Unquiet
Things

I approach the highway entrance, a stretch of road I once knew like the back of my hand. But something’s not right. As I prepare to merge, my stomach drops. The once-gentle ramp has transformed into a nightmarish rollercoaster track, rising at an impossible angle. It looms before me, winding ominously with loop-de-loops that defy both gravity and reason.

My car feels suddenly fragile, like a toy at the mercy of this monstrous road. I creep forward, the gentle slope I remember now a vertical wall of asphalt. Other vehicles zoom past, their drivers seemingly oblivious to the Escher-like construct ahead. I grip the wheel, knuckles white, as a voice in my head screams that I can’t do this, that I’ll never make it.

The merge point, once a simple maneuver, now feels like threading a needle while falling from the sky. My breath comes in short gasps as I face this warped version of a once-familiar route.

At least, that’s what happens in my dreams.*

Growing up, I watched my mother’s world shrink as she refused to drive. I became her reluctant chauffeur, ferrying her from place to place, my resentment growing with each mile. I swore I’d never let fear trap me like that. I’d drive. I’d be independent. I’d be free.

And for a while, I was. I moved away to NJ in my 20s and 30s. But suddenly, those comfortable roads where I’d lived most of my life were replaced by a labyrinth of highways and exits. My world shrank to the space between work and home. The fear of accidentally ending up in New York City – a maze of honking horns and aggressive drivers – paralyzed me. I imagined myself trapped on a one-way street to Manhattan, unable to turn back.

(I remember renting a U-Haul for the move to NJ while still in Florida. As I maneuvered that behemoth off the lot, I told myself, “If I can do this, I can do anything. There’s no reason to ever be afraid again.” Oh, how naive I was.)

Life brought me back to Daytona when my grandparents’ health declined. I found myself on familiar ground once more, my anxiety easing as I navigated well-known streets.  It wasn’t my favorite activity, but it didn’t terrify me either.  Then Yvan came into my life, taking the wheel more often than not. I let myself relax into the passenger seat, my driving skills slowly atrophying.

But life, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor. Our move to North Florida thrust me into a world of more intense highways and meaner drivers. For two years, I haven’t driven at all. And then we got a new car – a fresh source of anxiety, a new machine to potentially damage.

Now, as I write this, I’m trying to distract myself from an imminent reality. In ten minutes, I have to drive Yvan to a follow-up appointment with the orthopedist. He broke his foot and suddenly I’m thrust into the driver’s seat again. The appointment is on the other side of town, and I am TERRIFIED.

As I sit here, dreading the drive ahead, I realize that at the heart of my fear, beneath the surreal nightmares and sweaty palms, lies a simple, almost absurd truth: I’m terrified of being honked at.

It’s not the potential for accidents or the complexity of navigating unfamiliar roads that paralyzes me. No, it’s the impatience of other drivers that makes every journey a gauntlet for my nerves.

I imagine their frustration building behind me as I cautiously check my mirrors, as I slow down to read a street sign, as I hesitate before making a turn. In my mind, their horns are always poised, ready to blare out their judgment of my driving. That sound – sharp, loud, accusatory – rings in my ears long before it actually occurs. It’s the sound of my inadequacy, broadcast for all to hear.

This fear transforms every other car on the road into a potential critic, every intersection into a stage where I might fail publicly. The irony is palpable: my caution, born from a desire to drive safely, invites the very reaction I dread. And so I creep along, a bundle of nerves disguised as a car, hoping against hope that today won’t be the day when someone’s impatience boils over into a cacophony of horns.

But the dread of driving doesn’t just affect me when I’m behind the wheel. It casts a long shadow over my entire day. Take today, for instance. I’ve known about this appointment for days, and it’s been like a dark cloud hovering over me, growing larger as the hour approaches.

This morning, I woke up with a knot in my stomach. The drive isn’t until 2 PM, but already, at 8 AM, I’m completely useless. I try to distract myself, to be productive, but my mind keeps circling back to the impending journey. Every task I attempt feels like wading through molasses. I can’t focus on work, I can’t enjoy a book, I can’t even carry on a normal conversation without my thoughts drifting to the drive ahead.

It’s not just driving, either. I’ve experienced this paralysis with other dreaded tasks – important phone calls, difficult conversations, deadlines. The anxiety becomes a thief, stealing hours or even days from me. A 10-minute phone call at 2 PM can render my entire morning a complete wash. It’s as if time stops, trapping me in a limbo of anticipation and fear until the dreaded task is done.

And so I sit, watching the clock tick closer to 2 PM, my productivity and peace of mind held hostage by my own anxiety. I wonder how many hours of my life I’ve lost this way, frozen in anticipation of fears that often prove to be far worse in my mind than in reality. My palms are already sweating. My heart races. In my mind, I see those dream loop-de-loops superimposed on the real roads I’ll have to navigate. But I am not my mother – I will drive.

Unable to focus on anything else, I’ve spent the last hour panic-writing this blog post, desperately trying to distract myself from the impending task. It’s a temporary balm at best. Soon, I’ll have to close my laptop, grab those car keys, and face the road that terrifies me.

But first, another trip to the bathroom. The panic poops have kicked in – that lovely bonus feature of my anxiety that ensures I’ll be as physically uncomfortable as I am mentally distressed. Nothing like a bout of nervous diarrhea to really drive home the point that I’m terrified of driving (does anyone else get the panic poops? They are AWFUL.)

I really don’t know how to end this indulgent, whiny bit of writing other than to say it’s time to leave. I have to go now. Let’s hit the road. IF WE HAVE TO I GUESS.

* I also have driving dreams where my feet stick out through the bottom of the car, like Flintstones characters. Another one is that I am driving, except I am sitting in the back seat, and I have to navigate and handle the steering wheel from around the empty driver’s seat.