The Switch

1990

That Other Me is a series that explores the immediacy and intimacy of various mental health episodes I’ve experienced throughout my life.

I see my friend out, shut off the heater, switch off the light, and lock the door. Then I step out of my bungalow and ease the door closed.

My friend and I resume chatting, although the thought that jags into my head is, Did I turn the heater off?

I have left it on before. It’s an old radiant heater with orange bars. Come the morning, I’ve found it still burning, much to my father’s chagrin. So I’m especially mindful of it.

“Did you notice if I turned the heater off?” I ask my friend.

He says he didn’t.

I grab my keys, unlock the door, and flick the light on. The heater’s so old it doesn’t have an ON/OFF switch. All you do is turn it off at the power point.

That’s off.

I relock the door, pull it closed, and resume chatting to my friend.

But the thought returns: Did I turn off the heater?

I interrupt my friend to ask him.

“Didn’t you turn it off?” he asks.

I’m unsure if I turned it off, or if I just looked at the power point.

I unlock the door, switch the light on, and see the power point is off. But I know my mind’s going to slide right off that observation. I flick the power point switch on and off so I can record in my mind that yes, it was on, then off.

It’s off.

I turn off the light, lock the door, and talk with my friend.

And again it pops into my head: did you turn it off?

Yes. I did. I did because I recall turning it on.

But did you then turn it back off?

I know I did, but this nags at me, this uncertainty that somehow I only completed half the transaction.

“Hang on,” I tell my friend, “I’ve just gotta check something.”

I unlock the door. Turn on the light. And see the switch is off.

There.

Good.

I turn off the light, lock the door, and begin to pull it close.

And stop.

Was it off? Was it really off?

I push the door open. Turn the light on.

There. Off. It’s fucking off!

I can see it’s off.

I shut the light and close the door.

My friend and I talk, and he’s amused now that I keep succumbing to this insecurity. He doesn’t know anything about my mental health, and I don’t know anything about this constant need to check something.

Is it off?

I know it’s off. Of course it’s off. How many times do I need to see that it’s off? Yes, the fucking thing is off. I have to stop capitulating to this doubt about something I’m sure of.

“Excuse me,” I tell my friend.

I unlock the door and turn on the light.

There.

Yes.

It’s off.

I yank the plug out of the power point. Look at the heater, like my uncertainty alone will power it without the need for electricity.

I switch off the light.  Lock the door. Slam it closed.

There.

It’s off.

It’s off.

It has to be.

I’m sure of it.