As a child, I fell into a bad habit. Or rather, a series of them.
I washed my hands, then washed them again. I turned on the lights, then off, then on. I walked into a room, backed out of it, walked in again. Sometimes, I would find myself stuck in one of these loops for hours at a time. I would stand at the threshold of my bedroom, turning the lights on and off, hoping no one would discover what I was doing.
Sixteen. On, off. Seventeen. On, off. Eighteen.
When the number did not feel right, when the repetition did not give my mind the sense of reassurance it was seeking, I could only continue.
Nineteen. On, off. Twenty.