[ CW ] Show a character suffering from a mental disorder without naming it .

*1, 2, 3, 4, 5... * 
 
 Jenna counted the stairs up to her apartment, as she did everyday. The fifth floor, ten flights of stairs, eighty steps in total. The elevators in her building were too old and run-down to be trusted, and she thought if she had to use them she'd truly have a heart attack. 
 
 *9, 10, 11, 12, 13... * 
 
 She focused solely on the musty steps, lined with faded yellow grip tape. Keep going, keep going... A light above her flashed and burnt out, making her jump. Her heart beat a little faster as she gripped the banister. Damn lighting. Drawing a deep breath, Jenna let go and tapped the banister. *1, 2, 3, 4, 5*. She took another breath and looked back at the stairs. Where was she? Suddenly, her heart raced again. *What step was she on? What step what step what step? * The stairwell was filled with the sound her banging heart. Frustrated, she walked all the way back down to the bottom floor and started her way up. When - *if* - she moved, her next apartment would be on the first floor, somewhere with carpeted floors - not tile. She hated tile. 
 
 Jenna started counting again. 
 
 *1, 2, 3, 4, 5... * 
 
 Focus, focus, focus, her mind roared. She made it to the fourth floor before her eyes wandered to the gap between the crossing stairwells, the thin space reaching to the cold ground floor. He eyes snapped up. *No no no that's you fall, that's how you fall*. Jenna knew, she *knew* that this was stupid. Nothing would happen because she looked down the gap between the stairs, and yet... 
 
 Everything seemed to tell her to start over, to go all the way down and start again. The concierge would think nothing of it. He's likely seen her restart her walk a hundred times. He'd stopped asking before she could remember. Jenna stayed there, in between the only two flights of stairs - sixteen steps - in between her and her apartment and the sixty-four steps to the ground floor. *Nothing would happen nothing would happen nothing would happen*, she told her herself over and over. But her heart did n't slow, the heat would n't dissipate from her cheeks, her forehead. Her knuckles her white, gripping her purse so tightly it felt like her nails her cutting through the soft leather. She would n't, not this time. She would n't give in. 
 
 And yet... she descended and restarted her walk. *1, 2, 3, 4, 5... *
