Driving Me Mad by Lindsay Paige Page B

and prescribed sleeping pills to help me
sleep. They helped at first, but the last two nights, I haven’t
been able to sleep much still. I’m just having a hard time
lately.”
    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