Driving Me Mad (2 page)

I’ve never looked this bad
before. I’ve lost twenty pounds, and I only had ten available to
lose. Anything I do manage to eat, I throw it back up in the
morning. There are dark bags under my eyes from getting about two
hours of sleep a night. Maybe I should seek out a counselor on
campus. I can’t deny things are bad.

My denial is that they’re bad
enough to need to see one again.

With a sigh, I open the door.
My phone vibrates in my hand from a text. A sigh of relief leaves
me at seeing Trace’s name.

Trace:
Hey, busy
day for me, but I’ll call you soon, okay? Hope everything is
okay.

I quickly text him back.

Me:
Not okay. I’ll
be waiting.

Already, I feel a smidgen
better knowing I’ll talk to Trace soon. Now, I just need to survive
the day. Throughout my class, I take rigorous notes. I write twice
as many as the other students; you never know when something small
the professor says might be the one thing you need. I also have a
tape recorder for anything I might have missed, for me to jot down
later.

Despite my panic attacks, I
love college. The social atmosphere is great, I’ve made friends,
and there’s always a good time waiting around the corner. I even
love the academic part of it, if only it wasn’t causing me so much
trouble.

When I make it back to my
dorm for the day, I arrive before my best friend. I decide to get
started on some work and try not to repeatedly glance at my phone,
waiting for it to light up with a call from Trace. I need him so
badly right now. Our texting has been more consistent this past
year, and part of my anxiety is because I haven’t heard from him in
the last month.

Did I do something wrong to
upset him? Is he having a tough time right now, too? Trace is such
a great therapist and friend because he gets it. He’s told me
before how he deals with depression himself. He doesn’t talk about
it often, but if mentioning his ordeal can help me, then he will.
Last we talked, he was struggling a little. He said he was
managing, though. But what if he isn’t and that’s why I haven’t
heard from him?

“We need a girls’ night,”
Rebecca declares as she bursts into the room, her eyes finding me
hovering over my textbook. “You need a break and we haven’t gone
out in ages.”

“We went to a party last
weekend!” I defend. Mostly because I don’t want to go anywhere
tonight.

“You need this,” she says
slowly. “You’ve been more stressed than usual. We’ll go out, have
some fun, and be back in time for you to redo your paper again.”
She rolls her eyes, her way of poking fun at me. When I don’t
answer her right away, she adds, “Going to that party last week
helped a little, right?”

She has a point. It did help
take my mind off things for a while, but I’m not going to tell her
that.

Rebecca delivers her final
blow. “Unless you’re calling the grinch, then get your ass up and
get ready.”

I huff. She’s backed me into
a corner. When I first explained my anxiety and depression to
Rebecca, she was the perfect, attentive, trying-to-be-understanding
friend. When she saw me go through my first out-of-control panic
attack before Christmas break my sophomore semester when I couldn’t
hide my turmoil, she felt bad. She dragged me out when I didn’t
feel like going. Ever since, she came up with a code word of sorts.
If things feel bad enough that I want her to leave me be, I can
“call the grinch” and she’ll give me twenty-four hours before
trying to cheer me up in her own little way again.

“Fine. We’ll go,” I concede.
Trace hasn’t called me yet anyway. This will help distract me from
that.

An hour later, Rebecca is
dragging me to a club not too far from campus. The place is
crowded, on par for a Thursday night in a college town. The bass
reverberates against the walls, almost making me want to close my
eyes and focus on the vibrations in my body. Instead, Rebecca pulls
me straight to the dance floor and begins dancing with me.

It only takes seven minutes
before someone wants to dance with her. I take the opportunity to
head to the bar for a drink. Water, of course. It didn’t take long
after turning twenty-one to realize that the label on my medication
was a serious warning. It’s something I don’t want to experience
ever again. While I wait for the bartender to bring me a glass, I
check my phone.

One missed call from
Trace.

Rebecca would kill me if I
stepped outside to call him. Plus, it would be a long phone call. A
bar stool becomes available, so I take a seat.

Me:
Rebecca dragged
me to a club. Phone call may have to wait until tomorrow :(

Trace:
That’s okay.
I’m here, even if you want to call late tonight...I still can’t
picture you in a club.

Me:
Haha, it’s
okay. Rebecca likes them and we have fun dancing together, so I
come when she manages to make me.

Trace:
Glad she
gets you out. Can I have a short update please? You have me
worried, Britt.

I’ve never even heard him
call me Britt before, and yet my heart still pitter-patters when I
see him text it.

Me:
YOU have ME
worried. I haven’t heard from you in forever.

Trace:
I know, and
I’m sorry. Just been busy. My update is long, so I’ll wait until we
can talk over the phone.

Maybe it’s the
miscommunication that comes with texting, but his message feels
ominous. It only heightens my worries.

Me:
But are you
doing okay?

Trace:
Yes. Are
you?

His short answer doesn’t
convince me.

Me:
I’m
okay.

“Put the phone away and come
dance.” Rebecca plucks my phone from my hands and drops it into her
purse. She holds out her hand expectantly. I sigh, but I take
it.

My morning starts off just as
crappy as yesterday. I wish I could call the grinch and not go to
class. I am able to force myself out of bed, though. I feel like a
numb zombie throughout my morning classes. My thoughts revolve
around wishing I could talk to Trace already and wishing I could
crawl into bed and pull the covers up over my head.

Afterward, I make an
impulsive decision. My first semester here, Trace made me promise
to locate the counselors’ offices, just in case. I have an hour and
a half before my last class, so I begin my walk across campus.

Five minutes later, I’m
pushing open the door. An elderly lady is sitting at the
receptionist’s desk.

“Can I help you?”

“Is there a counselor
available?” I absentmindedly squeeze my left wrist.

