I’m sitting in my car in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Midtown Manhattan, grateful for the quiet, a welcome contrast from the loud party I just left. When it was over, I got in my car at the best possible time to head home. Rush hour.
As I relaxed into the relief of being freed from chit-chat with strangers––something I’m skilled at but don’t enjoy––some other feelings crept in. Stress. Anger. Impatience. At first, I didn’t notice.
Driving in Manhattan is an assault on my senses, and a reminder that people can be awful when they’re in a hurry to get home. Including me. But there’s another piece to this. After all the years of rural living, I still have enormous ego about what an accurate and daring driver I am when I’m there. I learned how to drive in that big crazy city.
The remnants of my former courtship with road rage are being reignited.
Getting out of NYC and through the Lincoln Tunnel takes an hour and a half of inching forward while carefully but boldly asserting myself, holding my own, defending my position in the lanes of traffic merging to enter the Tunnel. NYC drivers have no idea what the word “merge” means. Know this, here and now. You don’t want to play chicken with me in traffic. I always win. I’m embarrassed to admit that part of me is proud of my toughness. I like my brave self, my “don’t mess with me” attitude. And part of me is ashamed of my horrible behavior. Why am I in such a hurry?
My combative nature is sparked by pushy people who have no manners. My upside-down thinking tells me that there’s only one driver to blame in these scenarios and it’s NEVER me. It’s always the other driver, and that driver is ALWAYS a man. That fuels my rage even more.
Going through the tunnel, I notice my stress level is escalating. I’m nervous that I might not make it home in my brand new I’m-a-good-consumer-all-electric car. I start looking for charging stations on my phone (while driving) and I’m amazed at how hard it is to find a fast charger on my route back. Oh, there are trickle chargers a-plenty, if I want to stop, park, and sit in my car for 13 hours while the juice dribbles in. Instead, I drive very carefully and don’t speed. Me? Not speed? Impossible, but true. I don’t use my heat; I barely use the window defoggers even though the rain is torrential at times. I turn off everything I can think of that might consume the power I need to go another 100 miles, if I can’t find a place to top-off. I coast as much as possible to regenerate the battery.
I’m only a little angry at myself for being unwilling to use alternate methods of travel because I’m a princess (or a Queen) who demands the freedom to come and go as I please. I refuse to be at the mercy of train and bus schedules. When it’s time to go, I go.
When I’m driving and angry and unable to connect with the grace I need to bring me back to center, to help me get to the bottom of my anger, it doesn’t bode well for me, or the other drivers on the road.
I waited until I was 24 to get my license because I was afraid to get behind the wheel of a car when I was a teenager. I took one session of driver’s ed in high school, terrified as I sat in the back seat with 2 other kids, while another kid at the wheel learned to stop, steer, and stall. The teacher had his own brake pedal and an extra steering wheel that would save us if needed. I’ll pass.
I thought to myself, “I’m not ready for this. It’s two tons of metal hurtling through space. What if I have a seizure while I’m driving? It was a huge responsibility I wasn’t willing to take on. I still had an epilepsy diagnosis. My doctor said I’d grow out of it, and wouldn’t have to take meds anymore. But I hadn’t gotten the green light yet.
When my mother took me to the DMV for my learner’s permit, I was nervous. They asked on the application about seizures. They ask everyone that question. At that point, I hadn’t had one in almost 10 years. I looked to my mom for advice, and she urged me to lie. She encouraged me because she understood how much I wanted to be like everyone else. It was misguided, but it was motivated by love. So, I lied, and it didn’t feel right and that influenced my decision to opt out of lessons.
I was going to college in Manhattan, so I didn’t need to drive. I promised myself that if it ever became necessary, I’d learn how.
Eventually, it did. My doctor signed off on my freedom when I was 18. No more epilepsy, I was off my medication, and seizure-free for 16 years. I’d accepted a job and was leaving NYC for the driving nightmare of the world––Los Angeles. Learning to drive in NYC is like earning a master’s degree in reaction time, accuracy, and chutzpah. You have to have chutzpah to drive in New York. Then, you can earn your Ph.D. in L.A. But that degree focuses on acquiring patience while sitting in traffic for 2 hours when you only have to drive a mile.
I couldn’t leave New York until I learned to drive and had a license to prove my newly acquired skill.
