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1986

I never made this particular left turn during the day; only with car headlights glowing in the darkness would I chance it. It was dark. I chanced it. I wish I hadn’t done that.

The police cruiser did not have on headlights, dome lights or a siren. Judging by the speed he was driving, was on his way to an emergency. 

The crash injured only me. I would find out later that I had nerve damage to my left elbow and forearm. Now, I was relieved my friends weren’t hurt and neither was the cop.   I was even more relieved to see that I knew him.  He was one of my father’s long-time dental patients.  Because I worked part-time at my Dad’s dental office, I saw him every six months when he came in for a cleaning.  He was a very nice man. 
He told us not to worry. He told me he was going to call my Dad for me, so he could take care of me. Everything was going to be fine. Cars can be fixed. He did insist on calling an ambulance to have me taken to the hospital to have my arm looked at, which I thought was very kind of him.

X-rays were taken, no fractures. Needed some pain meds and physical therapy, and because I am left-handed, stick to recording lectures in class for the time being. Could have been so much worse. I was told I was lucky, but something about the condescending tone made me wonder if there was more going on? I didn’t feel cared for in that moment. I felt lectured.

Both parents showed up at the hospital…in what can be best described as uncontrolled rage, but at me. The plot thickens, as they say.

You see, the cop told them and everyone else, that he was out there, doing his job, and was victim to a careless car of kids (i.e. me and my friends), horsing around, not paying attention and hit him. So luckily he managed to take some evasive action, otherwise it could’ve been much worse. You know, not to brag, but thank goodness it was him. No, no, no need to feel sorry for him, all in a day’s work. You know how kids are. He helpfully added that I was a “good kid”, so please don’t be too tough on me. The cop was sure that the whole thing had scared me straight, and I would be sure to put safety first from now on. And the expensive ambulance ride?… she was so insistent, I had no choice but to get her checked out, but you folks got insurance, so it won’t be too expensive.

I just sat there with my jaw agape. He just threw me under the bus. Holy shit! But, in the back of my mind, I thought, “There is no way my parents will stand for this. They know me. They know that I would never do such a thing.” Right?

Turns out, despite 18 years of perfect grades, being well-behaved and trusted; I was now a careless driver with no regard to anyone’s safety. It was a miracle nobody got hurt (The fact that they were telling me this in an emergency room because I had been injured seemed to slip past them). But five minutes ago, had you asked anyone about me, I was a living definition of a goody-two-shoes. My parents over the years even playfully teased me about my no drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no boys nerdyness.

I had no idea that my reputation was so tenuous!

The cop taking the report had “no choice” but to write me a citation for “failure to yield” for blowing through the stop sign. I was told I was lucky that the cop I hit vouched for me. Otherwise, I could be looking at jail. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young lady!”, he declared on the way out the door; leaving the apocalyptic scene that was my life now for me to deal with.

Punishment at home was also swift and severe. My car was taken away, but I still had to continue making the payments and insurance payments while it gathered dust in the driveway. My Mom would take it every once in a while, and with a mocking tone say, “I get to drive it because I’ve never almost killed people with it.” Then the sound of grinding gears of the stick-shift transmission that had never been an area of expertise for her would echo down the street. Sorry, car. I guess as partners-in-crime, we must both be punished.

Time moved on, and I managed to get to school and work. The fact that I spiraled into deep clinical depression should not be a surprise to anyone. I desperately tried to stop the metaphorical bleed with hard-core people pleasing. I chose a school major my dad approved of. I had no skills or interest in it, so bad grades became an issue for the first time in my life. Nobody picked up on the fact that this was new. Instead I heard a lot of, “Well, after she hit a cop, she’s been a complete mess, so no surprise she’d start screwing up at school and waste her parents’ money on tuition!

I dumbed down my wardrobe to things people would find acceptably lady-like. Generic. I looked like walking talking faded wallpaper.

I dated the first guy who showed interest. He was an abusive monster, but it was what I deserved, after all. I would talk about leaving. He would say, “Where you gonna go? Nobody wants you. Your parents don’t even want you!” He was right about that. I was asked by my Mom, “When are you finally going to move out?”, on a weekly basis. Everyone else hated me, so I chose to go with them and hate myself. I considered taking my life more than once.

Eventually things got so bad, I was such a problem to everyone, that it was decided I would be sent to therapy to, “Get straightened out.” Therapy was the last step to officially being declared crazy. That I was a problem. That I was an embarrassment. I accepted my fate and went to the appointment.

So, head down, defeated, I walked my crazy-ass into my first therapy appointment, not knowing that it would quite literally save my life.

I learned about trauma, and how the body reacts to all trauma in the same way. There are no levels of trauma, just trauma. I also learned that clinical depression was a chemical imbalance in my brain. It could be treated. It was an illness, not a failing. I learned that these two things combined had put me in a near-constant state of hyper-vigilance, or “fight or flight mode”. I cried all the time because my body had to release all that tension somehow. It wasn’t dramatics. There was nothing manipulative about it. I felt like I was in danger or dying ALL THE TIME, so some tears were to be expected.  I deserved some compassion, not more ridicule. What a revelation to hear after 20 years of life! You’re an OK, not crazy, sensitive, empathetic person. Furthermore, that is a good kind of person to be.