“I believe so. Second door on
the right; he should be free.”

“Thanks.” I give her a small
smile before going to the correct door down the hallway. I knock,
hear a muffled ‘come in’, and step inside the office. At first, all
I see is a giant of a man. Probably 6’5” with broad shoulders that
give him a wide frame. His dirty blond hair looks to be a mess and
when he turns around from where he stands at a filing cabinet, I
quietly inhale sharply. “Trace?”

The hazel eyes of my old
therapist widen with surprise. “Brittany? Hey, how are you?” He
surprises me by closing the distance between us and giving me a
hug. I’ve never hugged him before; it would have been
inappropriate. But now? My body immediately relaxes into his as I
return his hug. It doesn’t feel weird or odd. It’s quite the
opposite; an overwhelming sense of calm washes over me. All too
soon, Trace pulls away. The five-second hug feels as if it lasted
longer. He gives me a once-over, and he frowns. My shoulders sag. I
look like crap, he knows it, and he’s standing here looking
gorgeous.

“What are you doing here?” I
ask.

“Have a seat.” He nods to the
nearest chair and I sit down while he does the same, taking the
empty chair next to me instead of sitting behind his desk. “Today
is my second day. The opportunity came, I wanted a change, and I
took it. I’ve been moving up here and getting settled in for the
past few weeks, which is why I haven’t texted you. Things have been
insane.”

Without thinking, my eyes
fall to his left hand. The wedding ring that used to rest there has
long since been removed, but this is the first time I’ve seen his
ringless finger. He and his wife, Faith, divorced two years ago. I
remember staring at the text message and feeling so bad for him,
even though I had no clue why or who asked for it. When he was my
therapist, Trace didn’t bring up his personal life a lot, but I had
been seeing him for so long that sometimes it would trickle into
our sessions, which is how I know his wife’s—ex-wife’s—name. Since
then, I learned a little more about him with our texting, but not
too much. He likes to walk the line between professional and
friendly, I guess is the word for it.

“No wonder you said you were
busy. Should I go? The receptionist said you were free.”

“I am. I was just getting a
little more settled in here.” He looks around his office at his
handiwork. It reminds me of his old office. Books line the shelves,
his degrees are on the wall, and there’s even a plant in the
corner. “How are you doing, Brittany? Not good if you’re here, and
you look bad, too.” Trace frowns as he looks me over again.

“Thanks a lot, Trace,” I
huff, folding my arms over my chest and leaning back into the
chair.

“Hey, you know how it works
with us. Complete honesty even if it hurts and we don’t want to
hear it.”

“Yeah, but I already knew I
looked bad. You didn’t have to tell me.”

He’s quiet, so I glance at
him. “How bad?”

“Worse than ever. Do you have
a minute?”

Trace nods. “Of course.”

“By ‘a minute’, I mean an
hour.”

“I have time, Brittany,” he
says with a smile. “Tell me what’s been going on. Last we really
talked, you were doing fine and you were excited about your last
year.”

I sink further into the
chair. Here I am, back in a therapist’s office, about to spill my
guts. My heart sinks. Even worse, Trace no longer feels like my
therapist. I don’t like the idea of him resuming his role.

“What’s wrong?” Trace asks,
interrupting my thoughts.

“Can we grab a coffee or
lunch? I’m using my break to see you and I’m hungry.” Maybe if I
get him away from here, then I can pretend for a while longer.

Trace hesitates. “Sessions
don’t work that way.”

He might as well have stabbed
me in the heart. We’ve been talking ever since I stopped seeing
him. At first, it was an email here and there before I told him
emails sucked and gave him my number for us to text. Sessions don’t
happen like that either. He’s not even my freaking therapist
anymore! I squeeze my wrist and don’t miss that Trace notices the
action. Frustrated, I hold up my cell phone. “But texting and phone
calls are okay? C’mon, Trace. This is me we’re talking about. I
wouldn’t have asked if I had gotten another person. I got you,
though, and I’d rather do lunch.” Swallowing hard, I glance down at
my lap and whisper, “I don’t want a session with you.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry; it
was an automatic response. I was about to take my lunch anyway.” He
stands. “Let’s go.”

We leave his office and he
informs the receptionist that he’s going on his lunch break. We
walk to the cafeteria in comfortable silence. Once we have our
food, we sit down at a table in the far back corner. It hits me
that while Trace isn’t my therapist and hasn’t been in a long time,
he is an employee of the university and I’m a student.

“You won’t get in trouble for
this, will you?”

He shakes his head. “No. I
informed them of our relationship during the interview because I
knew they would need to be aware of it.”

I raise a brow at him.
“Relationship?”

“Oh. Well, I, um, you know.”
I’ve never seen Trace stammer with his words before. He shakes his
head when I grin and laugh. “You know what I mean.” After taking a
sip from his drink, he dampens the mood. “Tell me what’s been going
on, Brittany.”

“You first. Why didn’t you
tell me you were moving here? I could’ve helped you unpack or
showed you around or something.”

“I was going to tell you when
I called. Besides, I haven’t exactly been in the best of shapes
either.”

It’s then I notice the
slightly dark skin under his eyes and the tiredness in his face.
Trace is amazing in what he does because he gets it. He doesn’t
talk about it often, though. If I had to guess, Trace is struggling
as much as I am.

With a deep breath, I begin.
“Things were fine to start with, you know this, but then things
just started falling apart. Over the summer, my attacks started
coming back. They’ve taken control of my life.” The words start to
flow faster as I stare at my food, dropping my fork to start
squeezing my wrist. “I vomit every morning. I only sleep a few
hours a night. I have at least three attacks a day. I’m making C’s,
Trace. I’m failing and I don’t know how to make it stop. All of my
techniques no longer work.