Shortly after Thanksgiving was when I started to lose my mind. On the outside, I was calm, cool, and collected—a poster child for someone who had lost everything and somehow risen from the ashes. Inside, however, was a different story. I called it my manic panic mode.
Inside, I was imploding. My mind raced constantly, thoughts colliding and scattering like loose gravel under a tire. I couldn’t focus. I had recently broken my glasses, so I couldn’t see well either. My driving skills took a nosedive.
I lost count of the near accidents—at least once or twice a day. I’d drift into the wrong lane, veer toward cars on the highway, forget to check before pulling out. Really? Who forgets to look before pulling out at an intersection? Duh. Backing up became a problem too. And curbs? I hit them like it was my side hustle. Between both my cars, I ruined eight tires. That alone cost a fortune in replacements and mobile mechanic fees.
My driving was worse than someone who had never been behind the wheel.
Each time I did something dangerously stupid, the same thought flashed through my mind: I shouldn’t be driving. But I had to. I was Rowan’s transportation to and from his day program—a three-hour round trip, twice a day. Then there was work, four days a week. I was spending nearly all day in the car.
And my mind was very much elsewhere.
The scariest moments were the ones that could have gotten me killed—or worse, someone else. I drove on the wrong side of the highway twice in one month. The first time, I realized it while already on the highway. Panicked and unsure what to do, I checked for oncoming cars, spun around, and drove the correct way until the next exit.
The second time, I noticed while driving the wrong way on an off-ramp. Again, I turned the car around, grateful no one was there to witness it. I somehow managed to run over an entire row of snowplow edge markers. Going too fast, I ended up in the grass beside the on-ramp and just kept going because there was a car behind me.
Part of the problem was that I was always smoking weed while driving. I never drove without it. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone—but here, it’s safe. I also had a problem with speed. I’m still waiting on the verdict from the ticket I got in December.
I was clocked at 85. Thank goodness for my GPS warning that a cop was up ahead. I hit the brakes hard, and my purse tipped over, spilling a box of Good & Plenty across the floor—pretty pink and white pieces everywhere.
When the officer approached the passenger side, he shined his flashlight on the candy and asked if it was drugs.
“Drugs?” I said. “If they were drugs, I would’ve been more careful.”
Not smart.
I was pulled out of the car and made to stand on the other side of the guardrail while his partner thoroughly inspected the candy. I almost said I told you so, but bit my tongue. I knew I was already in trouble and didn’t want to push my luck. He handed me a ticket and told me I’d be summoned to court. At least he didn’t arrest me.
The worst came in January—my total undoing.
My car’s transmission died, so I ended up in a rental. I couldn’t afford it, but I had no choice. Rowan still needed transportation. All was fine until one day I dropped the joint I was smoking and burned a hole in the seat.
There were no-smoking stickers everywhere. I knew I shouldn’t have been smoking, but at the time, I truly believed I had to smoke while driving. My brain was convinced it was the only thing keeping me functional. Looking back, that logic had the structural integrity of wet cardboard.
I panicked. I knew the fine for smoking in a rental would be huge, and there was no way to cover it up. Instead of telling the truth, I rented the car for another week—stalling the inevitable. I wasn’t going to fix the seat. I was just buying time.
Fate, apparently, decided to have fun with me.
On a bright, dry, sunny afternoon, I crashed. I pulled into an intersection—once again not paying attention—and an oncoming car slammed into the front of the rental. The sound was a violent, metallic crack, like the world snapping in half. Both vehicles were seriously damaged. The other driver insisted on calling the police. After waiting an hour with no response, we both left.
At least I didn’t have to worry about the hole in the seat anymore—right?
I drove home in a panic and dug through my bills. Everything was past due. I found the insurance bill and ripped it open. I knew the payment was late; I just didn’t know how late.
My policy had been cancelled.
That meant I had been driving, crashed, and totaled two cars without insurance.
I was in more trouble than I could handle.
I didn’t know how I was going to explain the crash when I returned the car the next day. Somehow my brain hatched a plan. I wrote a four-page statement describing the accident, attached photos, and added a rushed I’m sorry at the bottom of the letter.
After hours, I returned the car. I locked the keys and paperwork inside and walked away.
The next day, my mind officially crashed and burned. I was committed to a psychiatric hospital for twenty days. I was almost relieved.
A hospital was better than jail, right?
And honestly? At that point, I wasn’t sure which one I actually deserved. I didn’t hit rock bottom. I drove there.
Your favorite former menace to traffic,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 