Me, Tori Amos & a 91' Mustang LX.

Driving has always been my escape. When I was 14 years-old I started marking off the days on the calendar to when I would get my license. I had ridden as far as I could on my Huffy bike and needed a way to go further. There were towns I needed to cruise through, states I had heard of, but never been to, places in books I wanted to see for myself. A license was my ticket. My ticket to a car that could bring me farther than I could have imagined. A car was freedom. The weekend I finally got my license I took my 1991 Silver Ford Mustang LX hatchback all the way to Vermont. I left my small town in Massachusetts early on a Saturday before the sunrise and made it into a mountainous land I had only seen in magazines.

I parked and walked in the woods for over an hour. Just breathing and listening to the breeze and birds. When I reached the top of Pico Peak, I felt as far away from my small-town life as I ever had, yet as close to myself as I could at 16 years-old. The feeling of wanderlust was deeply ingrained in my soul that day, on that mountain summit, surrounded by a beauty I barely had words for. I became obsessed with driving. The summer of 1997 was painted by midnight drives into the darkness of a barely driven highway. Windows down, Tori Amos blasting, speeding into the unknown with wild abandon. Her feverish piano notes playing my life like heartstrings, as she sang of women’s roles, my role, in patriarchal religion and relationships. Black tar pavement and her words helping me navigate the winding roads of adolescence.

This longing for freedom compelled me to always be moving. If I wasn’t driving fast, then I was walking faster than my 5’ frame should move. A friend of mine once said that the speed I was able to walk defied the laws of physics. Constantly needing to move and not be caged led me to a career in outside sales. My car was my office and my schedule my own. Being trapped in a cubicle was death to me. The artery called me liked a siren. For over a decade I drove 8-10 hours a day and felt unrestricted. I had structure and a job, but I could also roll down my windows and feel the wind in my hair and hear the music of the day carry me onward. I finally landed in Boston, a city that could keep up with my natural pace. I was free and nothing could stop me.

MS stopped me. There came a day when my legs gave out and the numbness and pain were too much to push the pedals. My nerves didn’t fire in the right way or in enough time and I almost crashed into a cement wall in a parking garage. Thankfully I was going slow enough that I could pull the e-brake and stop. My car stayed in that parking garage for a month. I was living on my own in the city and too weak to walk to the train. My once working body had damned me to the one thing I feared the most – being immobile. I was trapped. Though my walking had become so bad it was hard to go anywhere farther than one room in my apartment to the other, I could still drive. Now, I felt I had no way to move. I had to get to work, shower, get dressed, do chores, live. There was no choice anymore. I was pushed to do what I had been avoiding for the few years since my diagnosis. I had to ask for help. I managed up to that point, because I could still drive, so even though it took me a long time to get anything done, I was able to do it myself. Not anymore.

All of the pride I held in my independent, “I don’t need anyone else” attitude went out the window the day I had to call my brother to ask him to stay with me. Without hesitation he packed a bag and drove the hour into the city to stay with me. He woke up and drove me to work by 8am every day and picked me up at 6pm every night. He went grocery shopping and scooped the litter box and did my laundry. He sat with me watching cheezy 80’s movies and listened to my gushing about the new woman I was seeing. He helped me. Without judgement or annoyance. He was there. He drove me to my infusions and bought me a stuffed cat to squeeze when they put the needle in. He gave me a sense of normalcy when my life was completely uprooted. He helped me to move when my body had slowed so much I didn’t recognize myself.

He was not the only one to be there. My girlfriend and family and coworkers and friends were all there in big and little ways. Taking me on dates, calling me, carrying my laptop to meetings. I had had a peripheral understanding that people cannot do it alone, but I still held onto the myth that I could do it alone. Then MS took away what I thought was my only tether to freedom; my car. Once I could no longer drive, I had to rely on others to see that freedom can be in a good conversation or a kiss or a laugh in the office message board.

That relapse humbled me, but it also made me stronger. Not just in my own resilience, but in my realization that the people in my life that I love, love me too. They want to be there for me, just as I want to be there for them. It is okay and necessary for me to ask for help when I need it. It doesn’t make me weak or less free. It makes me human. It helped me to understand that I needed to slow down. I was missing so much just rushing through my life. I thought slowing down would stop me from living, but really, it was the opposite. Being in the moment, staying present in what is happening now, not running to what could possibly be coming next, has given me a new perspective on what I need in my life.

When I was 16 years-old my car was my freedom. Today, at 38 years-old, the people in my life, and their love and support, are my freedom.

What makes you feel free? How can you ask for help when you are afraid to? What are the ways you have been there for others and others have been there for you? How do you stay in the moment, even when the moments are hard?