The Longest Drive

I’m doing it again.

I’m waiting for perfection.

I haven’t blogged as near as much as I’ve wanted to, and besides lack of time (or reaching for the glass and wine and a blanket instead of the laptop) there’s really no good reason not to be writing more frequently. I’m beginning to think, however, that this pesky little perfectionist in me may have something to do with it.

I keep waiting for the perfect thing to write about, edit it a hundred times, and then finally put it out there. When it’s perfect.  Didn’t I promise transparency, though? Didn’t I tell you to give yourself grace and embrace your imperfections? Looks like I need to start taking my own advice.

I started following a blog recently, and the author posted a new goal of trying to blog everyday. Everyday! I can barely put make-up on everyday. Today I didn’t even get dressed until almost 11am (not that I wasn’t super productive though…it’s amazing how many household chores you can get done in your pj’s! And thank goodness no one can see my glorious outfits in morning carpool line!!).

I’ve accomplished some pretty noteworthy things in the past few months, and I have hardly written a thing about them. Why?! Part of me thinks no one really wants to read about it. That’s the other pesky friend in my head, the low self-worth one. She’s just hanging out up there with little Miss Perfect, having a cocktail and scheming away and how to rob me of a full, content life. Sorry ladies, time for last call.

In the spirit of celebrating my accomplishments, I am determined to write about my drive yesterday. I took the longest drive with the kids I’ve ever done…7 hours from Destin to Kennesaw by myself. BY MYSELF!!!!! As I traversed those long, seemingly endless stretches of highway, I thought, I need to blog about this!  Yet those snarky frenemies in my head started inflicting doubt. It’s just a boring drive. Why would people want to read about that? People drive all the time. They don’t want to read about it. 

So I didn’t take to the keyboard, although I was fresh off reaching this huge goal and teeming with disbelief and pride.  It was partially out of pure exhaustion that I failed to capture the moment in words…I’d driven the farthest I had been in about 10 years, and I still had to unpack and put the kids to bed without a husband. The wine and cozy blanket were the clear winners.

Here I am though. I’m going to write about this, damn it! Sure, my kids are yelling at me from downstairs and I should be starting dinner, but they will survive a few more measly minutes. I can at least get started and stop if they start beating each other up. Clock is ticking.

While I ruminated on whether anyone would want to read about a boring drive home from the beach, I had a thought. When I first started grappling with this anxious driving business, I was desperate for answers, advice…anything to proove that I wasn’t alone in this. Enter the smart phone. I Googled driving anxiety, then searched and searched for someone with a similar story. There were some forums here and there, some technical psychology sites, links to this and that; I did read some snip-its of similar experiences, but nothing that I could really connect with. I ended up finding an anxiety Facebook group, so I put a couple of posts out there and waited. I needed support and reassurance. The most poignant response I received was from a woman who had just started driving on the highway again, after 20 years. In my reply, I remember asking her how she did it? She mentioned that it took a great support group and lots of courage. That’s one of the trickiest parts of recovering from the grips of paralyzing fear…there’s no clear answer. No one size fits all. But we crave a sense of community, a support group of our own, for whatever we may need. We cannot do it alone.

This is why I write. Because maybe there’s that one person, who was like me 6 or 7 years ago, desperately searching for a common thread, for a link to a glimmer of hope. Someone out there needs me. More than likely, it’s several someones.

Back to the drive. I have said for years, one day I want to be able to drive my kids to the beach. It has been a goal for so, so long. I really am still in disbelief that I actually did it. I’m like that though, slow to react; I kind of go into shock until reality sets in. Anyway, the opportunity kind of just presented itself unexpectedly.

We took a family trip down to Ft. Walton Beach, right outside of Destin, FL. I was so excited that Jason could finally join us; he is so hard to pin down with his work schedule. When we arrived I realized that it was booked until Monday, and we had planned to come back Sunday. By the time Saturday evening rolled around, Jason made a suggestion; what if he flew home (he had an international flight he had to catch the next day) and I drove the kids home? Then we could stay an extra day.

