Screaming tires, shattering glass, and the sickening crunch of metal on metal. In an instant, a whole life was extinguished like a birthday candle. It was a nightmare scenario that held me prisoner in my own head for twenty years. By coming to terms with that nightmare and learning how to drive, I also learned how to grow through trauma and not allow it to hold me back.
I was 26 years old when I got my driver’s license. Not that I didn’t want to get it before that. I suffer from PTSD caused by a car accident I was in on my sixth birthday. It was exceptionally violent, and I watched a boy, about my age at the time, die right in front of me. Our cars were crushed and contorted together in such a way that we were almost face to face. Our families and rescuers couldn’t get to us for what felt like an eternity. I will never be able to forget the image of his tiny, battered body or the life leaving his eyes. I can, to this day, still hear his mother’s visceral screams of anguish in my nightmares. Any time I was in a car after that, even as a passenger, I was transported right back to my vehicular prison and my front-row seat to mortality.
Whenever I got into a car, I would panic. My palms would sweat, my heart would race, and my ears would ring so loudly that it was all I could hear. I vomited once after attempting to practice driving in a huge, empty parking lot. I managed to put the car in drive, roll ten feet, and slam it into park before my vision got blurry and my lunch began to make its encore appearance. I remember thinking about how easy everyone else made it look. Every day there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people hopping into their cars, turning on their radios, and driving mindlessly to their destinations. And then there was me, hyperventilating in my mom’s passenger seat, on our once-in-a-while drive down the street. I wondered why I was so weak. Why couldn’t I toughen up and get over it? I owned a car but was too scared to drive it. Why could everyone else do this seemingly simple task that I was so utterly afraid of? What was wrong with me? For years those questions ate away at my confidence like acid.
I learned how to navigate life, even motherhood, while not being able to drive. I planned trips to the doctor or getting to work according to the fact that I was going to need an extra hour before and after to ride the bus. Luckily, I lived in Las Vegas where bus routes are the circulatory system of the city, the streets are its veins, and the downtown bus depot is its heart. You could get to a bus stop within a short walk of anywhere and even though it might take a few transfers and a few hours, you could go just about anywhere.
I strategized every trip. I needed to be at work by 3 pm, so I needed to be ready by 1:30 pm and be on the bus when it came at 1:58 pm. Things got tricky when transfers were involved, but I made it work. I was fortunate enough to have supportive friends who were willing to give me rides. I felt ashamed and guilty like I was imposing on their busy lives. I didn’t want to be a burden, so I rarely took them up on their offers.
It was very hard to feel like an independent adult when I still had to rely on others for something I saw as a basic adult function. I’d never met a happy or successful person who rode the bus. I felt like my personal development had been halted. I missed a crucial milestone that most other people achieved as teenagers. While those close to me understood and were very gracious towards my situation, I just couldn’t shake the feeling of being judged. When I handed my ID to someone, it felt like all they saw were the big, bold, red letters across the top that spelled out “Identification Card.” In my anxious mind, that was all they saw and they were laughing at me. It was a neon sign, a scarlet letter, telling the world that I couldn’t drive. And thus, were less than.
After years of insecurity and beating myself up, I finally decided to take the wheel. I can’t exactly pinpoint the catalyst but after an exceptionally anxiety-ridden day and a smelly bus ride from Hell, I was done. I chose to begin attending counseling for my driving anxiety. I had an amazing therapist, Gwen, who specialized in PTSD. During my time in counseling, I learned that what I had been through was traumatic and not the kind of thing most people witness even once in their lives. It happened during my formative years, and my young brain had associated riding in cars with blood, violence, and death. Gwen assured me that I was not “less than” and that my mind had placed a steep mountain before me. Where most people had a hill and handrails, I had Mount Everest.
We addressed my guilt and perceived judgment by others. I began to accept that my biggest critic was myself and there was a good chance no one ever noticed or cared that my ID wasn’t a driver’s license. While processing my trauma I learned a lot about myself, but most importantly I learned that while my fear was legitimate, it was something I could overcome. We went over breathing and grounding techniques for when I started to feel the panic washing over me. Slowly but surely, I noticed a shift. The thought of driving didn’t feel like drowning anymore. I was ready to start practicing my driving skills in an actual vehicle and not from a book.
I took the test to get my driver’s permit at the DMV and set out on a mission. My goal was to drive my son to his first day of kindergarten as a licensed driver. It kept me focused. The first few rides were rough, but I was gaining confidence quickly. Before long, I was driving all over that empty parking lot. And then I pulled onto my first street.
I felt like my head was going to explode. I wanted to cry. I did cry a LOT. There were not many other cars around me. I was smart enough to make sure I wasn’t on a busy road. I started slowly, literally. Pretty quickly though, I got the confidence to go the speed limit. I stopped at stop signs, yielded to pedestrians, and used my blinker every single time I turned or switched lanes. I was doing great! I practiced this way for about a month. With my newfound confidence, I made the decision to drive home one day using the main road instead of the longer route I usually took through the neighborhoods and backroads. I turned left at the light and immediately regretted my decision.
Anyone who has ever driven in Las Vegas would probably agree that the state flower should be changed to the traffic cone. There is always road construction going on and those cones are everywhere, popping up overnight like dirty orange daisies. On this particular day, a major road had been detoured through the usually quiet side road I had just turned onto. There were probably a hundred cars, people switching lanes, speeding, and swerving. It was a stampede of metal bulls, each more impatient than the next. I began to panic. There was nowhere for me to turn. There was nowhere for me to escape the stampede. I could not run away, so I was left with no option but to run with them. I was going to get a crash course in driving that day. I breathed through my terror and reminded myself to watch everything that was going on. I had taught myself to be a defensive driver, and that’s what I was going to do. I stayed in my lane, allowed other cars to merge, and followed at a safe distance.
Before I knew it, I was pulling into my driveway. My “crash course” involved no crashes, no one had died, and, besides my hands aching from holding onto the steering wheel so hard, I was unscathed. I took the deepest breath I think I’d ever taken, and all the fear I’d held inside myself for so long left my body like smoke on the exhale. I started weeping, ugly crying. These weren’t tears of loss or anxiety; these were happy tears, but this feeling was something more than simple elation or achievement. This was rapture. I knew I could do it now. I wasn’t prepared for so much so fast, but I had survived it. The chain that held me back was shattered. Driving didn’t mean death; it meant freedom. I practiced every day until my driver’s test. I wasn’t even nervous; I had become so confident that I passed my test on the first try with a perfect score.
Two weeks later, I drove my son to his first day of kindergarten with a smile on my face, a chip on my shoulder, and a license in my pocket. Sometimes to this day I’ll look at my driver’s license and get a warm fuzzy feeling. It is so much more than a certification for me; it is a symbol. That small plastic card with the unflattering picture and the slightly exaggerated height measurement symbolizes that I am more than my fears. I was able to conquer my self-doubt and PTSD and get one step closer to my highest potential. I still get nervous or have flashbacks when I see a certain color, make, and model of car. But I can shake that off for the most part. I travel where I want when I want and my independence knows no bounds. My trauma no longer holds me back. I am free.