The point isn’t that we’re putting forth a minimal effort. It’s that we’re making an effort at all. It would be worse if we weren’t. So even the smallest, simplest, seemingly easier tasks deserve the acknowledgement that we’ve done something today, which is always better than nothing.
Maybe we can’t feel it right now, or maybe we don’t see it, or recognize it, but we’re still fighting. We haven’t given up. Yeah, it sucks that tomorrow may just be a duplicate of today, but we survived today once. We can do it again. The trick is remembering that. Remembering our strength, the good days, our resilience, our positive emotions, and a different, better time. The most difficult part is often escaping the present to have the ability to simply think and remember anything other than the agony of the current moment in time.
We’re fucked up. No way around it. We’re a jumble of constant conflict, never quite knowing what we want or what we’re feeling. But as of right this second, we’re still fighting our battle. As long as we’re fighting, we’re winning, even if not much progress is being made.
In a fit of annoyed anger, Brittany swipes her arm over the table to shove all of her textbooks off and onto the floor. Lily jumps up at the noise and walks around the couch to peer at Brittany in the kitchen. Brittany lets her head fall to table with a thud.
“Come in here,” I call out. “You need a break.”
She doesn’t say a word as she gets up, shuffles her feet, and crawls into the recliner with me. I hold her tight, hoping that helps a little. I wish I could do so much more for her. What I’m able to do isn’t nearly enough and it kills me. It also scares me because I’ve never seen Brittany this bad off before. I can’t help but think about what her parents were concerned about and if I was wrong. What if I am making her worse? Or, what if I’m not making her worse, but I’m not helping either?
“I’m tired, Trace,” she mumbles so quietly, I barely hear her.
I kiss the top of her head. “I know, Britt. Me too. We’ll get through it.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m sorry for being mean yesterday.”
“Already forgotten.” We’d be an even bigger mess if we held grudges for things said during bad times. It wasn’t anything major. Forgiven and forgotten.
“I feel like something devastating is going to happen. Like just a really bad feeling in my gut. How can it get worse than this, though?”
I dismiss her concerns without a second thought. “Let’s take it one day at a time and try not to worry about more than that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“How much homework do you have left?”
“Only one assignment.”
“When is it due?”
“Next week,” she answers.
“Then worry about it another day and be done for tonight.”
She nods her head against my chest. We lie there in comfortable silence for a bit. I start to feel a bit of dampness on my shirt and I realize Brittany’s crying. Her breathing isn’t labored at all. I don’t hear any sniffles either. If it weren’t for that dampness, I wouldn’t have known.
“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
“I’m just frustrated with everything.”
There are so many ways I could respond to that, but none of them feel adequate or reassuring enough. Nothing I say is going to make her feel better. Nothing I do is going to make her feel better. I just keep doing what I’m already doing. Almost as if it’s inevitable, like when the temperatures naturally fall as the sun disappears among the horizon, we feel worse as the night wears on. We eventually go to bed early.
“Trace?”
“Just leave me alone, Brittany,” I say through my hands. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, my face in my hands with my elbows propped on my knees. I feel frozen. I feel dead. I feel too much and nothing all at the same time. I need peace. Just a moment of it. That’s all I’m asking for. It’s Saturday; I don’t have to leave the house. Why is it a bad idea for me to climb back into bed?
The house needs to be cleaned.
Lily needs to be let out.
Brittany is here.
It won’t help.
It could make it worse.
I should probably go grocery shopping.
But fuck it! Such simple things seem so daunting. I turn and get back under the sheets.
Brittany’s voice is soft and closer now. “C’mon, Trace. Get up. Please?”
“This is the one, calm warning I can give you. Leave me alone for a bit at least. I can’t. I just fucking can’t.” My anger seems to build and explode so rapidly. I sit up to look at her. “Can you get out? Just get the fuck out! All I want is some peace and quiet and to be alone. That’s all I’m asking for. Stop being so fucking selfish and needy and just get out!” I shout.
She stares at me with wide eyes. The color has drained from her face. I wish for anything that I could care, but I don’t. I just want her to get away from me. Unfortunately, she seems frozen in place.
“Get out!” I’m louder this time.
She jumps from the fury in my voice. She doesn’t hesitate to leave the room, letting the door slam behind her. I collapse on the bed, not feeling the least bit better. Big surprise there. She’d probably be better off without me. I’m obviously not doing a good job at treating her well, and I’m definitely not helping her get better.
Deciding that she should leave, I grab my phone and text her.
Me: Go back to campus. Calling the grinch.
Maybe if I use her phrase, she’ll listen. I can’t function today, and I can’t deal with her being in this house, but not near me because I don’t want her around. She needs to leave. That’ll be one less thing I have to worry about.
The door to my room swings open.
“I am not leaving you like this!” she shouts, now as angry as I am.
“Why? Why won’t you give me some damn space?”
“I can do that from another room. You wanted me to get out, I got out, but I am not leaving this house, Trace. You can yell and be mean to me all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.” She folds her arms over her chest and stares me down.
“That’s exactly why you need to leave!” I lower my voice and add, “I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to deal with that.”
“Tough shit, Trace. Be mean, yell, tell me to get out, whatever. I don’t care. I’m not leaving you like this.” Without giving me a chance to say anything back, she swivels on her heels and leaves the room, slamming the door once again.
This is bad. She should be leaving. She should care. She can’t be worrying about me and putting herself at risk to be further hurt and get worse because my actions aren’t helping her. This is bad. This is bad. This is bad. Brittany doesn’t need to be here with me like this. What is she going to do? Stay in the living room all day with Lily? She could be doing other stuff. Somewhere else, I might add. Somewhere not so negative. Somewhere she doesn’t have to deal with an angry, depressed guy like me.