Could you do it? he asked.

Pause.

This is where the fear wants to control you. You hesitate, you start to make excuses, you try to find every reason not to face your fear. Jack has school. I really miss my bed. I don’t know if the kids can ingest another meal of popcorn shrimp. But I knew better.  Here was an opportunity. Not only to extend our wonderful, priceless family time, but to practice. To take the fear head on. I did not pause for long this time.

Yes. 

Yes! Challenge accepted. Was I really going to do it? Then Jason went ahead and booked his flight. It was done. I was in.

Yes. This is why we needed another day.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t even that worried. Usually, the anticipatory anxiety would fester and build until I was a hot mess of nerves. But we just enjoyed our last day of glorious beach vacation time, sipped frozen drinks while our kids played in the pool (side note: the day when both your children can swim unassisted in a pool is AH-MAZING!!!), Jason flew out, I enjoyed another frozen pool drink, we watched the sunset from the beach, swam until dark, ordered a pizza, and called it a day. I even slept like a rock. It wasn’t until the next day that my nerves started acting up on me.

Looking back, I think that packing the entire condo up into the truck while you are alone with two kids and a dog was maybe more annoying than the entire drive, but thanks to the trusty old iPads, I got the job done.  So we all strapped into the F150 (Jason’s car, since mine was at home) and I started taking deep breaths. This is it. I have to do this. 

I find necessity to be a very helpful motivator. There was only one way home, and I was it. But I was nervous. I adjusted my seat belt. I entered the address in Google Maps and dissected each possible route.  I ate a protein bar. Mom, I’m ready to go! My son was clearly not in the mood for stall tactics. Time to go.

I decided to take a different way then how we came in, really only for old time’s sake. Back in high school and college I could drive to Destin with my eyes closed, we came down so many times. I can still see myself, driving in my white ’88 Honda Accord, windows down, music blasting, usually a best friend or two riding along. I used to put the car in cruise control and drive Indian-style, for goodness sakes. Please Lord don’t let my kids ever do that. There were no smart phones, no navigation systems; it was just me, a road atlas and a Sony Walkman CD player that would play through the stereo via cassette tape. Free as a bird (and probably listening to Free Bird).

So I started on the route, reminiscing over familiar sights and smells, noticing changes here and there, but mostly enjoying the scenery.

Until I came to the bridge.

The Mid-Bay Bridge seemed familiar, I’m pretty sure this was the route we used to take into Destin back in the day. These days, however, bridges are not my friend. As part of my anxiety I suffer from agoraphobia, which is a fear of being trapped or stuck in an enclosed space. A bridge leaves no room for error. I must maintain complete control and competence on a bridge.

There was a girl in college with me that was deathly afraid of bridges. I was with her once when she had to cross a bridge, and people had to literally hold her hand to help her across. I remember thinking that was crazy. How could you be scared of a bridge? I know now. I think of her all the time. Crazy how things can change.

I glance at the navigation map…wow, that’s a long bridge. I must maintain myself for how long? The impulsive thoughts come quickly…should I turn around? Should I reroute? Can I pull over if I need to? Can I do this?!

Yes. I can do this.

It is not a walk in the park. I take deep breaths. I try to control the AC so that it’s just perfect. I prepare to be uncomfortable. And then…I’m driving over the bridge. Guess what? I just go with it. Then, I turn the moment from dread into complete wonderment.

Look at the water guys! (They are engrossed in the iPads at this point) Put your iPads down!!! Look at the sailboat! Look at that pelican on the pole! Say goodbye to the ocean, guys!

This is the good stuff. The good that is happening in the moment. I declare the goodness out loud, and flush away the negative. Then, just like that, we are over the bridge.

