It was another beautiful summer day. The sky was the perfect shade of blue, the breeze was just the right bit of cool, and the sun's rays seemed as bright as ever. I had just finished my freshman year of college three weeks prior and my sister days before, so we decided venture out into the beautiful day. We headed over to a small Korean restaurant and dined like queens with some bibimbap, and what better way to end a meal than with a small trip to Target.
My sister and I went through the usual: bickering over something stupid, looking at nail polish, debating on whether or not we should buy Starbucks on the way out.. Finally, it was time to head home. So we rolled down the windows, cranked up the music, and hit the road. I even remember the song that was playing: “If You’re Wondering if I Want You to” by Weezer. One moment I was singing along at the top of lungs as the summer air blew through my hair and the next, the car had swerved and crashed.
People aren’t lying when they say it comes out of nowhere. I was so focused on straightening out the car that my brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening. Even when the car came to a stop in the middle of the road, I was still in such disbelief. I crashed the car. I crashed the car. I crashed the car. Shakily, I turned to my sister to make sure she was okay. Somehow she was more than okay: she called the police right away, called our parents, and dug out the registration while I pathetically stared at the steering wheel without blinking. Somehow, my sixteen-year old sister acted much more like adult than I ever could have in that situation.
I won’t go much into the legal aspect and mechanical details of what happened, because it had much more of an emotional and mental effect on me for a long time. I remember sitting in the tow guy’s truck with my sister wanting nothing more than to break down in tears. And I remember the relief I felt as I saw my dad’s car roll around the corner to pick us up. And I remember the anxiety I had as he drove back home. Being in a car was the last thing I wanted, but I had no choice.
That night, I looked at myself in the mirror and despised what I saw. I looked pathetic and broken: my eyes puffy and red from crying, abrasions along my collar bone, burns on my thighs, a nice gash on my arm. I’m usually very put together and don’t like moments of weakness, but I couldn’t help but feel useless and stupid for letting something like that happen. I like to believe I’m a good driver: I don’t text, I’m always aware and cautious. I’m a rule follower. I always have, and I hate getting in trouble with authority. My palms start sweating even if I pass a cop. So how could I let that happen? How I could I let those nine seconds of losing control of the steering wheel ruin me?
My family and friends all felt relief. The accident honestly could have been a lot worse. If I had reacted a second too late or too early, I wouldn’t be writing this article right now. Everyone tells me that it wasn’t my fault, that I reacted just as I should have. But that didn’t make me feel better at all. I kept thinking what if?. What if I had hurt someone in another vehicle? What if I hadn’t totaled the car? What if I had killed my sister, who was just innocently humming a song in the passenger seat? And for a while, I went into a state of depression (due to the car wreck amongst other things). I didn’t like to think about the accident, I didn’t like to talk about it (even though my grandfather pressed me for all itty bitty details), I just didn’t want that part of my life exist at all.
That weekend, I was supposed to make a long, 5-hour drive out to Des Moines to visit my friends from college, but I obviously didn’t go. I didn’t want to get behind the wheel for a while, but my mom, being the pushy medical professional that she is, forced me to face my trauma and drive the next day. I didn’t have the music on, I didn’t drive with one hand like gangsta like I usually do. I had tension in my shoulders, kept my hands at 10 and 2, and basically drove like a robot until I felt the sweet relief of putting the car in park. It got easier after that. I slowly built up to putting the music back on and having full conversations with passengers. But the thing that took me a while to do again was to drive past that road, where it had happened. It was so difficult for me because it was something that I could do without a worry: drive to Target and drive back home. And every time I go down that road, I don’t see it as simple as I did back then. What I saw was my car crashing into the curb and spinning out into the middle of the road. And that’s what I’m going to see for a while. It’s been easier, but I still won’t forget.
The question of what if still frightens me, but I can’t dwell on what could’ve happened. Yes, I could’ve died or killed someone. Yes, I am very lucky to have walked away with what I walked away with. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have scars from what happened. Late at night when I’m trying to sleep, the memory will creeping back sometimes. I just remind myself to breath and carry on. What happened happened, and I’m doing just fine.
