Mr. Bear

Author: Odita Chidera

Mr. Bear by Odita Chidera

Most people initially think of me as a comforting bear. A cushion for pain and bad days. That one thing, or in this case, person that can instantly make you feel better. Generally, bears do not understand emotions deeply, but I can assume that with their cutely rounded features, soft and mushy fur topped with warm and gentle eyes, it’s easy to believe they do.

It doesn’t help that I have deeply hazel-coloured eyes, encouraging more friendliness and audience towards me. What people forget, though, is that friendly bears are a myth. In more English terms, it can be described as an oxymoron, and true to its meaning, I’m anything but friendly. I am a critic by nature and have a composed resting facial expression. Sometimes, I wish I were more disoriented. Perhaps I wouldn't be perceived as a confidant to every James and Harry I meet.

I overthink my options for the second time. I really have to use the convenience, but I also really do not want to. As if to add to my supposed misery of a personality, the universe decided to bless me, or not, with OCD, one of the greatest weaknesses of man. I believe vulnerability is a plague, and OCD well uses it as its grip over a person. Each time I consider a simple task, my mind spirals into a thousand layers of inspection. Did I turn off the light? Will my fingers feel mushy after touching the door handle? What if there’s a stain on the floor that I missed last time? And so on it goes. It’s the absolute worst.

The restroom door sits peacefully in front of me, like a calm door disguised to be ordinary but is actually the gate to a completely unmatched realm of unknown horrors. I watch too many fantasy films. Rationally, I know it's just a restroom, four walls, tiles, a sink, two toilets, maybe. But to me, right now, it's like an obstacle course. I stare at the door handle. A guy walks past me and grabs the handle, letting himself in, all the while staring at me like I have marbles for eyes. I observe the handle; it's brass, tarnished in places from the endless cycle of being touched by countless others. I imagine the hive of germs, all multiplying, spreading fast, and I can almost feel my skin begin to crawl just looking at it.

My mind debates, again, whether I truly need to go. Maybe if I wait long enough, the feeling will subside, and I can avoid this whole ordeal. But no. The pressure in my bladder insists otherwise, and I’m forced to confront the reality of this very basic, very human need. I can’t avoid it any longer. I exhale, pull a tissue from my bag to buffer my hand, and press down on the handle, making sure to open the door with the utmost care, as though handling an explosive.

Inside, the restroom is surprisingly clean, spotless even. But it doesn’t matter. My mind has already held onto what it considers risks and contaminants. I take one careful step at a time, each motion calculated. I find the stall furthest from the door, reasoning that fewer people likely use it. And yes, I’m aware of how ridiculous my behaviour seems, but that’s the curse of knowing. Win some, lose some.

I finally reach the stall, lock the door, and prepare to face the next challenge. It proves to be simple. Close the door, lock it, and get on with my business. But as I reach for the lock, I’m seized by the fear that I might touch something contaminated. I sigh, pushing away the thought, mentally clawing at my brain, but getting on with my business anyway.

This is my life, a daily game of calculated and constant vigilance. It’s not that I can’t relax; it’s that I don’t know how to. Moments like this feel like I'm in a dance show where we have to dance to save our lives, and I don’t know how to dance. People like to think of me as organized, as someone who “has it all together.” If only they knew. The truth is, I am a fortress, but it’s one built on shaky ground, one movement away from collapse.

Once I’ve managed to wash my hands to the point where they’re red from scrubbing, I make my way to the sink, cautiously avoiding the handles. I take a deep breath, let the water swoosh over my fingers, and feel a familiar sense of ease, though short-lived, but present.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, meeting my own hazel eyes. There it is again, that gentle “bear” expression that people are drawn to. I almost want to laugh at the irony. They don’t see the crackhead behind the friendly façade. They see warmth, but all I feel is the cold steel of my inner being, one that seeps up any trace of euphoria that tries to grow in me.

By the time I leave the restroom, I’m mentally drained, as if I’ve just completed a strenuous journey instead of a simple trip to the bathroom. I press the tissue-wrapped handle one last time, escaping the restroom, and take a deep breath of the open air, as though cleansing my breathing tract of any contaminations. I make my way back down the hall, carefully sidestepping a small puddle of spilt water on the floor. I wonder, briefly, how disgusting and careless human beings can be. I imagine they don't care and conclude that some may die from how much risk they expose themselves to. That's the truth anyway. In the end, it’s only me, trapped within the confines of my mind, navigating the invisible dangers that others are blissfully unaware of.