A Traumatic Event
Cornered at Gunpoint: My Fear of Driving (Amaxophobia)
The aftermath of being chased and caught
Both of my parents gave me driving lessons when I turned 15. They were fixated on the term “defensive driving,” which, to them, meant that the worst possible scenario was always imminent and that it was my responsibility to anticipate and prevent it. They were creative and persistent in offering examples: Wild-eyed drivers were around every corner waiting to crash into me.
I, therefore, needed to be “hyper-vigilant,” a term they overused, so that I wouldn’t, through my own carelessness, kill myself or someone else and go to jail for the rest of my life. I should exercise an extraordinary amount of care at all times. I should swerve out of the way of other cars if they came close, leave a wide berth between myself and the car in front of me, drive below the speed limit and never proceed first at a four way stop, even if I was the first to arrive.
I was well-primed for driving being an exercise in fear and anxiety.
When they gave me lessons, they would slam the base of their palms on the dashboard and yell “Stop!” or “Slow down!” or “You’re too close to that car!” Worse, they would sometimes spend the entirety of the lesson with both arms extended, hands pressed to the dashboard as if a crash was imminent and that doing so would protect them from defenestration.
My driver’s education course was helmed by Mr. Gym Teacher, who I found quite attractive. He would give various directions which I would follow nervously. He didn’t shout at me or seem terrified like my parents. But he treated me differently from the other students. He was brusque and would joke with them, but with me adopted a quiet, gentle tone. Or he was silent altogether.
Once, a student in the back seat said something critical of my driving and Mr. Gym Teacher told him to stop. He saw I was nervous and seemed to be making an effort to be reassuring. He gave me a passing grade and I was able to offer this up to my parents as proof of my competence. But they remained unswayed.
Two years later, I was eligible for my driver’s license. I passed the written exam but failed the driving test twice, which was disheartening. Parallel parking was particularly difficult even though I practiced over and over in an empty parking lot, supervised by a parent, of course. It was mandatory in the driving test, and I would always either park too far from the curb or park at an unacceptable angle.
I figured having music on might be calming, so the second time I took the test, I had the radio on when the guy administering the test got in the car. He immediately told me to turn the radio off, and later I learned he had taken points off for it. I seemed to get examiners with an attitude, people on a power trip who seemed pleased when I made a mistake.
The third time I took the test, I got an older guy who didn’t scribble as much on his clipboard and didn’t bark. He seemed indifferent, which was fine with me. I still did a lousy job at parallel parking, but he didn’t seem to care, and when he told me I passed, a sense of relief washed over me. Freedom was within reach.
A few months after I got my license, I was driving my parents’ unfashionable-even-then Oldsmobile Cutlass station wagon. In my rearview mirror, I saw a huge 4x4 truck tailgating me. I made a turn, but the car was still there. I turned again. It was practically touching my bumper. I sped up. I blew through stop signs and red lights hoping I would lose the hulking truck. No such luck.
The driver was honking the horn in short bursts and then holding it down. I was scared. I wanted to drive to a police station, but I had no idea where it was. Why was he following me? What did he want?
I eventually turned into a church parking lot. The driver pulled up in front of my car at an angle, blocking me.
A guy in his early 20s got out, approached my car and started yelling, “Get out!” My heart was racing and panic kicked in. He kicked the side of my car and pounded on the driver’s side window. There were two women in the truck, laughing. Behind them was a gun rack.
He went back to his truck, took out the shotgun and approached me again pointing it at my face, screaming that he was going to kill me. I kept my eyes averted, trying not to look at him. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew not to get out of the car.
He screamed “Chink! Pussy!” and spat onto my window. I continued to look at my lap knowing I was about to die. I turned my engine on again. This seemed to enrage him further and he screamed at me to turn off the engine, which I did. I just wanted him to get it over with. Whatever he was going to do to me, I thought, please just do it.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than five minutes, he walked back to his truck, spitting once more in my direction. He shouted more epithets in my direction before getting back in his 4x4 where the two women were still laughing. Then he peeled out and left me alone in the parking lot.
I knew I had to get out of there, fast, in case he changed his mind and decided to come back and finish me off.
Fortunately I was only about a quarter of a mile away from home, and when I arrived, I opened the car door and fell out onto the driveway. My body didn’t seem to work anymore.
My father was there. He was shocked at first and asked me what had happened. I told him about it, adding that I was afraid the driver was going to find me again to terrorize me some more. He just kept saying “Oh! Oh!” which wasn’t particularly helpful. When I realized that’s all he had to offer, I went into the house.
I retreated to the relative safety of my bedroom and locked the door keeping one eye on the driveway outside my window. I was still shaking and had difficulty breathing. I eventually curled up on my bed, hugging myself. I hadn’t gotten a license plate number. I thought about calling the police, but I was afraid that even if they caught the guy, he would come after me again in retaliation.
I felt deeply ashamed, blaming myself for all of it. I had to make sense of it, and the only way I could was to turn it inward. I must have cut off the driver. I must have looked at him wrong. Maybe my face upset him. After all, he had screamed “Chink!” and “Jap!” at me.
My father didn’t say anything about it after that. I assumed that he would tell my mother, but either he didn’t, or if he did, she decided not to say anything.
Whenever someone follows behind me now, I remember. It’s something visceral. I may not be thinking about the event itself, but I feel the fear associated with it. Driving is, at best, anxiety provoking, and at worst, debilitating to the extent that I will do anything I can to avoid driving. I use Uber for trips that require driving on the beltway and I always ask my husband to drive on local trips to the grocery store. I don’t think he realizes that he’s enabling me, but my instinct to avoid the level of anxiety that arises even when I think about driving, seems to overcome reason.
I hope one day I’ll be able to drive without panicking. But I’m not sure how to get there.
