My daughter got her driver’s license last week. Even though I will acknowledge that the village has helped raise Darian, I taught her how to drive all by myself. I cannot stand waiting for her in the morning. I like to get to work at 6:30 when the building is dark and quiet and get my first classes ready to roll and sip my tea and check my email. Darian HATES mornings and most days manages to get into the school building just as the bell rings. I feel like I’m always driving her to her social events, lessons, appointments and there is nothing worse than sitting in a cold car late at night waiting for her musical theater director to finish notes. So I guess there was a lot of motivation for me to help Darian get her license. She was sure she wasn’t going to pass the driving test, and was a wreck. I told her that she was going to pass because she was better than me and I passed the first time. She said something like, “Of course you passed. You got your license in the eighties. No one cared about living in the eighties. You all smoked cigarettes, had unprotected sex, and drank wine coolers like monsters.” Ah there it is–savage sixteen.
But she did pass, on her first time. And when we drove home, I made a comment on her speed or something and she said, “You can’t tell me what do anymore, I have my license now.” I laughed, but I didn’t realize until the next day when she got in the car, waved to me and drove away without even telling me where she was going, that I hadn’t thought through the “after the license” part very well. After lying awake one night, imagining curvy mountain roads, deer and Darian lying in a ditch, I wondered why I was in such a hurry for the whole license thing. I just wanted her home safe. It made me remember the night I got the call that my parents had been in the accident. I just couldn’t handle that scenario again.
When Darian did come home safe, we talked about rules and boundaries for the car. I told her how scary it was for me to not know exactly where she was and to think of her on dark, curvy roads. She asked if I felt that way about Shayne. Fair question. I guess not. First off, when Shayne started driving, I had never experienced the trauma of losing people I love in a car accident. And Shayne mostly just drove to school and work, the car was never a great escape for him. Plus Shayne has brushed death so many times since his diagnosis with schizophrenia, that I’ve accepted that he could die violently. In some ways, I even expect it.
Darian is a different person. It won’t hurt her to have boundaries and rules around the car and recognize the responsibility that comes with a license. But for her sake, I’ll try to keep my PTSD over my parents trauma under control. I remember when I got my license. I had a little red Mustang and I drove around with the windows down listening to the radio a little too loud. I remember the air in my hair, and feeling like I could drive anywhere I wanted. It was freedom and magic and my first taste of being an adult. I want Darian to have that joy, even if I know it leads her away from me.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 