Just Don't Drive Off The Road

That girl sitting in the car next to you at the intersection, hunched over the steering wheel, her shoulders heaving -- I'm that girl.

I recently spent close to 48 hours driving between Chicago, South Carolina and New Jersey.  On the drive from South Carolina to New Jersey, I spent three and a half hours in one spot on I-85, waiting for the snow and a wreck to clear.  I sat immobilized in the car, surrounded by motorists frustrated by their own stalled travel plans.  I was overwhelmed by the stillness of the car, the sameness of the trees I'd been staring at for hours, the sorrow of being left by my husband -- and my utter helplessness to change any of it.  I gripped the steering wheel and sobbed.  Alone in the car, I wailed, a guttural moan pleading for relief.  Then I pushed myself up, forced myself to breathe deeply and closed my eyes for a silent moment.  And then I sobbed again.

In the almost four months since my husband told me he wants a divorce, I've discovered that acceptance of tremendous loss is like that; it is not a door we walk through at once, but a tide that ebbs and flows, until at last it carries us to shore.

At some point, when you're crying so hard you can't see what's coming, you have two choices. You can pull over, put the car in park, sit on the side of the road and sob. Or you can wipe your eyes, find a good song, turn it up so loud it pushes everything else out of your way, and keep driving. You might still cry, but at least you're moving forward.  Keep tissues handy, and just don't drive off the road.

I'm a sit-on-the-side-of-the-road-and-sob kind of girl, and I've spent the last four months watching cars blow by me.  I'm still crying, and I probably will be for a while, but now I'm crying while driving.  I may stall out.  I may have to pull over and sob again.  I may forget that I'm moving away from the things in the rear-view mirror.  But I will get back on the road, I will keep driving, looking for the shore.