Driving Me Mad
Authors: Lindsay Paige
Tags: #romance, #depression, #mental illness, #contemporary, #mental health, #social issues, #anxiety, #new adult
* * * *
Driving Me Mad
a Sanity Series
novel
Copyright © 2016 by
Lindsay Paige
Smashwords
Edition
ISBN-13:
978-1310942723
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are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
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M
y stomach
heaves, the wretched sound of vomit falling into the toilet echoes
in the air as my hands grip the seat. Rebecca, my best friend and
roommate, is holding my hair and rubbing my back. I hate this. High
school was supposed to be the end of my anxiety and panic attacks.
College was supposed to be better. It was not supposed to bring my
anxiety back and make it worse than ever before. Maybe I should be
grateful that I was able to maintain it for three and a half years.
I should be, but I’m not.
I rest my head on my hand,
waiting to see if another wave will hit me.
“You should see someone,”
Rebecca says softly. “It’s becoming uncontrollable.” And that’s
saying something for the girl who doesn’t understand what it’s
like, but is still there for me. “Maybe call your old therapist and
make an appointment?”
What she doesn’t know is that
I’ve kept in contact with my former therapist, Trace Lexington.
During the past three and a half years, he sends a text at random
times, asking how I’m doing. We’ll text on and off for a few days
and then I won’t hear from him for a while. I’ve been having a
rough day for the past month. I could really use a text from
him.
“Maybe,” I tell her, though
the possibility of an appointment with him is unlikely. I don’t
want to see a therapist again, and certainly not Trace. I’m
comfortable with him, but I don’t know. He feels like more than
simply the professional I saw for all four years of high school. We
sort of became friends, especially since I stopped seeing him when
I left for a university five hours away from home. What would he
think of me now? Hunched over a toilet, my hands trembling, clearly
showing my anxiety. My stomach clenches again, and I squeeze my
eyes closed. I don’t know how much more vomiting I can take.
“I think I’m done.” I slowly
stand, knowing if I move too fast, the nausea will return. I rinse
my mouth out before brushing my teeth.
“He would take a phone
session, right? Or, what about a counselor here on campus?”
Thankfully, there’s a
toothbrush in my mouth, and I refuse to talk until I’m done. This
is one of those things that Rebecca doesn’t understand. I don’t
want to see a therapist again. I had this under control, which is
why we felt comfortable ending my sessions completely when I moved
away for college. Things were fine my first three years here. Why
has it returned for my last semester? My anxiety has been slowly
trickling back into my system like a slow-acting poison since the
summer started, but with the start of my last semester, it’s been
back in full force. I’ve lost every ounce of control I worked so
hard to gather and maintain.
I spit and rinse again.
“Well?” Rebecca asks,
following me back into our dorm room.
“I don’t know, Bec,” I sigh,
sitting down on my twin bed.
She takes a seat on hers,
criss-crossing her legs. “If you’ve seen one before, what’s the
difference in seeing one again?”
I drop my head, squeezing my
wrist repeatedly, one of my nervous habits. “There’s a difference.”
That’s all I say.
I don’t want to admit how
I’ve failed. How I’ve failed with my anxiety and how I’m failing my
senior year. Today’s attack was brought on by making yet another
freaking C on a paper. I’ve never made anything below a B my entire
life and this semester alone, I’ve gotten five C’s. Five! How am I
going to graduate on time if I fail this semester? Because I feel
like that’s going to happen.
My weekly phone calls with my
parents don’t help either. Their intentions are good, and I know
they don’t mean to stress me out further, but they are. I’ve never
been so stressed in my life. My parents have always instilled in me
the desire to do my absolute best, to be my absolute best, and to
give it my all the first go-around, not on the second chance.
I’m a perfectionist. I hate
it because it’s part of my problem with anxiety. Trace and I used
to talk about it a lot. He’ll even bring it up some when we text.
Up until now, I’ve done well. Maybe I could text him and see if he
can call me later. Just see if I can talk to him. We talked over
the phone some last year when I had a few spells with my anxiety.
He’s always been able to calm me.
“Brittany,” Rebecca repeats.
I lift my head. “Are you still with me?”
“Yeah, I am.” My eyes flick
to the alarm clock. “I need to get to class.”
She nods. I grab my bag and
cell phone and leave for class. In an attempt to calm myself, I
allow my mind to wander to Trace. He’s fantastic. He helped me when
my parents were at a loss as to how. He helped me gain control of
my anxiety. He helped me conquer it and my other small issues that
made my anxiety worse. He was understanding when I battled
depression on top of my anxiety. He was my life saver. There’s no
telling what would have happened to me if my parents hadn’t made me
an appointment with him.
Plus, he isn’t too bad on the
eyes.
He’d probably be disappointed
in me now. With a setback like this, how could he not be? I am. On
my walk across campus, I make the hasty decision to call him.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“
The caller you are trying
to reach is unavailable.”
The air is knocked out of my
lungs as the call goes to voicemail, and I hang up without leaving
a message.
My disappointment shouldn’t
be so deep and vast. It’s the beginning of a workday. Of course
he’s not going to answer. A part of me was still hoping he would,
though. I start moving my feet again, not realizing I had stopped
in the first place. Numb, I finish the walk to my class. Crap. My
eyes quickly analyze my reflection in the glass of the door before
I open it.