Driving Me Mad (Sanity Book 1)

by Lindsay Paige

  Brittany rolls onto her back, huffs, and looks at me. “I feel like I’m going crazy,” she says, her voice cracking. Her hair is a mess between the tossing and turning and sex from earlier. She’s still naked, but she has the blankets pulled up to her neck.

  Underneath the sheets, I reach out to find her side, let my fingers travel over her stomach to her hip, and then pull her closer. “What are you thinking about?”

  She shifts to lie on her side and adjusts her pillow underneath her head. “Like I’m going insane, and,” she hesitates, “like we’re not the same.”

  “Why do you think that? You don’t need to worry about us, Britt.”

  “I don’t know. I feel like we talked more before you moved here. Like, you never really talk to me about how you’re feeling. Not directly anyway. If it wasn’t for your tells most of the time, I wouldn’t know. Right now, how are you feeling?”

  “Like I could use some sleep. I’ve gotten maybe six hours the past two nights. I’ll probably have another med change to see if that’ll help because I’m not doing well at all. See, I can talk to you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, after you were prompted.”

  Her deadpan tone and overall reaction causes me to crack a smile.

  “Don’t smile at me like that. You’ll make me go all soft and I’m trying to be serious.”

  “I know, and I hear you. You’re still cute.”

  She rolls her eyes again. “Anything in particular on your mind, since you can’t sleep either?”

  That causes me to lose my smile. “I was thinking about what I would’ve done if they fired me.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t.”

  “Mr. Hanifin wasn’t happy to have to deal with it, that’s for sure.”

  “Who would’ve reported you, though? Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, you could’ve been there as an emergency or something, right?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me who it was, so I don’t know,” I say.

  “Try not to think about it. Maybe if you start talking, you’ll bore us both to sleep.” She yawns, and it’s not a fake one. “See? Already working.”

  Despite not feeling like it, I laugh. “What do you want me to tell you this time?”

  “Tell me about the next date you’re taking me on. Shame on you to be dating me this long and for us to have so few dates.”

  “Pizza, Dateline, and sex doesn’t count as a date?” I tease.

  “Only sometimes.”

  So, I start to tell her about this elaborate, extravagant date that might never happen, but it’s nice to dream about. Turns out, I can even bore myself to sleep. Unfortunately, I wake up two hours later. Brittany gets more sleep, and for that, I’m thankful. One of us should get a decent rest.

  Hours later, she wakes up to rush to the bathroom. It’s going to be a bad day for us both, it seems. I’ve never been worried about going into work, but I am. Even though my job has been saved, I wonder if my coworkers know and what they think of me now. They don’t know I have a girlfriend, much less that she’s a student and I’ve been sneaking into her dorm.

  My chest aches, hurting so bad I would think I’m having a heart attack if I didn’t know better. It’s anxiety. Brittany vomits and I get chest pains. Not a day in my working life have I worried about going into work, and especially not enough to have a fucking panic attack. I hear the toilet flush and Brittany walks back into the room a few moments later.

  “You didn’t follow me.” It’s not an accusation or show of disappointment. It’s simply a statement. Her eyes fall and I realize she’s watching me grip my neck. Brittany comes over, climbs onto the bed, and straddles my lap. She gently tugs my hand away and holds it tightly in hers. “I’ve done this to you.”

  I lean back against the headboard. “No, you didn’t,” I sigh. “Anxiety and depression go hand-in-hand.”

  “It didn’t with you until you started dating me.”

  “Britt, it’s not because of you, so stop. It’s more important to convince me to get out of bed and go to work. Give me three good reasons.”

  “You’ll feel better once you’re there. It’ll be worse if you push it off. And,” she pauses before thinking of a third reason, “shower sex.”

  I eye her skeptically. It all sounds too easy. “You want to have sex?” She normally doesn’t when she’s all riled up from her anxiety.

  She shrugs. “I can suffer through it for you.” Brittany fails to hold back a small smile, which makes me laugh.

  “You’re a terrible girlfriend. Get up, so I can shower. I’m not going to make you suffer through the sex with me.” I playfully slap her ass when she doesn’t move.

  “Thank God,” she dramatically says, causing me to laugh again.

  The ache in my chest fades for now, and I finally know the answer to my question from last night.

  She’s definitely worth it.

  “Hey, Brittany. How are things going?” Dr. Gunner asks.

  “Not great.”

  “All right. Well, let’s hear it.” I imagine him leaning back in his office chair as if he’s relaxing.

  “Is it possible that it’s helping my anxiety, but not the depression? Because my anxiety isn’t as bad as usual, but the rest? I’m going crazy here, Dr. Gunner.”

  “I can increase your current meds, or I can prescribe something new. You’re responding fairly well to these meds, right?”

  “Yeah, I haven’t had any crazy side effects,” I answer.

  “Then, let’s increase your dosage and see how that works, okay?”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I talk to him for a few more minutes, and then we hang up. I hate the waiting game that comes with this mess. I have to wait to see if the meds will work. I have to wait to see if I’ll get better or worse. Wait to see what’s going to happen with my life. I hate waiting.

