Driving Me Mad (34 page)

The week is rather boring. We
barely get any sleep between the two of us. We start the morning
with a lovely panic attack, go to work and school, and come home to
eat fast food and lie in the recliner until it’s time for bed.
Mentally, there doesn’t seem to be any change. Only a steady rate
of the same crap.

Tonight, things are changing.
Rebecca is insisting I get out of Trace’s house, get off campus,
and have some fun. I’ve tried telling her that I don’t know what
fun is anymore, but she’s being persistent. Which means I get to go
to the club and dance. Yay me.

Trace thought it was funny.
The only good thing about that is it got him to laugh today, and
he’s been in a particularly sour mood for most of it. Hell, maybe
he’s glad he’s getting rid of me. I was supposed to go back to
campus yesterday, but decided to stay with him again. The last
thing I want to do is leave him like this and go to a damn
club.

“Get rid of the frown and
smile,” Rebecca demands as she pays our admission. I suppose I’m to
be grateful for that, but I’m not. I don’t want to be here. I miss
the quiet of Trace’s house. It was calm and peaceful there. This is
anything but.

The music is a notch too
loud. People are here to party this fine Saturday night. Kill me
now. I’ve been bumped into three times too many within the first
five minutes. Rebecca tries to get me to dance, but I seriously
don’t feel like it. She leads me onto the floor anyway. She can’t
be mad if I try, right? Even if I fail, at least I tried.

So, I try.

It sucks, but I suffer
through it. Rebecca soon pulls me toward the bar. She orders some
drink for her and a water for me. Just as I’m taking a sip, someone
bumps into me. My water is spilled all over the front of my shirt,
while what smells like beer soaks my back.

Seriously?

Tears form and spill over
from seemingly nowhere. I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I
can’t
. The panic attack chooses this moment to constrict my
chest, send my heart racing, clam up my palms, and send my anxiety
into overdrive. I have to get out of here. That becomes the single
thought in my head. Rebecca starts to say something, but I just
shake my head and rush outside. I take deep, gulping, gasping
breaths, but it only seems to escalate my panic and my nausea. I
barely make it to a nearby trash can in time. My cheeks inflame
from embarrassment as people walk by me.

The tears are stronger and
steady now. I wipe my mouth on my arm and pull my phone from my
purse. The phone rings. And rings. And rings, feeling as if an
eternity is passing between each one and I die a little more the
longer I have to wait. He doesn’t answer.

I sit on a nearby bench, pull
my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and begin to
cry.

“Brittany!” Rebecca rushes
over to me. “Are you okay?”

The best I can do is shake my
head without looking up at her. I just need to disappear into thin
air. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be wet and sticky. I
don’t want to ruin another night for my best friend. I don’t want
to be like this, damn it! How much longer can I live like this? Up
and down, down, down. So far down, I can’t even see the surface
anymore.

Like a switch flipping, the
tears stop and this almost blissful numbing sensation takes over.
Who cares? I don’t.

I lift my head. “Sorry, Bec.
I think I’m just going to head back early. I’ll catch a cab, okay?
Call Dustin or someone and have some fun. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind
taking you back.”

“I’ll be fine.” Lies. It’s
all a lie. There is no fine. Life is divided between panic,
depression, and this numbing period where I don’t give a damn about
anything anymore.

“How about we call Trace to
pick you up?” Rebecca suggests. “I’d feel better if you left with
him since you don’t want me to come with you.”

“No. I don’t want to see him
either. I just wanna be alone, okay?”

She stares at me for a moment
before nodding. “Okay.”

With that settled, I nod
toward the entrance and she leaves me with an unsatisfied look.
Don’t give a flying fuck. I catch a cab back to campus. Once I
shower, I take my pills that don’t work worth a shit, crawl into
bed, and hope the numbness stays for a while. Things have to be
easier to manage when it all deflects off of you, right? If you
can’t feel anything? If you don’t care?

My phone buzzes with a call
from Trace. Rebecca probably texted him that I’ve lost my mind or
something. I ignore him, but send a text.

Me:
Bad night. Just
wanna be left alone, okay?

Trace:
That’s
usually the last thing you need.

Me:
Well, unless
you want to get fired, looks like you’ll have to leave me alone
anyway.

