Home for the holidays, amid enduring childhood triggers for my OCD

One, two. One, two. I’m eight years old and I’m biking around my neighbourhood. It’s recently developed, the sidewalks lined with new homes and mounds of dirt reserved for homes-to-be. I’m flying through the streets, counting in rhythm as my feet push the pedals — one, two, one, two — making sure it’s even. I’m going fast, wind whipping at…