So I was blog browsing today… I had the whole day off and Moscato seemed to not like my idea of spending the whole day together… what’s a puppy parent to do?
Anyway, I stumbled upon Two Thirds Hazel. Her blog title reminds me of John Green (oh Hazel Grace…), but it was her blog post regarding fear that got me thinking. I knew I wanted to write a blog post about fear.
I know that I don’t actually write a considerable amount on this blog. A few sentences here or there, without much in between. But I think it’s time to change that. Time to be a bit more vulnerable than normal. Starting with this post. I didn’t think I would go that route when I decided to titled this post after a Ghostbusters quote, but I think that’s the right thing to do.
People fear different things. Erin at Two Thirds Hazel says she fears papercuts in the eyes. That’s a valid fear (who would want that or wish that on anybody else??) My fear isn’t that though. That’s not something I think about, dwell on, or that keeps me up at night. My main fears are of a different variety.
I shared this is in the comments on her blog, but I doubt anyone read it… So I’m going to put it here. Right on my own bit of “rented” internet property.
I drive a VW Jetta. I bought it used, but it was in perfect condition. Truly it was immaculate. This was back in 2008. Today? My VW Jetta is anything but perfect. It’s had hubcaps stolen (I quit replacing them after awhile as they cost $50 a piece used – as they have the VW logo), part of the chrome trim peeled off, hail damage, one side has a few small dents from where I rear ended someone, and the other side? It has a series of giant white scratches and a massive indent into the wheel well.
When I mention that particular blemish to people, I lie. I tell them it was someone who hit me and didn’t stick around and that I never got it fixed because I didn’t want to pay the deductible and have my insurance increase. That’s pretty far from the truth. The truth scares me.
I was driving down the interstate. You know how sometimes when you’re in a city on the interstate there are concrete barriers on both sides of you (not tall, but they’re there – probably to muffle the sounds). That’s what I hit.
You might be wondering what’s so scary about that. Besides the impact, I mean. Well, I’m starting to cry as I type this, because it’s the why I hit that.
I was driving along one morning, on my way to a therapy session, when I notice there’s someone standing there. On the interstate. We have a lot of people begging for money in the city, part of me thought it was that, but part of me thought that that made no sense. Those people stay on sidewalks. At stop signs or stop lights. They’re not on the interstate.
It was then that I noticed as I got closer, they started running. Towards my car. They were trying to kill themselves, using my car as the bullet.
I not only scraped the side of the concrete trying to avoid this, but I also wrecked the transmission on my car (my car now requires the emergency brake to be used every time I park) from being so frantic that I tried to throw my car in park while it was still moving.
I just remember the silence. The silence and the terror.
I know someone stopped, having witnessed the whole thing, talking to me about calling the police, but I don’t remember anything else they said. I remember circling my car not believing that I had not hit this person.
I didn’t report it to my insurance.
I didn’t tell anyone.
I didn’t speak.
I still don’t really speak about that. I am still fearful. Every time I see someone on the side of the road I get a lump in my throat. Of what could have been. Of what I could have possibly done… How I came so close to killing someone. To being an integral part of someone’s suicide.
I don’t even know their name. Or what happened to them after that.
Maybe I need to get the dent fixed. I don’t know. I do know this ties in with my second fear of my past.
Some are ashamed of their pasts, but I’m not. I’m afraid of mine.