Driving Me Mad (36 page)

I
hate finals
week. I keep trying to remind myself that this is my last finals
week for the rest of my life, but it doesn’t make me feel better. I
wake up from about two to eight hours of sleep depending on when I
go to bed, and if I went to bed at a time that would allow me to
take my sleeping pill or not. A full-blown panic attack starts five
seconds later where I can’t breathe, can’t control my heart rate,
and puke up whatever I managed to eat the day before.

Leaving each exam, I feel
like I failed because numerous times throughout, my mind would
blank or I’d have a panic attack, and I can barely remember what I
wrote down, much less whether it’s right or not. Then, I have to
study and cram for the next one. I’m so utterly exhausted. When
this is all said and over with, I plan on moving in with Rebecca
and spending a month in bed.

When that last final is over,
I keep waiting to feel some happiness or relief or something other
than a complete loss and indifference. Maybe I’ve lost the ability
to feel anything positive. I should be ecstatic that I’m done with
college, that Rebecca and I will be moving in together off campus,
that my boyfriend has sent me two encouraging texts before and
after each exam, but I feel nothing good.

I’m empty.

I’m scared. What if I can’t
hold down a job? What if I hate the job I’ll hopefully get and
worked and suffered for four years for a degree to get me that job?
What if I have to move back home? What if I fail at adulthood?

I’m worried. Why aren’t we
getting better? Why do I still feel like something really bad is
about to happen? Why do I feel like Trace is pulling away from me?
How much longer can we go on like this? Why can’t I look forward to
anything at all?

Waking up is a drag because
yes, it’s the start of a new day. A new day that’s going to cause
me pain, anxiety, and push me further into the ground. Eating seems
pointless when I’m just going to throw it back up sooner or later.
The basic activities to survive and live seem ridiculous and
stupid. They feel like too much work, requiring energy I don’t have
and don’t know how to find.

My phone rings with a call
from my mother. I even dread speaking to her because I miss her so
much.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Congratulations!” she
squeals into the phone. “You’re done! We’re so proud of you. How
are you feeling? Are you doing anything to celebrate?” She sounds
hopeful, probably because she knows it’s unlikely based on how I’ve
felt recently. I don’t give her all the gory details, but she knows
I’m not better.

“Bec wants to do something,
but I’m going to see Trace for a bit first. I really just want to
do nothing for a long time to recover.”

“I’m sure y’all will have
fun.”

“Yeah,” I answer blandly.
Tears pool in my eyes. “I think I want to come home for a week or
so.” I’m not attending graduation. My parents were disappointed,
but they understand that my anxiety can’t handle something like
that, especially now. Rebecca is planning to visit her parents for
a week anyway before we can move into our new apartment. I planned
to stay with Trace, but I really want to go home. “I miss y’all so
much.”

“We’d love that, Brittany.
You’re welcome here any time, you know that. And with how things
have been for you, we wouldn’t mind seeing you for ourselves.”

“Then let’s plan on me coming
Monday.”

“Your father will be so happy
to hear this.” She talks for a few more minutes before I start to
get antsy.

We hang up. I have a little
while before I was planning to meet Trace, so I decide to go
driving. Anything to get me off campus and out of this damn dorm. I
drive aimlessly, not really paying attention and having no
destination in mind. My attention keeps drifting to the cars in the
other lane as they drive past me. I can’t stop staring at them
until they fly by me, out of view. Maybe I should let my car drift
into that lane.

Fantasies begin playing in my
head. I could run into someone head-on. The metal would crunch and
bend and for a blissful second, I’d cease to exist. Cease to feel,
hear, or experience anything that was happening. Maybe it would
even end all of it. An eighteen-wheeler whizzes by and the crash in
my head grows to something more destructive, more devastating, more
likely to cause harm.

My hands tighten on the
steering wheel. Do I really want to crash?

No.

Yes.

Maybe?

I try to think of something
else but as soon as another car appears I feel as if I have to
restrain myself to keep from purposely moving into the lane of
oncoming traffic. Why does it sound like a good idea? The answer
seems to hit me out of nowhere. I want something to take me away
from this mental pain. Maybe physical pain will be better, right?
At least I can be fixed that way. I can actually heal if it’s
something physical. Unless I do more damage than that.

Like it’s just now occurred
to me, I realize I’m thinking about injuring myself. The thought
scares me so much that I decide to go to Trace’s a little early. I
need to see him and tell him. This isn’t good. I’ve never wanted to
hurt myself before. My hands tremble and begin to ache as I hold
tighter onto the steering wheel, resisting that strong and growing
urge to wreck my car. I can’t tell if I truly want to do this or
not.

I park my car in its usual
spot in Trace’s driveway. When I quickly glance at my phone, I see
that I’ve missed texts from him. All of them asking me to come over
and that he needs to talk to me. Seeing those makes me want to back
out of his driveway and take my chances on the road. That gut
feeling that something bad is going to happen triples. I hurry out
of the car. He surprises me by opening it before I can knock.

My mouth opens, ready to rush
out all the words I need to say about what I’m thinking and how
terrified I am. Trace has the same reaction, but unlike me, he
starts talking.

“I need to get this out,” he
begins. “We can’t work like this, Brittany. We both have so many
issues we need to work through, and I think us being together is
hindering more than helpful. I’m so sorry. I think we just need
time to get ourselves together. I think we need to take a break,
just for now. Honestly, how can you do it? Be with me when I’m like
this and you’re like this? Doesn’t it just make it harder and
worse? I don’t see it doing much good right now.”

