crumpled
fear, memory, and moving on from 'Love in Exile' (despite a paperback launch)
On the way home to my mum’s house for Christmas, the day before Christmas Eve, I was in a minor car accident. I say minor because I survived unharmed. My beloved Renault Clio (a personal symbol of independence, maturity, financial prudence and sobriety) did not. As I was about to join the M25 I slowed for amber lights and a van owned by a local drainage company plowed into the back of my car, shunting it forward and crumpling the back. I was initially in such a state of shock I had to ask the man who hit me to get in my passenger seat and guide me to the hard shoulder. Yet, after the solemn exchange of our insurance details, the shock passed.
“Oh, my boot doesn’t close anymore.”
“I can tape it down until you get where you need to go.”
“Please.”
He used thick black masking tape to hold the boot in place. Then I drove three hours to Bristol, alone, in my crumpled car, without stopping. By the time I got to my mum’s, I felt fine.
But I’m not sure I was fine. I’m back on the road now – a courtesy car while my own vehicle is formally written off – and I feel an unease and paranoia about other vehicles. The accident is likely to cost me a few hundred pounds, due to my excess and other charges, and has disrupted my life.
I have a new awareness that at any time a stranger’s simple mistake or timing or judgment could damage my vehicle, my finances, or me. Yes, anyone who drives knows this is a possibility, but to have experienced it is different. When cars behind me seem to be too close, my body tightens and my heart seems to beat faster. I remember the thud, the sound of metal buckling, my body shoved forward.
I drove home that day due to adrenalin. In the wake of the accident, my body shut down its flight response and energised me instead to get home. I knew that turning back and going to London to collect myself even for an hour or two would mean I succumbed to feelings of fear. My body created conditions to let me carry on. I am “good” in a crisis, compartmentalising feelings of stress and danger and carrying on. It’s always been a talent of mine.
But now I remember. I’ve had similar responses to more direct physical danger. In the past couple of years when I’m making my bed or doing laundry, I get flashbacks about
