Taking Back the Power (Steering): My Driving Phobia II

Some time ago, I wrote that I’d finally decided to deal with my highway driving phobia, a post that prompted comments not only on the blog, but generated a flurry of correspondence to its email address: midlifepassions@gmail.com

Speaking to National Council of Jewish Women

I've spoken to a number of groups lately about my books and blog, and this topic, more than any other I mention, evokes an intense reaction. Invariably a hum of sympathy, along with perhaps recognition and self-identification, buzzes through the audience. And later, fellow sufferers approach to clasp my hands and tell me their own harrowing stories.

Because my father used to remind me that “Knowledge is power,” I decided to explore the subject further, even as I worked through the problem on wheels. And here’s what I discovered.

There are two versions of fear involved in every phobia: 1) a fear of the activity, circumstances or object and 2) a fear of the panic attack associated with it. Now, a panic attack is not your normal garden variety anxiety. A medical text’s list of possible symptoms includes: shaking, sweating, nausea, blurred vision, dry mouth, chilled extremities, and the belief that you are either going crazy or about to die. Scary stuff. So scary that if something sets off a panic attack at the moment you’re driving at high speeds, the natural response is to avoid repeating that action. From then on, you’re not only fearing and avoiding highway driving, you’re taking measures to duck the panic attack associated with it. Or to paraphrase FDR, “The major thing a phobic has to fear is fear itself.”

But what triggered my first panic attack on the beltway? After all, I’d been driving it for years without a problem. Well, maybe it was my accident at Exit 20, the one that medics were afraid broke my neck (it turned out to be only a bad bruise, thank heaven). You’ve probably heard another version of this simple cause and effect response: a child bitten by a dog may be frightened of even the sweetest, most docile pups forever after.

Not every trigger is that specific, however. If Grandma was spooked by escalators and Uncle Joe was terrified of spiders, you may have inherited a predisposition to panic attacks. In many cases, this biochemical landmine remains dormant for your entire life. In others, it explodes. Stress of any kind—divorce, death of a spouse, job loss, financial problems; even good stress like planning a wedding or welcoming a new baby—can set it off. Where you are or what you’re doing at that moment may become associated with that unrelated, stress-induced panic attack and presto! you’ve got yourself a first class phobia.

As you avoid those awful feelings by taking back roads at ambling speed, your world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until you—and only you, not your spouse or your kids or your friends—decide it’s time to take back your power. “How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but the light bulb has to want to change.”

The treatment for phobias is called “counter conditioning” because you’re reversing what you have conditioned yourself to believe. “Beltways are dangerous, they can kill you if you make a mistake, and they cause panic attacks which are worse than death” was my self-taught lesson. So every week, an experienced (and courageous) therapist accompanies me as I take steps toward my goal of driving wherever at whatever is the legal speed limit. We started with baby steps, a few miles down a four-lane highway, and repeated that until it felt comfortable. And now, after months of practice under increasingly challenging circumstances, while Dr. Calm sits with perfect confidence beside me, I’m zooming down the beltway at 55. True, not yet entirely on my own. And, yes, with an occasional surge of fear. But I’m on my way. At last.

We welcome your comments about how you deal with your fears. And they don’t have to be full-fledged phobias...even small fears take courage to face and overcome.
Toby Devens 

On the Road Again? My Highway Driving Phobia

What did I know about driving? I grew up in New York City, which arguably has the best public transportation in the country. The subway rumbled beneath our living room window. A bus belched fumes at the end of our block. NY schools didn't even bother to offer driver's ed. Then, in my twenties, my husband and I relocated to the Baltimore suburbs where they served bread and butter in Chinese restaurants. I thought I'd moved to hell. No subways or buses. I learned to drive.

From the beginning, at the beginning I loved it--the freedom, the exhilaration of highway driving. In my thirties, I negotiated the hairpin turns around California's Big Sur in battering rain, the Baltimore-Washington Parkway in blizzards. No problem.

Problem. One afternoon approaching an exit on the Baltimore Beltway, my life crashed around me. I was a passenger, my seatbelt was buckled, it wasn't my friend's fault; his car was slammed from behind by an 18-wheeler--nearly totaled. I was sirened off to the hospital, head sandbagged. The docs thought I may have broken my neck. Turned out I was fine.

Well, not quite. A few weeks later, breezing along a different expressway, I got rocked by an unfamiliar jolt in my solar plexus, a cold stab of fear that sent my foot hovering above the brake. I gritted my teeth through the racing heartbeat, the dry mouth, the waves of nausea and dizziness, and managed to stagger my car onto an exit. Some never-to-be repeated quirk of nerves, I told myself. I tried again. And again. But the highway driving panic grew worse. Within months I was reduced to taking back roads and two-laners.

And that's the way it's been for more than two decades. As my world continued to shrink, I increasingly relied upon the kindness of family and friends and a network of detours. And though we highway phobics are a secret sisterhood, I began hearing about and from many other women--most at midlife--whose hyper-creative subconscious imagined the horrifying worst. These bright, otherwise capable women were ashamed of what they thought was their weakness. Me too. And yes, men can be highway phobic. But far fewer than women.

For a quarter century I've lived hobbled like a bird with clipped wings. Then a few months ago, something inside me rebelled and I declared " Enough! " Which is where my story really begins.

It will continue in future posts. If you're living with, have conquered a highway phobia, or just want to discuss your own particular fear, I'd love to hear from you.