Getting over that bridge seemed to be the push I needed to make it through the rest of the trip. After that, it was smooth sailing. The small highways didn’t look all that familiar; I’m pretty sure there were some new ones built in the 15 years since I’d driven down here. There were some pretty sketchy, remote areas (at one point the road didn’t even register on the map), but most of the route was straightforward. In the past I never had anxiety about being lost; I always considered myself having a decent sense of direction. We drove through a couple of rain storms, had to let the dog out to pee on the side of the road, then Jack had to go (which resulted in stepping in an ant hill, which he was quick to brush off, but then decided he would stick it to the ants by peeing on them). We hit up two Love’s truck stops (which were eerily similar and packed with way too many tempting kids toys), stuffed our faces with McDonalds and Pringles. We listened to Katy Perry on repeat (per Allie’s request) and laughed at Bear when he got his head stuck in the Happy Meal box scavenging for rogue french fries. Jack had a timer set on his phone to track how long it would take us to get home, but he still kept asking.

Mama, how many minutes are in 2 1/2 hours?? After many appeasing answers, I finally responded with, I can’t do math in the car. 

On I-10
Off the map!
She wore this the whole way home. My hero.

We actually had a decent time. The kids were great. Again, thank you Apple. We had a lot of laughs. I had a lot of time to think. I sang a lot of Katy Perry. But what I didn’t have a lot of, was fear.

Every mile, every second, every hour, was another step. A step towards freedom. I was building on this experience and coming out stronger because of it.

I did stall again, however, as I approached I-85. What had been simple, two lane divided highways for most of the trip were bound to end once we inched closer to downtown Atlanta. I stopped at the end of the smaller route 185 to get gas, clean out the car, let the dog pee…putting off the inevitable. Unless I wanted to add an extra couple of hours to the trip, I had to push on.

So on I went. The kids were getting a bit antsy into hour 6, and I couldn’t blame them. More motivation to take the fastest route…and the most intimidating. Three lanes turned into four, five, and finally I was in the middle of the eight lane connector. This was the stuff I had only reserved for my nightmares, and all of a sudden I was slap in the middle of it. But I was calm. I had to work at it, but I remained that way. As I hit rush-hour traffic in downtown (fabulous timing, I know), I realized that I could hop over to the HOV lane (yes, I Googled it and kids do count), but it was all the way over to the left. Much like the bridge I had feared earlier, the left lane is not my friend either. But I was ready to get through this as fast as I could if it meant getting home quicker. So over I went.

The big, scary connector up ahead.
At least Bear is relaxed!

I got some dirty looks (at one point I rolled the windows down so the kids were a bit more visible), but the HOV lane sped my commute up immensely. Next thing you know, I’m on 75 north, cruising with the rush hour crowd like it’s no big deal. I got this. I pull in the driveway and want to kiss the ground. Home. I’m exhausted. The car smells like stinky dog, sweaty kids and chicken nuggets. But we made it. I did it.

If the me from 6 years ago could read this, I’d be in shock. I wouldn’t believe it. It would be impossible to fast-forward through years of crippling fear and doubt to realize that a moment like this could exist. But what that younger, more fearful, broken me would see, is that there is hope. That fear does not win in the end. The the steps are small and painfully slow. Sometimes there will even be steps backwards, but there is hope in the end. There is always hope. No one can get you there but yourself, but you also cannot do it alone.

I met with a friend not long ago who specializes in natural healing and helps patients with anxiety, and had overcome it herself. As I explained the many outlets and paths I had been taking to find an answer somewhere out in the universe, she said something that will always resonate with me.

The answer is in YOU. You have everything you need right there, inside you. 

I finally believe her. I knew she was right, even then, but like all things in life, sometimes it takes the gift of time and wisdom to see what’s right in front of us…what’s been within reach the entire time. One day, I promise, you will be able to just reach up and grab it. And when you do, hold on. Hold on tight.

And by all means, freaking celebrate it.

 

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This Friend I Know

Starting a post at 11:30pm is never a good idea, but inspiration is not known for being timely. So here I go.

I’ve been thinking all day about this friend I know.

It’s not a new friend, but it’s someone I haven’t treated like a friend lately. Or ever, perhaps. I started thinking about her this morning.