I interrupt him before more
bullshit can spew from his mouth. “You’re breaking up with me?” My
voice is too calm. How can I sound like that when I feel anything
but?

“Not—” he begins, but I cut
him off again.

“Either you are or you
aren’t!” I snap.

“Just for a little while. I
think—”

Without waiting to hear
another word, I turn to leave. I can’t deal with this right now.
Did he seriously just break up with me? He didn’t even invite me
inside! He calls out my name, but I ignore him. I get in my car and
leave, tears streaming down my face. A mile later, the first sob
rips out of me and this time, I do let my car drift into the other
lane. The moment I see a car, I chicken out and correct myself
while ignoring their blaring horn.

I blindly reach into the
passenger seat to grab my phone and then use the back of my hand to
wipe my eyes. I pull into the parking lot of a store and call Dr.
Gunner’s office. Please let someone be there. Please let someone
answer.

“Hello?”

A rush of air leaves me at
the sound of Dr. Gunner’s voice. The words begin to tumble out. “I
can’t do this anymore and I’m scared because I can’t stop thinking
about wrecking my car, and my fucking boyfriend just broke up with
me, and I can’t do this anymore.”

“Brittany?” Dr. Gunner is one
of those people with a clear tone to convey his concern. I can hear
it in his voice now.

“Yeah.” I squeeze my eyes
closed and try to stop crying, but I can’t.

“I need to you try to calm
down, so I can understand what’s going on. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean you want to
wreck your car?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t
stop thinking about crashing it.” I go into details about every
thought I’ve had since the first bad one. “What am I supposed to
do? I’ve never thought about anything like that before.”

“Where are you now?”

“Parked in the lot of some
store.”

“Okay. On a scale of one to
ten, how strong are the urges?”

“Depends. Ranges from six to
nine depending on what I’m thinking about.”

“Here’s what I need you to
do. I want you to stay on the line with me and drive to the
hospital. You may hear me talking to someone else, but it’s just my
assistant, Tiffany. You remember her, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer, switching
my phone to speaker and blindly following his instruction to drive
to the hospital.

“Good. She’s just going to
let the hospital know you’re coming. I want you to keep talking to
me, so I can know that you’re getting there safely. Do you want
Tiffany to call your parents?”

“I guess,” I mumble.

“How far are you from the
hospital?”

“About fifteen minutes, I
think.”

“Great. I want you to drive
carefully, take your time, and pull over if you need a break to
just breathe or take a moment to get the thoughts tampered down.”
His voice sounds a bit muffled and I assume he’s talking to
Tiffany. After that, he talks to me constantly and gets me to
respond every minute or so.

When I arrive at the
hospital, I feel lost. “What am I supposed to do now? I’m
here.”

“Go into the ER. They’re
expecting you. Do whatever they ask you to do and be honest with
them. Tiffany has called your parents and they said to tell you
they are on their way and that they love you. I’m going to leave
here and drive up as well, okay?”

The tears come faster at the
mention of my parents. “Okay.”

He stays on the line until
I’m inside the building. It’s not until an officer appears to lead
me to another floor that I begin to worry. Why am I here? I’m not
actually hurt. Why am I being admitted? My blood freezes when I ask
the nurse.

Her eyes are full of pity as
she places her hand over mine and says, “Honey, your psychiatrist
is having you involuntarily admitted to the psychiatric ward. The
officer is going to walk you up and leave you with a nurse who will
get you settled in.”

“Wait. What? The psych ward?”
Where the crazies go? That can’t be right. “What does it mean to be
involuntarily admitted?”

“They’ll explain everything
upstairs.”

The officer has run out of
patience. “Are you ready?”

I nod, even though I’m not.
I’m confused and tired and I just wanna lie down and cry. After
being led upstairs, a nurse is waiting for me. She makes me change
into these uncomfortable pants and shirt. She asks if I have any
personal belongings on me and all I can hand her is my phone and
car keys. I don’t have jewelry or a razor blade hidden somewhere.
She tells me that an involuntarily admittance means an automatic
seven-day stay here in the lovely psych ward while they watch me
24/7 to make sure I don’t kill myself.

She tells me that attending
the group meetings is recommended and she explains how meals and
medications are given out. She even tells me that I’m lucky because
I’m in a room with a single bed. I don’t have a roommate. Yay me.
The moment she leaves me alone with the door open, of course, I
crawl onto the bed.

The sob-filled,
gasping-for-air, full-blown meltdown begins. Every so often, I hear
a nurse asking me a question as she checks on me, but I ignore her.
My life is officially shit. I’m at rock bottom. I’ve lost my
boyfriend and my mind, all in one day. How convenient.

Some time passes before I
unfortunately hear a familiar voice.

“Brittany?” Dr. Gunner
says.

“Go away.” My voice cracks
and I hate it.

“Are you sure you don’t want
to talk to me for a few minutes?”

“No, I don’t!”

“I can get you some dinner,
even though you missed it, and I can make sure you see your parents
tonight.”

In one swift movement, I yank
my pillow from under my head, twist, and throw it at him. “Get
out!” Before I lie down again, a thought hits me and I add, “And
tell my parents not to tell my boyfriend I’m here, but to get my
cell phone and tell Rebecca. She’s probably freaking out.” I roll
over to face the wall again and wish I had my pillow.

“Okay. I can do that. I’ll
see you in the morning then.”

Hope not. I lie there for
what feels like forever. I don’t bother getting up when a nurse
stops by and tells me I should get up to take my meds. I ignore
her. Sleep doesn’t come and somehow, the tears never stop falling.
I feel like an idiot that I’m in the freaking psych ward and all I
can worry about is my breakup with Trace.