But if she wants to stay, fine. I roll onto my stomach, get comfortable, and close my eyes. If only I could shut off my mind that easily. I still haven’t called my dad. Despite how it’s been lately, I do have a good relationship with him. Well, I did. He probably isn’t too happy with me right now, not that I can blame him. I did the exact same thing to him as I’m currently doing to Brittany.
How can I be doing this to her? She’s the best thing in my life, I’m treating her like crap, and yet I can’t care enough to stop. I can’t get in control enough to stop. What’s it going to take for me to realize I’m bad for her? That I can’t help her like I thought I could? At what point are we making things worse for one another? I feel like that’s where we’re headed, if we aren’t there already. What are we supposed to do?
Later in the day when I’m starving, I lie in bed, debating whether getting out of bed is worth satisfying my hunger. Just when I’ve decided that no, it isn’t worth it, there’s a knock on my door. Brittany pokes her head
into the room.
“Say please.”
I roll over. Even though I’m not sure what I’m saying please for, there’s no fight left in me at this point. “Please.” She steps into the room with a plate of food in one hand and a can of Sun Drop in the other. The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice about it. “I love you.”
“Better. You’re a piece of work.” She hands the plate to me and sets the drink on the nightstand. She turns and heads to the door. “I’ll leave you alone now,” she says over her shoulder.
Guilt swallows me whole. She’s being nice, sweet, and doing as I’ve asked and I feel like a piece of shit. Why couldn’t she have just left?
April chugs along without many changes for us. It’s the Friday before finals start, and Brittany is staying with me one last time. Then, I’m making her park herself at campus to prepare for her finals. She hasn’t at all because she’s stopped caring, which is scary as hell. She doesn’t need to have worked hard and stressed so much to blow her finals off.
When not worried about her, I’m thinking about my job. Work has been giving me a ridiculous amount of stress and anxiety. Mr. Hanifin seems to be watching me more closely, as if I’m going to make a mistake in the office. Conversation is still stopping when I enter the break room from where they are yet again talking about what happened. These people need to get a life. The only good thing is that I haven’t seen Dustin. I don’t think he’s come in to see anyone, but as long as he doesn’t come see me, I’ll be fine.
However, that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about what would happen if he did come in. There are too many annoying unknowns and I hate it. I come into work every day and instead of looking forward to it, I wish I was back home with Lily and Brittany. The passing of time both helps and makes it worse because I’m still wondering when it’ll get better or when it’ll happen.
We continue to fall further into the seemingly bottomless pit of depression. I can’t even remember the last time we had a good, actual conversation that had substance. Something other than how are you doing today or empty reassurances. It’s hard to care and be sure about those reassurances when the only change we’re seeing is us not getting better.
I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about whether or not we’re honestly good for one another. I was so sure when her father asked me if I would affect his daughter’s mental health due to my own that no, I wouldn’t. Did I unknowingly lie? When she has texted me that her day has been okay, she comes over to my house and watches me like I watch her. Seeing the signs of our anxiety, seeing the tired, defeated eyes, and maybe we’re subconsciously feeding off of each other’s negativity, growing our own.
Would she be able to maintain and maybe even get better if she wasn’t around me? If she wasn’t listening to my complaints and watching me spiral further and further? God, I love her so much and to think that my current bad state might fuel hers is too much to bear. What started as occasionally wondering about it has nearly turned into an obsession.
“Babe, I can hear you thinking over here,” Brittany says, and I turn my head to look at where she lies next to me in bed. “Stop it. It’s keeping me from falling asleep.”
“Sorry.”
“What’re you thinking about anyway?”
“Nothing important.”
The light from the TV allows me to see her eyes narrow at me. She can be pissed if she wants about me not sharing. I don’t want to tell her what I’m thinking. For one, I know it won’t make her happy, and why would I add my doubts to what we’re already dealing with? She can’t handle much more. Hell, neither can I. Honestly, I’m amazed at how she’s fighting with this quiet strength. It makes me feel weak that I keep thinking about giving in.
I’m not strong right now. How can I be a source of strength and comfort for her anyway? I can’t be. It doesn’t seem possible. The few times I’ve been this bad off, I did give in. Maybe it’s my current warped thinking in this state of mind, but I did eventually get better after I gave in. You have nowhere to go but up once you hit rock bottom, right? But I haven’t gotten there yet by the determination to hold on a little longer for Brittany.
I don’t know how much longer I can.
It’s so tempting to give in. Let it take over, run its course, and hope it eventually leaves or lightens for me to start working on building myself up again. Like acid, it eats away at me to do just that while berating myself because I’d for sure be in no shape to be around Brittany.
A whisper of a thought that I haven’t had since college enters my mind.
Do it. End your life. The pain will go away for you and you’ll stop hurting Brittany and making her worse.
The ways to make it happen start filtering through my mind. It’s nearly impossible to stop thinking about it now. Fucking hell. How can I be thinking about suicide while looking at this beautiful girl who I love so much? An entire new set of problems is now on my plate. I probably should’ve told her my full history by now. I probably should’ve told her what happened to my mom already. I haven’t told my dad about my issues because my mom suffered from depression and she killed herself because of it. Dad would think the same thing would happen to me. I can’t put that kind of burden on his shoulders. That’s what telling Brittany would be like, too. It would be a burden, and she doesn’t need that right now. Then again, I probably should be doing everything differently because I’m convinced I’m doing it all wrong.
Her anger begins to fade into worry. Her hand moves above the sheets to grasp her wrist. “You’d tell me if it was something serious, right?”
“Of course,” I lie.
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 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.
Driving Me Mad (Sanity Book 1) Page 22