed, and that not doing it left a growing sense of wrong, a sense that his worst fears would come true?

He buried his head in his hands. Either way, he would need to show his parents the note tonight: Ms. Kortz had told him to get a signature from both of them, and that tomorrow she would personally call his house and carefully explain to his parents what a poor example of a student Jake was if he did not.

He walked downstairs and into the living room, where his father was reading the news and his mother was watching television. He put the note down on the coffee table and said, “Mom, Dad, uh, my teacher gave me this from school, that you need to sign, and, um…”

He trailed off. Both of his parents looked at him questioningly, and his mother reached for the note, her frown deepening as she read.

“Jake,” she said. “What is this? What does this mean, ‘disrespectful’?”

“Disrespectful?” his father said, getting up to read the note and looking carefully at Jake when he was finished.

Jake had never felt so miserable in his life. Keeping this inside and trying to live with it - how long could that go on? Would it ever go away?There was nothing else for it. Through his tears, he went on to explain everything.

*

As it turned out, his parents did not think that he was crazy, and Jake kicked himself for being afraid to tell them what had been going on his head. They understood why he had not, however. 

After convincing Jake that they would not let anyone send him to any kind of mental hospital, they made an appointment for him with his family doctor, who listened to Jake and gently explained to him that what he was exhibiting were signs of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which often manifests around early adolescence. She referred Jake to a specialist, with whom he met the following week.

In their first meeting, the specialist told Jake that while it was likely OCD would be with him for his entire life, he could learn how to fight and manage the symptoms, and even stave them off for a while. He told Jake that lots of people, especially lots of kids his own age, begin to experience strange and scary things happening with their brains, and that this was a very normal type of thing for people to go through. He also assured Jake that was not a freak, and that he was certainly not alone.

“That sense of wrong you feel,” he said. “Just think of it as a bully, Jake. Just a bully in your mind. And the best way to deal with a bully is to fight back as much as you can. There are lots of ways to do that, Jake, and we’re going to find the best one for you. And just so you know, lots of people have different kinds of bullies inside of their heads, but they don’t have to face them on their own, okay? I know it’s hard, and it’s stressful, and it’s scary. But it doesn’t always have to be.”

“So here’s what I want you to try, Jake. The next time that bully tries to push you around, I want you to talk back - to fight back. Just try telling it: ‘no. No, I won’t listen to you. You make me do things that make no sense, and today I’m going to ignore you.’ I know that’s hard, Jake, but I promise you - try it, and you’ll see. You can fight back. It does not own you. It just wants to scare you. It won’t always be easy, but you can fight back. And when you feel like you can't? The people around you are here to help.”

And the next day before school, after concentrating very hard, Jake did his best to disregard the usual demands that he open and shut his dresser drawer five times before leaving, to ignore what he now knew was a false sense of wrong in his brain.

Five times, Jake. Five times, or you’ll fail that science test.

No, Jake thought. No, I won’t listen to this. I already failed that math test, and I did what you said. You're just a lying bully. So no. I won’t. Just shut up, and go away.

And, shutting his dresser drawer without bothering to look back, Jake picked up his bag and left for school.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is a work of fiction, but it is based on very real events that I experienced in my youth and continue to experience at the age of 30. I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder when I was 14, and have had moderate to significant struggles with both ever since.

I know, however, that I am far from alone in facing these challenges. I know how many people suffer every day from mental health issues far worse than mine, and what is especially upsetting is the stigma that makes so many stay quiet and struggle by themselves, hiding their suffering from friends and family.

That’s why I wrote this story: to help those facing issues - be it with OCD, anxiety, depression, or anything that can have a significant impact on the physical and emotional well-being of one’s day-to-day life - with the message that you are not on your own.

If you feel that you, or someone close to you, have been struggling with mental health issues, please don’t ignore them. Don’t wait. Talk to your doctor and see what can be done to help.

Nobody should go through this alone.