Champ's Last Lesson

On Saturday afternoon, I sat on the ding-ed bumper of my car in a parking lot on La Mesa Blvd. in front of a busy sandwich shop, which was adjacent to a Starbucks. I had pulled over after being rear-ended by a white SUV. The driver was behind me at one point but had disappeared, so I called the cops, hoping that they would deliver me from auto collision hell. I called S., my sister-in-law, whose house I was on my way to visit, and told her I got held up.

I didn’t really know what to do, so I just dawdled until thirst drove me inside a neighboring Subway to grab a Diet Coke. I didn’t even queue properly but hovered by the register, hoping to sneak in line to buy my soda. This stratagem worked; the clerk rung me up, and I skedaddled back to my injured automobile to wait on the police.

Ironically, when leaving my home, I contemplated the likelihood of getting into an accident in the unfamiliar neighborhood of La Mesa. Due to my Severe Driver’s Anxiety, I always envision worst-case scenarios when driving new places. This SDA manifests itself in 1) clutching the wheel of the car at 10 and 2, 2) behaving skittishly around any extraneous movements on the road (swerving cars, motorcycles, pedestrians), and 3) experiencing painful shocks to my system when a pang of anxiety hits. Yes, driving for me has the potential to be painful. And today, I was going to visit S. with sketchy directions. A perfect storm.

But I was doing great! When I was merrily on my way, on Spring Street, with only about a quarter of a mile to go, happily listening to Bruno Mars, I was stopped at a stoplight. It was in the midst of “Grenade” that the SUV not-so-gently hit me. I, strangely enough, didn’t experience any anxiety at being actually hit—it is only the paranoia of possibly being hit/hitting someone else that is heart of SDA—and simply signaled to my right and prepared for the ordeal.

So there I sat on my car, Champ, my dear champagne-colored Honda Accord, guzzling my soda, waiting, as passersby generously ignored me.

Fifteen minutes later, a blubbering blonde girl, the SUV’s driver, approached me. She, apparently, unable to find parking, proceeded out of the strip mall and promptly got lost. Being from out of town, I learned, she wandered for a significant amount of time before locating the rendez-vous point. I was relieved that she had shown up, but impatient with her crying, as absolutely nothing had happened to her vehicle, whereas my car’s trunk and bumper were significantly mangled. As I knew from experience, it would take a pretty penny to be repaired. In the perfect San Diego sunshine, I was peevish but polite, and simply asked for her information.

Her name was Ashley. Ugh.

No functional pen to be found between my car and purse, totally unlike me, I ran into the sandwich shop and begged one from a haggard woman behind the counter. She thrust the pen at me without a word, and I ran back outside to see Ashley still sniffling. I procured an unused Union Bank deposit envelope from my glove compartment and instructed her to write down her information. She did so, her nails glittering silver from her grown-out acrylics.

Trying to be an adult, I engaged Ashley in conversation to a certain extent. I learned that she lived in El Cajon and had moved from Modesto only a month before. I reassured her that the only bad thing that would happen to her is that her insurance premium would go up. This was not reassuring, apparently, as her eyes started to well up again.

Then the police arrived, a woman, who basically said that her presence was unnecessary, due to the fact that no one was injured. Ashley snapped a picture of my car’s damage with her phone, and we bid each other farewell.

And that was that.

# # #

I was directed by my insurance company to take my car to Mission Hills Collision Center, which is right off of the freeway. I was nervous on my way there on Monday morning, but arrived without incident and found a parking spot right in front. (Aside: I also have PPP, Pronounced Parking Phobia.) Whew!

The body shop guy, D., was helpful in spite of the fact that I arrived on the day when the computers were down. This meant that I couldn’t get an estimate on the spot, but had to wait until the afternoon until the computers were restored to health. They promised to get me into a rental, and I waited in the lobby until Enterprise arrived.

In the meantime, my friend N. called and invited me to brunch, and she offered to pick me up. I gave the Enterprise guy my information, and when N. arrived, I thanked the gods for this serendipitous occasion. I also observed that N. was no more skilled behind the wheel than I, but she obviously did not suffer from SDA and took any obstacle lightly. I took note.

After a delightful lunch, N. dropped me off in the vicinity of Enterprise, after we got significantly lost, which she didn’t take personally either. It became obvious to me that my SDA was out of control.

This was definitely put to the test when I got into my rental, a 2011 Chevy Impala. When driving off the lot, the parking brake was still engaged, and the car beeped hysterically. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find the brake. My SDA was through the roof. After futilely looking for the source of the problem, I had to pull over and call the rental car place to ascertain the brake’s location. (It’s by the left foot.)

I won’t say how far I went.

That night, I was afraid to drive the car to yoga. But my friend A. is the instructor, and I knew she would be happy if I were there, so I sucked it up. Kinda. On the way, I thought time and time again of turning around and going home where it was safe. But I did it. I made it to yoga unscathed and did downward facing dog with the best of them.

That night I had a dream that a tweaker hit my rental car and tore off the back bumper.

# # #

On Tuesday afternoon, I got a call from Mission Hills Collision Center.

Champ was totaled.

He was a 1995 Honda Accord with 150,000 miles, so the blue book on him was only $4,000. The body shop determined that he was maxed out. Consequently, I will be getting a “new” car.

My feelings about this are enthusiastic on the one hand—new car!—but sad on the other hand—poor Champ! Being put out to pasture! Champ was previously my mother’s car and has been in the family for many years. His death makes me want to write an epic poem. When I go to Mission Hills to pick up my belongings left in Champ—the GPS, the garage clicker, my coffee mug, a couple copies of bp magazine—I intend to have a good, long cry.

Of course, T. thinks I’m being absurd. I’m getting a new car: Yay! But if I had SDA in my cherished, old car, how am I going to feel in something “new,” something “better,” something “nice?”

Intellectually, I know my SDA is absurd. I have a million examples of how and why I should not be experiencing Severe Driver’s Anxiety. People who are less capable behind the wheel than myself feel no qualms about being on the road. People get lost all the time without the world ending. People eventually find places to park. Why these events are tantamount to disaster for me, I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I do know it wasn’t always this way. As I’ve gotten older, my symptoms of bipolar disorder have shifted. I used to be a firecracker, wild and crazy manic. Now, my symptoms gravitate towards anxiety and depression. I don’t know why. It’s just how things have morphed with age. Now, it hurts to drive, which it didn’t until a few years ago. And with another accident under my belt, it’s going to take some serious personal coaching to keep from being overwhelmed when I’m going somewhere new.

How to keep things in perspective? This will be a challenge for me. T. took a proactive step and bought me a GPS for Christmas. This will help. Also, I am learning PMA (Positive Mental Attitude) from my CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) text. CBT actually teaches one to trade positive thoughts for negative thoughts, and to focus on appreciating life while diminishing personal suffering. Hence, I should think about the wonders of nature and the beauty of San Diego while on the road, rather than fretting about whether or not there’s going to be parking. I will need to change my focus.

Hey, maybe I’ll get some real focus: a Ford Focus.