Flashback

To the man who tailgated me for more than 20 miles on the highway as I drove in the center lane, slowing down when I slowed down and speeding up when I sped up, refusing to pass me though lanes were empty for miles on either side, with high beams blaring so bright I had to flip the rearview mirror, and when I finally got over into the fast lane, sped past me like a speeding bullet. Why, oh why, was it that hard for you to overtake me by passing? Oh. Wait. Because you could not be bothered to overtake in the fast lane; your right of way was more important and therefore I should move. Even if I was already doing 70 in a 65-mph zone. 

To the man who flew up behind me and flashed me with your high beams indicating I should get over when a huge semi was in the lane to my right. Did you really expect me to move over when I was parallel with the semi's cab? Why could you not have waited 3 seconds for me to pass the cab, see if I was getting over politely, and then carried on your merry way? Oh. Wait. Because you own the road and everyone must get out of your way immediately, as you have no time to wait. 

To both of you uncaring oafs, I have a word or two to say. I was in the car in front of you. The car you tailgated; the car you flashed your high beams at. I was gripping onto that steering wheel for dear life—anxiety levels through the roof—as I talked myself through the road trip, knowing I had to complete it successfully so that the anxiety monster would not take over my life. I had been reminding myself to "look at the road" and "focus" and "you have no choice, you have to keep going, keep driving, merge when you have to" for the past hour and a half. And then you came along. As if driving, at night, with severe anxiety wasn't enough, you sat on my bumper, insisting on your rights even though they were not yours to begin with. Typical.

I thought of giving you the finger. I wished I could honk and startle you into sense. I wondered how in the world, God could punish you for your insensitive deeds when the wicked only thrived and, anyhow, they didn't want to go to heaven. So you would each speed off into the inky black night, never to be seen again, with nary a concern, while I, I would be left gripping that steering wheel, willing myself to "keep driving, just a few more miles," until I stumbled into the driveway. Free at last from the threat of another idiot on the roads but never free from the voices inside my head.

Because anxiety. . .it never leaves you.