Page 24 of Driving Me Mad (Sanity 1)

She starts taking notes. I always hated when Trace took notes, so much so that he eventually waited until after my appointments to do it. My craziness doesn’t need to be documented before my eyes.

“What has been causing your anxiety lately? Do you know?”

“School. I’m in my last semester and had to sign up for more classes to be able to graduate on time. I’m overwhelmed, but I don’t want to drop any.”

She nods. “Anything else? Boyfriend? Friends? Family?”

I quickly shake my head, not wanting to mention a boyfriend at all. Mrs. Rumley’s eyes narrow, like she knows I’m lying.

“It’s all school?”

God, this feels so stupid. I don’t want to be here. With a deep breath, I say, “Look, my former therapist taught me how to manage it. My problem is that none of my old techniques work anymore. My anxiety is out of control and I can’t manage it. It’s only a matter of time before my depression follows suit because it always comes when my anxiety gets too bad. I’m losing my mind here, and I thought when I stopped seeing him that I had all of what I needed to keep control, so I would never have to sit in a therapist’s office again. Not that I hated therapy in and of itself, but I hated what it meant. And now, it’s worse than it was in high school. I just want to make it stop and graduate, so I can be done with it all.”

Her eyes are focused downward. Thinking there may be something on my shirt, I glance down, only to see my knuckles white from gripping my wrist so hard. Damn it, does everyone have to notice that? I slip my hands under my thighs to sit on them and stop the habit.

“What were your techniques?”

“Counting, saying the abc’s, anything that could distract me. Sometimes, it was to rationalize it or realize that I should have some anxiety because it was a situation that warranted normal anxiety. Sometimes, it was to focus on my breathing and try to use that to calm down.”

“Have you tried variations?”

“What do you mean?”

“Counting seems kind of simple. It might not be enough of a distraction. Try thinking of a topic, like farm animals, and name as many as you can think of. I think you should keep trying the breathing techniques, too. Maybe try to set time to do your schoolwork, and do it in that timeframe.”

“I kind of have an issue with redoing it over and over again,” I add.

“Okay. Once that timeframe is over, if your work is complete, stop. Find something else to do, so you don’t redo it.” All her responses sound relatively simple and obvious. However, during the midst of a panic attack, something so simple and obvious is elusive and hard to do.

She gives me some more tips and then the session is over. Trace is talking to the receptionist when I walk out. I give them both a small smile and head for my dorm. By the time I get there, my phone buzzes with a text.

Trace: How’d it go?

Me: Good, I guess.

Part of me wants to say that she isn’t Trace, but what would be the point? I don’t want Trace to feel bad and I don’t want him to be my therapist either. It’s just an adjustment to have someone new. To begin following her advice, I give myself four hours to complete my homework. Trace must get busy because he doesn’t send another text.

The longer I do homework, the more my stress levels grow, putting me on edge. My hands begin to shake so much that I get annoyed because I can’t write as well. My stomach is in knots and I don’t feel well at all. Sometimes, I think the physical symptoms are far worse than the mental ones; they seem even more uncontrollable. Trace used to talk about how I have to retrain my body. It’s so used to reacting how it does during a panic attack that when I finally get a grip on things, it’s like an automatic reaction for my hands to shake, for me to feel sick to my stomach. It’s hard to try to get your body to calm down. Even harder to convince it not to freak out and feed the cycle of my anxiety.

I’m almost done, even though I went an hour over the limit I set for myself, when the urge to vomit becomes overwhelming. I rush to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave over the toilet. Water leaks from my eyes as the salad from lunch forces its way back out. My stomach cramps, but I think I’m finished for now. The walk back to my bed is long and slow. I slide my textbooks onto the floor and plop down face-first onto my bed.

I’m so over today.

My phone start

s vibrating from under my stomach. I sigh as I pull it out, swiping my finger to answer Trace’s call.

“No,” I say.

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“Were you going to?”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Yeah.”

“Then, you already know my answer. I’m tired, don’t feel well, and I just wanna lie down for a while.”

“Do that with me.”

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