He doesn’t text me back after
that. My new sleeping pills actually work and quickly pull me into
an even better place where I don’t have to think, feel, or deal
with anything.

I’m not much better off in
the morning, but I drag myself out of bed and to class anyway.
Autopilot doesn’t seem to accurately describe how I make it through
the day. Yes, I’m going through the motions, but I feel even more
detached than that. Like when I’m back at the dorms for the rest of
the day, I can’t remember a single detail of what I did throughout
the day. If it wasn’t for my notes, I’d have no clue what I’m
supposed to do for homework.

The first text of the day
comes in.

Trace:
Just
checking in.

Me:
No
change.

Trace:
Do you want
to come over tonight?

Me:
I’d be bad
company.

Trace:
Still
company that I’d want to have.

Well, that’s sweet.

Me:
Only if you
cook.

Who knows when the last time
was that either of us had a home-cooked meal. If I have to leave,
he should have to do something taxing as well. Plus, he’s a good
cook.

Trace:
Deal.

***

S
he hasn’t smiled
since she arrived. I’ve watched her pet Lily, stare blankly at the
TV, force herself to eat, and it’s all been done without any
emotions. Now, as I watch Brittany work on her homework with a
frown on her face, I come to a profound realization.

Existing is an
accomplishment.

It may seem like we’re
putting forth the minimal effort by doing the basics and going
through the motions, but that’s not the case. We’re existing. We’re
breathing. We’re eating and staying hydrated. We’re completing
daily tasks. We’re existing. Nothing more, nothing less.

The point isn’t that we’re
putting forth a
minimal
effort. It’s that we’re making an
effort at all. It would be worse if we weren’t. So even the
smallest, simplest, seemingly easier tasks deserve the
acknowledgement that we’ve done
something
today, which is
always better than nothing.

Maybe we can’t feel it right
now, or maybe we don’t see it, or recognize it, but we’re still
fighting. We haven’t given up. Yeah, it sucks that tomorrow may
just be a duplicate of today, but we survived today once. We can do
it again. The trick is remembering that. Remembering our strength,
the good days, our resilience, our positive emotions, and a
different, better time. The most difficult part is often escaping
the present to have the ability to simply think and remember
anything other than the agony of the current moment in time.

We’re fucked up. No way
around it. We’re a jumble of constant conflict, never quite knowing
what we want or what we’re feeling. But as of right this second,
we’re still fighting our battle. As long as we’re fighting, we’re
winning, even if not much progress is being made.

In a fit of annoyed anger,
Brittany swipes her arm over the table to shove all of her
textbooks off and onto the floor. Lily jumps up at the noise and
walks around the couch to peer at Brittany in the kitchen. Brittany
lets her head fall to table with a thud.

“Come in here,” I call out.
“You need a break.”

She doesn’t say a word as she
gets up, shuffles her feet, and crawls into the recliner with me. I
hold her tight, hoping that helps a little. I wish I could do so
much more for her. What I’m able to do isn’t nearly enough and it
kills me. It also scares me because I’ve never seen Brittany this
bad off before. I can’t help but think about what her parents were
concerned about and if I was wrong. What if I am making her worse?
Or, what if I’m not making her worse, but I’m not helping
either?

“I’m tired, Trace,” she
mumbles so quietly, I barely hear her.

I kiss the top of her head.
“I know, Britt. Me too. We’ll get through it.”

She doesn’t say anything for
a moment. “I’m sorry for being mean yesterday.”

“Already forgotten.” We’d be
an even bigger mess if we held grudges for things said during bad
times. It wasn’t anything major. Forgiven and forgotten.

“I feel like something
devastating is going to happen. Like just a really bad feeling in
my gut. How can it get worse than this, though?”

I dismiss her concerns
without a second thought. “Let’s take it one day at a time and try
not to worry about more than that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How much homework do you
have left?”

“Only one assignment.”

“When is it due?”

“Next week,” she answers.

“Then worry about it another
day and be done for tonight.”

She nods her head against my
chest. We lie there in comfortable silence for a bit. I start to
feel a bit of dampness on my shirt and I realize Brittany’s crying.
Her breathing isn’t labored at all. I don’t hear any sniffles
either. If it weren’t for that dampness, I wouldn’t have known.