Counting Steps

I’ve started counting my steps when I move between ‘safe’ places—from the ward to the breakroom, from the car to the front door. It feels absolutely ridiculous when I write it down, like a symptom of an OCD spike brought on by stress. But it helps. It gives me a sense of control over the space I occupy. If I know it’s exactly forty-two steps to the mag-lock door, I can focus on the numbers instead of the shadows in the hallway. It’s a way of turning a terrifying environment into a math problem. As long as I’m counting, I’m not screaming.