We had some family in town, and I was doing my best to be a gracious and put-together hostess (even though these were probably the easiest-going house guests one could ever have).  So, of course I was worried about the normal hostess things like my house being a mess and what do I offer them to drink and shoot, sorry I’m out of regular coffee, now you won’t be able to function thanks to me. I do love having people in my house, don’t get me wrong. But I have major performance anxiety about it.  I’m always second guessing myself in this situation. Am I entertaining them enough? Am I leaving them alone enough? Do my towels smell clean?  I’m so judgemental of myself in this position.

I have always felt that although I love having people over, I despise hosting. I’m not sure if this makes sense, but the only way I can untangle this thought is by guessing that since I like helping people and doing things for others, welcoming people into your home is a positive, people-pleasing move.  That same people-pleasing tendency, however, can get wound up so tightly in perfection that you feel the responsibility of this pleasing business squeezing all the air right out of you.

I relayed this insecure perspective to someone the other day, while I was going on about how excited I was to have everyone over to our house in a couple of weeks for a party, but how I was already starting to get crazy-eyed over all the crap I have to do to get my house looking absolutely perfect. You’re home is so warm and welcoming! You have nothing to worry about! I went on to explain my theory of “house anorexia”: that I have a distorted image of how my house looks and it will never look good enough. This is obviously not as serious of a disorder, but it’s still disheartening. Such a shallow, first-world problem, I know. I hate even wasting thoughts on this as I read it back. But sadly, I know I’m not alone in this shallow trap of superficial suburban comparison. There’s so much good in my life, and I’m worried about my role as a domestic goddess? Tisk, tisk. 

Anyway, this was all brought to light this morning as I was apologizing again to my house guest about the mess. I was in the laundry room making sure she was able to switch over her laundry okay.

Sorry it’s such a mess! I grumbled with a bit of an eye-roll.

Don’t worry about it! It’s just a laundry room! She smiled at me.

It’s just a laundry room. 

I went back to put a smidge of make-up on, and ruminated over all the times I had apologized about stupid things that morning. Apologized about the coffee. Apologized about the kids being loud. About having not enough variety of breakfast food. About being a mess. About being a terrible mom for not making my kids lunches the night before (ok, so this happens pretty much every morning).

Pretty much everything I did was followed by an apology.

Why am I doing this? What am I apologizing for?! I stared at myself in the mirror for a minute. Then I stopped.  I started over.

Hi there, I said to myself, silently. How are you? You look nice today! And what a great house you have! So warm and welcoming. You are so gracious to have people stay with you. You are doing a great job. 

Just like that, the weight lifted. I was as light as air. I felt a pang of confidence and reassurance in my veins. Simply by being a good friend…to myself. 

I know I mentioned in my last post about how thought distortions can really shape who we are in our daily lives. Our thoughts can be so deeply hidden in our subconscious, however, that it can be difficult to unmask them. But this morning they were loud and clear.

I’m not good enough. Im a failure. Im not worthy. 

I didn’t just hear the words as I moped around apologizing, I felt them, heavy like a lead blanket, crushing me under it’s weight. That is, until I made my new friend.

The way we talk to ourselves is so harsh sometimes. Would you ever talk to a friend that way? Of course not! When you stop and change the perspective around a bit, it can be shockingly profound. We worry so much about pleasing others, about being a good friend, yet we go around talking to ourselves like the scum of the earth.

Take care how you speak to yourself, because you are listening. 

How can such a simple concept be so difficult? No wonder I have anxiety issues; look how I talk to myself. I’m my own worst enemy, my harshest critic, bound by the chains of perfection. All the while, I’m missing out on the good. Fretting about trivial imperfections while this beautiful life is happening right in front of me.
That’s why I’m trying something new. I’m going to be a good friend…to myself. This sounds so corny, I know. But I’m not sure if I’ve ever been a friend to myself. And this is the most important friendship I think I could ever have. It’s way, way overdue.

It will take some time to build our friendship. We have a lot of ground to cover, and lots of catching up to do. But it’s time to make an effort.

This special friend is so, so worth it.

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