Driving myself crazy

I hate fear. Not the flight or fight kind. The kind that prevents a person from doing something because the repercussions, as unlikely as they seem, might reach out and smite them.

If you read the last post, then you'll know I had a car accident. It wasn't that bad. I got a bruise, and it only took five days to go away. The trepidation lingered...

Funny how adrenaline works. When I had the accident, I wasn't scared. I grappled with the wheel, certain that if I kept my head, I could steer my way out of that mess.

When the car rolled to a stop in the ditch, I searched the floorboards for my Yoda dash ornament, despite the fact that I thought I smelled smoke. (Not very smart, I know. I was afraid he'd burn up, and my husband gave him to me.) I accidentally hit Yoda's yellow button, setting him off...

You know what he said? "Hard to see, the dark side is."

I cried, but not because I was frightened. I was angry at myself and worried about the passengers in the truck.

I can't say I ever felt actual fear.

So why did it take me five days to get behind the wheel again? Well actually, I was resting. I didn't have any pressing business outside my home and besides, my husband needed the truck for work. Right? RIGHT?

But I knew I'd have to do it, and soon. We made plans to go shopping, and you better believe I was gonna drive. Damn straight.

The day we went out, the roads were a slushy mess--more so than the day of the accident and dirtier. I got less than three blocks from the house when my long-suffering troll tried to make an easier directional suggestion, and I turned into a psycho.

"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO F*CKING DRIVE?! SHUT UP! DON'T TALK TO ME WHILE I'M TRYING TO F*CKING DRIVE!!"  Helloooo dark side. I see you.

Of course he didn't react very well..."What the hell is wrong with you? I'm trying to help-"

"I DON'T WANT YOUR F*CKING HELP. LEAVE ME ALONE! I'M TRYING TO F*CKING DRIVE!" I hadn't reached the intersection yet, and the tirade continued.

As I approached 99th and 163rd, praying that I would stop in time, I didn't see the pedestrian crossing or the houses lining the street. I saw driving snow and a freakishly long highway that suddenly turned to a grassy ditch covered in a dusting of white. I heard the blown-up, paper bag pop of the airbag. And then I couldn't see anything through my tears.

My poor husband was so mad, he wanted to walk home. He'd endured enough verbal abuse. But God bless his patient heart, he wouldn't leave me crying. I couldn't turn left. It was at least three minutes before I could turn right. I ended up going around the block to go home for a cup of tea.

The second attempt went better...I guess. It took as an hour of driving around to figure out there was no parking at West Edmonton Mall, but at least I drove.

I guess my fear is normal. (Cue cheesy but appropriate piano music.) I've learned that it's okay to be afraid. It's perfectly acceptable to feel as though...Nah. I'm gonna beat this bitch. Apparently it's going to take some time, but it's doable. Fear is to be overcome.

The troll is giving me the truck today. I'm going to take my time. I'm going to get through this. Lots of people have this happen to them and manage to conquer it. (Thanks Suzanne and Kevin) Nobody is responsible for my emotional recovery but ME. Then I can stop bugging you people with my drama.

What does Yoda say? "Control! Control! You must learn control!" Yeah...I definitely want it back.