Next thing I learned is, “this is me”. Not everyone will like me. Doesn’t make me wrong or them wrong. It just is. If a person I was around didn’t like me, then it was OK for me to spend time with someone else. Before, I had desperately tried to change to be the person others wanted me to be. Therapy taught me that’s not how that works. Everything I had thought for so long was backwards.

With this accurate information, I began again. With everything. Boyfriend, he was an asshole, so he was shown the door. If people teased me in front of me and/or behind my back for showing my emotions, I chose to spend time with different people. I needed to figure out what I liked anyway, so solo outings became small, ordinary adventures of discovery. I was interesting, who knew?!

I changed my college major to English Literature, like I had always wanted. My Dad hit the roof, but he was already mad at me anyway over shit grades, so nothing to lose really. I regained my love of learning almost immediately. I was held after class, not to discuss the terrible state of my GPA, but so Professors could compliment me on my writing. Heck, I even turned one Professor into a Star Wars fan after reading my paper! This Professor encouraged me to apply for post-graduate work in Arthurian literature in Wales. I started to see a completely different person in the mirror. I liked this person.

I began to embrace my love of style and fashion again as well. No boyfriend to tell me I looked like a whore anymore. I had faced ridicule and criticism for my clothes even after “making them less”, so I might as well dress how I wanted and express my creativity through my clothes. It felt right. I looked and felt better. I looked and felt like me.

I found dance floors. I would dance until literal dawn on weekends. First time at an alternative dance club, I saw the twirling, dancing goths and wondered how they were so brave. Didn’t they worry somebody was going to mock them or laugh? Nobody was laughing at anyone. There was laughter in the place, but it was joyous and not malicious. I took a step out onto the floor, and have never stopped twirling since.

One other thing I really wanted to do something about, was my hair. I had always had a hate-hate relationship with my hair my whole life. When I was small, my Dad insisted on it being long. Bullies would put gum in it, tie it in knots, my Mom would violently brush the tangles out. Long hair equaled pain. Equaled ugly. People would pin it between desktops, so when I stood up, I’d be yanked to the floor. But the worst thing in regards to my hair, was the night of the crash. I had some random braids in it (it was the 80s), and when my parents arrived, my Mom began violently un-braiding my braids. I always wondered why she did that. I still don’t know why the memory of it hurts me to this day, but it does. So, again, Dad was gonna go ballistic, but I walked out of the salon with super short hair. I will never have my hair touch my shoulders again.

My rebuild was going great! I saw myself and other people differently. I had a future. And I realized that future was not in Arkansas. That I knew for sure. I remembered my Professor telling me about post-graduate work in Wales. How I’d be an amazing researcher, and be an excellent analyst of ancient stories and how they apply to modern day life. I applied to the University of North Wales, and I friggin’ got accepted! My Grandfather offered to pay and everything. I started getting ready to get my BA, get outta Arkansas, and begin my new life surrounded by castles, history, books and probably some magick.

But, talking about and actually getting out are two different things. My Grandfather pulled his offer at the last minute. He told me, “I didn’t think you’d actually get in. I also thought you’d chicken out of leaving.” Nice. What he thought would be a great, “There’s no place like home.”, realization for me, was instead my, “I can’t spend eternity here! What is this, KNOTTY PINE?!”, moment. So, I kept looking on the quiet.

I came across a flyer in the student union a while later. Big picture of Mickey Mouse on it and an invite to start a career working for the over-sized rodent and his friends. I mean, he did have a castle. Hmmm? Could I? Should I? I could. I would. I bought a calling card to make the long-distance call (again, 80’s), and was told that Mr. Mouse was looking for people just like me, actually. People that loved the great stories and legends. All the better that I wanted to teach because they had educational programs that needed people like me to teach them. I was encouraged to apply. I applied. I got in. I packed my car. I drove away. It’s funny how going for a drive can change your life.

I don’t think about the crash much anymore. There’s the occasional family gathering where I get teased about it. “Hey, remember when Kim hit that cop?!” Oh, man, one of the scariest moments of my life is SO FUNNY, right?! There are also days when it’s going to rain, and as a reminder, my arm aches.  I know it is just an old injury that wasn’t properly cared for. I also know that the real injury healed a long time ago.

2002

The small town dentist had a patient waiting for him.  Routine post-cleaning check-up.  The patient had been coming in for a long time.  He was a recently retired police officer.  “How’s retirement?”, the dentist asked while washing his hands.  “Good, relaxing.”, said the patient.  There was a little pause, and the patient said, “Listen, I have to tell you something, doc.  It’s about the accident with your daughter.  She was telling the truth.  I got in my car that night, immediately got a radio call, and took off before turning on my lights and siren.  There’s no way she could have seen or heard me.  She didn’t have a chance.  I had no idea they would throw the book at her like they did.  I was just trying to protect my job.  I am so sorry.”  The dentist replied with a quick “thank-you” and “your teeth look great, see ya in six months” before ducking down the hall to his private office.  He dialed the phone.  No answer.  Voice Mail.  “Kimberly, it’s your Dad.  Give me a call as soon as you get this.”