>Secret post

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This time last year I was lying on the pavement at the intersection of E. 1st Avenue and Detroit. I remember looking at the pale blue sky, feeling dizzy from the encounter of my little body with a large vehicle and hearing sirens in the distance growing closer, and closer, and closer. It wasn’t until an EMT came over to check my vitals that I realized they were there for me. Perfect timing, because no longer than one minute later, my legs went numb and I went into shock. He whisked me away on a stretcher, placed me in an ambulance and proceeded to pull out a pair of scissors in attempts to cut off my clothes. NO!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’ve had these leggings for 5 years, and if you cut them off I will cut you. As we pulled away, I was distracted by the lights from the fire trucks and thought, FIRE TRUCKS? FOR ME??? Yes, fire trucks for me.

I have never understood the amount of help they send to the scene of an accident. Really makes you think about the communication between the 911 dispatcher and person reporting the accident, doesn’t it? Yo, some 14 year old just got hit by a car. I think she’s on fire. Send as many firetrucks as you can. I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Physically speaking, I dealt with my problems through therapy. But mentally? That was a monster in and of itself. For a while after the accident, I seamlessly managed to carry on like a person who had never been hit by a car; I put the incident out of my mind and went about my day as a seemingly normal human being.

Then one day, while I was home alone, I crawled into a ball in an empty bathtub and cried for 2 solid hours. I felt so empty, so numb, and realized that this was no longer a problem I could battle on my own. For quite some time, my post-traumatic stress disorder made it impossible for me to feel comfortable anywhere outside of my home; I was safe there, from cars, from people, from everything. I couldn’t walk to the grocery store without picturing someone running over my body; I couldn’t ride my bike in the street without worrying about someone side-swiping me; I couldn’t even ride in a car without picturing what it would be like for me to be in her shoes.

Realizing those thoughts were abnormal, I started seeing a psychologist.

As instructed per aforementioned psychologist, I wrote a letter to the woman who hit me. Mind you, this letter was not intended for her viewing, it was simply used as a coping mechanism. I told her that I thought she was a coward for not getting out of her car to make sure I was ok; for not visiting me in the hospital. I told her that, because of her reaction, I thought a little less of humankind that day. I told her that, most of all, I thought she was a pathetic excuse for a human being. If I ran over someone with my car, I’d get my ass out of that car and bend to that person’s every whim. I’d follow them to the hospital, to make sure they were ok, and bake them cookies until they were fully recovered. But you know, I’m coming to learn that most people don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. She was no exception. Any time I feel even the slightest ounce of hate toward her, I get that letter out of it’s secret place, go to the bathroom and read it to the mirror. Hey, it works.

I’m not better. I still have nightmares; I still get scared to leave my comfort zone. But I’m pushing myself and learning that fear is not a bad thing. Since I’m a no-medicine kinda lady, affirmations and refutations see me through the day. If you cross that street you’re going to get hit by a car. Be quiet, I am not. I have a better chance of getting struck by lightening. And I started a new type of light therapy called EMDR, which is supposed to rearrange the traumatic events in one’s brain. I’m skeptical, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.

I can’t put into words how happy I am that this day has finally arrived, and is almost over. Right now I’m carving pumpkins with my Colorado family (I’ve got this on auto-post) and chances are, mama G is making me slug down glasses of wine shots of vodka. Here’s to hoping I don’t lost a finger.