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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 unlik
ely 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?”