I signed up for lessons with U.S. Auto School. I found the ad on a matchbook cover; remember those? Mr. Jeffrey was my teacher. He was a giant from Jamaica who drove a land yacht; it was a dark blue Chrysler New Yorker with cushy, dirty leather seats that resembled the ugliest La-Z-Boy knockoff I could imagine.
His car was a beast for a new driver learning to navigate tight city streets. I learned how to drive fast, I learned how to change lanes with little room to spare on the FDR Drive and the West Side Highway. I learned how to parallel park, squeezing a car that was really an ocean liner on wheels into tight spots while other drivers honked at me to get out of their way.
Mr. Jeffrey didn’t believe in defensive driving. He was an enthusiastic and insistent proponent of the most offensive driving you could imagine. I was his A+ student. He was overly fond of his horn and taught me to use it in every interaction I had with lousy drivers or anyone who was in my way, including pedestrians. He didn’t hold much store in that silly right-of-way rule. He taught me to drive with my horn. Mr. Jeffrey beamed with pride as I laid on the horn with gusto. I was a one-Nan-band, and my tune was aggressive and impatient. I cultivated my overactive ego, my sense of privilege, and my out and out disgust toward bad, no, not just bad, horrendous and rude drivers.
I aced my road test after the inspector asked me parallel park on Delancey Street in between two crosstown buses.
My skills may have been admirable, but I was the worst kind of driver. Arrogant and mean. Competitive and irritable. I sped like a demon and lied when I fought the speeding tickets I’d receive. I hated getting caught, but it only briefly slowed me down.
I’d yell at offenders who got in my way. “Who taught you to drive? The left lane isn’t for slow drivers! It’s a passing lane! Can’t you see the long line piling up behind you? You fucking idiot! You’re 5000 years old. Maybe you should give it up?!?!!” A pokey driver in the left lane of any highway became my nemesis of the moment.
My being a bad driver, a scofflaw, couldn’t be true if I had no witnesses.
No witnesses? That I could think that I was anonymous is hilarious. I used to drive a Volcanic Orange Mini Cooper with a white roof and mirrors and a vanity plate that read “YOLKEL.” I live in a small town. I was a crazy lady weaving in and out of lanes, on local roads that were speed traps; passing on the right and left, I used my middle finger with gleeful abandon, dishing it out to drivers who pissed me off. I’d flash my high-beams and honk at anyone who got in my way. I braked abruptly for tailgaters because they were so annoying. I didn’t think twice when I tailgated others.
Oh yeah, I was invisible, all right.
Speeding on the Thruway in my tiny sports car, I’d say, “I wonder how fast this baby can go?” I’d think nothing of getting her up to 110, 120 mph. Just to see. It felt thrilling to drive that fast, with pinpoint accuracy. I’d turned into a potential killing machine and couldn’t recognize it. It didn’t feel that fast to me.
When I started working with my therapist 5 years ago, my road rage was one of the issues we talked about. I learned that my impatience, my anger, my need to be first were signs of deeper concerns. I learned about my need to be in control all the time. I was afraid of bad drivers, the ones who did stupid things, putting me at risk. She let out a generous chuckle and held a mirror up for me, and at first, I refused to see myself.
I drove the way I wanted with very little thought or concern for another driver’s safety, and almost no thought for my safety. I lived in a state of delusion. But I knew my behavior was unacceptable because I tried to rein it in if I wasn’t alone in my car.
Apparently, there was a conscience buried underneath my messy thinking. Maybe there was hope for me.
I had a great girlfriend a few years ago. She was an excellent driver, safe, mindful, patient. She sped, a little. She was a very nervous passenger. She was one of those riders who’d sit up front grasping the overhead handle with both hands as I drove, explaining apologetically that it was just the way she was, she did it with everyone. Once in a while my old reactions would pop in. I’d get angry at another driver, and it would scare her when I’d yell, or give someone the finger. She helped me wake up, temper my driving, and I was able to do it because I loved her and didn’t want to be the source of fear and anxiety when we traveled together.
She’d tell me when she needed me to slow down, when she needed me to widen my following distance. Because of that I was able to change.
My first sign that 12-Step was working for me was the evaporation of my road rage. It felt like a miracle. I learned to breathe behind the wheel of my car. I learned to slow the fuck down. I learned to get curious about the things beneath the surface that triggered my disproportionate reactions. They were alarms that I needed to heed, and now I’m able to look for and find what truly needs fixing. It’s never about the other drivers on the road. When these old responses threaten to pop in, I catch myself, reconnect with grace and sort it all out.
I don’t want to hurt anyone, including myself.
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