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The morning passes uneventfully for a change. My body is still wound tight, my hand still grasping my wrist more often than not, nausea still my most prominent feeling, but I haven’t thrown up. Therefore, today is already a success. After my first class, I fulfill one promise to Trace. I call my psychiatrist, Dr. Gunner. I just saw him in December when I went home for Christmas break. I didn’t mention any problems. Now, I’m having to spill my guts. Luckily, Dr. Gunner is almost as awesome as Trace. I don’t know many who will use breaks between appointments to basically have a phone appointment with me.
After my third and final class of the day, I go pick up my prescriptions, one for the sleeping pills, and the other my anxiety meds. Once I came clean, Dr. Gunner decided to up my dosage. Hopefully, both of these changes will help. I have another phone appointment next month to give him an update.
It’s so freaking cold today, my hoodie is no match against the temperature, and my teeth chatter. Instead of going to my dorm to work on homework, I head toward the library. If I ever want to die from heat, the library is the place I’ll go. No matter the temperature outside, the library has the heat on, it seems. It comes in handy today; it’s toasty and cozy. I work for a few hours before my phone vibrates in the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Hey,” Trace responds in the same tone. “Why are we whispering?”
“I’m in the library. What’s up?” I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder and pack up my things.
“Would you like to go on a date with me tonight?”
I stand up straight, causing my phone to fall from its place. A date? I scramble to pick my phone up off the floor and answer his question. “Yes. What time?”
“Can you be ready in an hour and a half? I have some errands to run first.”
“Okay. You’ll pick me up?”
“Of course,” he laughs as if my question was absurd. “I’ll text you and meet you outside of your dorm.”
“I’ll see you soon then.”
We hang up and I rush back to my dorm. I don’t necessarily need to, but I’m taking my second shower of the day. I decide on jeans, a cute pair of flats even though my feet are going to freeze, and a cute sweater with a camisole underneath. Perfect for whatever we do.
When Trace texts me, I’m ready. The moment I step outside, not immediately seeing him, it hits me like a billion tons of bricks.
I’m going on a date with Trace.
A surprising surge of panic grips me and holds me hostage. I stumble to a nearby bench and take a seat, hoping I can gather my wits before Trace sees me. My fingernails dig into the underside of my wrist, my grip not tight enough. Despite the low temperature, I’m hot. My neck and face feel like they’re on fire. I can feel sweat beginning to form on my temple.
It’s just Trace, damn it! Why am I so nervous?
It doesn’t matter because this shit isn’t logical half the time anyway. I double over to rest my head on my knees in a poor attempt to ground myself. The urge to vomit causes me to squeeze my eyes closed. My heart rate is erratic, and the feel of my pulse seems to be all over my body, making me dizzy.
“Britt?”
The sound of Trace’s concerned voice nearly pushes me over the edge.
“Sit up,” I quietly demand as I sit next to her. She surprises me when she does. Sometimes, people can hide the physical effects of an anxiety attack, or they try to. But there’s no way Brittany can cover up her pale cheeks, the sweat dampening the hair around her face, or her heavy breathing. She can’t hide the panic in her wide eyes, the deathlike grip she has on her wrist, or her trembling hands.
I’ve felt helpless plenty of times before, but this is torture. How am I supposed to help her? She needs to calm down and think about something other than whatever is giving her the panic attack. I pull her toward me so her forehead is resting on my chest as I glide my hands up and down her back. “Mimic my breathing and try to focus on that.” She nods against my chest. I inhale for six seconds, pause for one, exhale for six, and pause for one more before repeating all over again.
“Not working,” she squeaks after the fourth time. It is, though. Some of the tension has left her body already.
“Try counting or rationalizing whatever it is,” I suggest, since she’s probably still thinking too much. “Let go of your wrist, too.”
“There’s no rationalizing it! I was fine and then I was panicking for no reason!”
“Hey.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Don’t get worked up about it. That won’t help. Count and keep breathing with me.”
Five minutes pass.
My body starts to numb before she lifts her head. Tears are streaking her cheeks. When did she start to cry? I wipe them away. “Better?”
“Yes. Can we go somewhere warm now?”
I laugh. “C’mon.” I lead her to my car. “Do you want to eat first?”
