now that I drive

I hate Houston more than I love it now. 

I was protecting how much I loved this city. Protecting all my reasons to stay where I was born and raised.

"Really?" Ms. Butler asked, sitting back into her seat, bewildered, "I think... here's what I think. Entitled. Everybody in this city."

The same word that crosses my mind as another fuckin' jerk last-minutely slides in, feet away from me. I slam the brakes. Someone else slams their brakes behind me. I don't curse. I seethe.

I take myself out on solo park dates. The 20-minute drive to Memorial Park just to see a little patch of an everglade, the sunset glowing against the water and turtles' backs. I take a seat on the cooled cement, my knees a little glisteny from mosquito spray. The bugs don't go for me as I face the little puffs of cotton in the sky. I think about how quiet it is. 

I have ADHD perhaps. Or something where my mind feels like it's on fire every moment of the day. Nothing quiets me. Nothing quiets everything competing to be first: the nail salon, LinkedIn, Indeed, resume touch up, alumni network, cover letter, how many apps are enough today, message back friendos, clean the house, wash the dog, exercise excuse me, eat more protein, interview prep, informational interviews, nail salon advertisements, nail salon lease renewal, dad's will signage, energy bill, drink less sugar, learn a new song on the piano, check up on little sis, water the plants, learn more Excel, make weekend plans ahead of time, YMCA membership, cancel Peacock!, sit straight, insurance overpay, don't be paralyzed by it all. I live every moment more exhausted than the next. 

Nothing quiets me the way going outside to stare at grass does. Focusing on one object like it's the only thing in the universe makes my head feel light. 

There's nowhere to be. I don't have to be anyone yet. I don't have to tell anyone my full name and why I want to be there. I am just a creature trying to figure out if that plant is edible.

Now that I drive, I don't even notice the clouds anymore. I don't even notice the sky. My mom gets to be a passenger princess. I would occasionally ask her, "Are you okay back there?"

Every time she says, "Yes," my heart gets a blip-blip. She nods away, sleepily, that is, until I have to push on the brakes because some very much entitled jerk rushes in. 

Now that I drive, I enjoy that fulfilling feeling of getting to the destination safely and driving in a smooth way that everyone feels safe and can sleep away. I'm not making money yet, but being trusted -- it's a damn good feeling. The lil miss that takes care of the rides.

Now that I drive, I realized how much I was missing when I didn't. When I relied on public transportation in this city built so poorly around that. 

Buses that don't come on time or buses that don't come at all. I stand there in my purple blazer, long pants, tucked-in shirt, while drivers passing by stare at my pedestrian self. Cars slow down. Knowing you're stared at but looking back at those eyes would make the moment mean something. 

So I keep my eyes away. The worst part about public transport is seeing how fast everyone else moves, so easily. Not having to look at bus schedules. It's their ease and my forbearance that drive me into a tiny pit of sadness. The heat above, the wind bringing dust upon my shiny, sharp self. The rushes of sound that remind me where I'm standing. Faceless speed.

Facelessness. 

I don't feel this way at all in Boston. Where there are crowds waiting for the same light with you. Where you're not alone waiting for a stop. There's someone to tell you the bus is quirky like that. "Haha, good. Phew!"

Now that I drive, I'm hungrier. I want to spend all my money on gas and convenience store food and ease my ache in the mountains, the rain, and alongside train tracks, tracing the length of time I've lost inside and the roads I've never raced on. I think about jumping into cold rivers, in nothing but a bikini bottom and covered in bear spray. I think about driving until I reach Big Bend for the first time and spend that first night sleeping outside my tent. Eyes taking in the breadth of the sky, about to cry up at blinking crystals I've never seen before. 

I think about how hard I chased myself out of the house to get there. All those little rebellions, took the car out, put my family in a fit as I spent hours in Memorial Park staring out at the Everglades, told them I'd be back by 9 but no one's used to it so my absence made them twist in their seats, all the "no"s I've ever heard just to drive myself home. So much stillness I had to bear because you didn't trust me yet. Me, who's traveled the world without you. Nothing but silence in this small place. All the asking I did so I don't have to ask anymore.

No permissions needed. Let me be free enough to drive the 9 hours. Eat the convenience store banana bread that I scrambled for years from the fridge for, fresh from the 4th grade. But to the "me" who could not fathom that I am out there.

I traded a lot of little moments for this. 

Now that I drive, I thank myself for enduring. 

Link to a random place: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzfYSSmzaXU&t=6781s&ab_channel=SunnyWoman