  With the phone call over and my classes done for the day, I start packing my bags.

  “What are you doing?” Rebecca asks as she walks into the room.

  “I’m going to stay with Trace this week.” I go on to tell her that someone reported him and he was written up for being here. She has a funny look on her face, so I finally stop and ask, “What is it?”

  “This is my fault.”

  “What? How?” It makes no sense for it to be Rebecca’s fault.

  “Well,” she drags. “Shortly after you left, Dustin came over and blew up at me because he thought I was cheating on him. He saw Trace following me in and was royally pissed off; he kept saying how Trace was going to get what he deserved. Maybe Dustin is the one who reported him.”

  “Maybe. But how would he know Trace was an employee? And it still doesn’t make it your fault, Bec,” I reassure her.

  “He told me that he’s been to the counselors’ office once before with his roommate. He may have seen Trace then.”

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m going to stay there and keep an eye on him. If you miss me too much, then text me and we’ll have lunch or something,” I say as I grab my things.

  “Will do. Have fun.”

  I don’t think fun is what I’ll be having. All I’m hoping for is relaxation and peace. That’s way more important. Trace and I arrive at his house around the same time. He doesn’t try to smile when he sees me. He doesn’t even say hey. The most I get from him is a glance of acknowledgement and hand-holding as he takes my hand to lead me to the door once I walk up to him. That’s better than just a glance, though.

  “Damn it,” he mutters as he unlocks the door and pushes it open.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I meant to pick up something for dinner.”

  “I’ll run to get us something. Think about what you want and I’ll go get it.” Problem solved. Trace nods and I walk past him to drop my things off in his room while he lets Lily outside. When I return, he tells me what he wants and I leave to go get it. I debate whether or not I should tell him that I may know who told on him. He doesn’t seem too
concerned over that aspect, so maybe it’s better to let it rest.

  Trace is sitting in his recliner once I return. I hand him his burger and fries, set the bag on the end table by the couch, and then grab us some drinks. We eat in silence. Even Lily ambles into the kitchen to eat at the same time as us. The urge to speak, say something to end the utter silence, is overwhelming. It’s all I can think about.

  “Brittany,” Trace says with a snap of his fingers.

  “Huh?”

  “I asked if you called Dr. Gunner.”

  “Oh. Yeah. He’s upping my dosage. He didn’t want to switch it up since I haven’t had any negative side effects and it has helped my anxiety.”

  Trace nods, sets his trash on the table next to him, and crooks his finger for me to come sit with him. Like an obedient puppy, I get up and sit in his lap. Trace reclines and starts rubbing my back like he always does.

  “I get new meds instead of an increase,” he tells me. “I got a recommendation to see a therapist, but I laughed and said no thanks.”

  That makes me smile. “It would be kinda odd, wouldn’t it? You’d probably be a bad patient, like doctors are when they have to be.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “How was work?”

  Trace sighs. “Could’ve been better. I figured it’d be private, but his assistant loves gossip, so I guess news spread among them of what happened. They all know I’m dating a student. The fact that I knew you prior to my hiring doesn’t seem to matter to them. I’m the talk of the office, and I hate it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I feel like we have the opposite effects on one another. He’s good for me; I’m bad for him. At this point, I could probably make a damn list of all the ways I’m bad for him, of all the ways I’ve negatively impacted his life.

  “Not your fault, Britt. Have you talked to your parents this week?” he asks, swiftly changing the subject.

  “Not yet.” I know better than to ask if he’s talked to his dad. “Sometimes, I just wish I could be in my own bed at their house,” I confess.

  “What? My bed’s not good enough?” he teases, causing me to chuckle.

  “Okay. Sometimes, I wish I had your bed at their house. I miss them.” Tears begin to well in my eyes. “I miss being home.”

  “I miss being strong.”

  That causes me to lift my head to look at him. His face is clear of any emotions. “What?”

  “Hard to feel strong and reliable when all I want to do is let go.”

  Letting go is the equivalent of giving up. Hearing Trace say this scares me to death. “By not giving in to what you want proves how strong you are, Trace.”

  “Being strong is hard and exhausting.”

  “Yes, it is,” I confirm quietly.

  “This is me talking to you, in case you didn’t notice.” He pokes my side gently.

  His comment is such a contrast to what we were talking about that it catches me off guard enough to laugh. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He does a fake gasp. “Shame on you, Brittany. Here I am trying to be a good boyfriend and do what the best girlfriend ever has asked of me and you don’t even notice. You might have to be demoted.”

  A smile easily graces my face. “What would my demoted title be?”

  “My mediocre girlfriend.”

  “Will you love me anyway?”

  “Of course,” he answers without any hesitation.

  “Then I don’t care.”

  Trace laughs, obviously not expecting that answer. I should catch him off guard more often if it means getting a genuine reaction like this from him. He kisses the top of my head. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Maybe life sucks right now, but it doesn’t mean it’ll always be this way. We’re here, together, and dealing with it as it comes. We’ll eventually make it to the other side. Hopefully, that’ll come sooner rather than later.

  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 tak
e 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.

  She 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.