Four, almost five months
ago, my life changed. I would say it changed forever but I still don’t know if it’s
changed forever or just for now.
For the people that know me, this story is probably boring, sad, and over-told. I get that. It’s probably annoying to hear about the worst day of someone’s life over and over and over again. And I can see how the feelings that come from someone who is suffering can become a burden on those around them.
They just want to help. I know that. They feel defeated when they can’t.
My whole life, everything has been almost laid out perfectly, like an outfit on my bed, or paint swatches for the spare bedroom. I have made easy choices, had complete control, had complete understanding of yesterday and tomorrow and the future.
Then I crashed my car. Pretty badly.
In the moments after the crash, hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt with my legs squished underneath the dash, I felt myself change. The airbags were slowly deflating, and the lights were still on. After being trapped inside for what felt like forever, my passenger (one of my best friends) and I finally made our way out of the wreckage. I wasn’t even shaking. I wasn’t even breathing heavy. Or crying (at first). And when I called my parents, they were so worried on the phone, and I was calm. I learned later that this was my brain dissociating myself from the trauma I was about to process. I looked into the ditch, my car leaking from god-knows-where, our belongings strewn in the rock and grass, tires ripped apart, glass everywhere, I knew that my old life was over.
This is cliché. But when you come so close to realizing that tomorrow may not exist, all of that understanding of a normal, simple life, stops. It gets placed in a box of TNT and blasted in a million directions. In thousands of pieces. Everything I knew tilted on it’s axis, all of the easy things my life had offered me, slipping away as my world shifted upside down.
I didn’t sleep a wink for almost four days. When I looked in the mirror I just saw a deep black eye, and bruises and cuts everywhere. And I saw a Haleigh that I didn’t recognize anymore. I was so sad. Devastated. I felt like I could not have possibly made a more colossal mistake.
At the suggestion of my parents, I saw a therapist. About 3 months after the accident. That was the next hardest thing I’ve ever done.
When I got told I had PTSD, my world shifted even more. I became a different me. Not even that different on the outside, but my insides changed. It was no surprise to me, yet somehow, I have never felt more confused or separated from myself.
Suddenly I felt like an infant, not sure of what was planned for me that day, not able to move because I wasn’t sure what one move would do. If it would take me further from safety.
I spent a long time thinking about what-ifs and wondering if things could have been different that day. If I could done something better. If I would have left 5 minutes earlier. Or stopped for gas in a different place.
These are the kind of thoughts that will drive you absolutely insane. But I had to learn that saying or thinking these things isn’t going to change anything. It’s not going to take away any of the hurt. It’s not going to erase the past.
This is not a heroic story (sorry). I’m still in the process. A work in progress. But I’m doing so much better.
Firstly, I have people around me who do listen. They listen to me say the same things over and over and over again. They listen to me complain about bad drivers on the road, and they don’t mind if I keep the music quiet or shut it off if it’s dark out. They give me hugs if I have a bad day. And they tell me they love me and that they’re proud of me for being brave.
And they trust me. After my accident, I swore I would never drive again. I couldn’t put anyone else’s lives at risk. I couldn’t put that stress on my parents or my family again. And once I did start driving again (three days later, thanks dad!) I told my family I would never drive with another passenger. Seventy percent because I was scared of putting someone else’s life at risk and thirty percent because I was nervous that nobody would want to be my passenger ever again.
But they do. They trust me. And they sing in the car and sometimes they even fall asleep because they believe I’m gonna keep them safe. And I do everything in my power to do that.
Lastly, I thought about the fact that I survived, and not only that, but I’m still living and breathing, and I still make good memories and I still have friends to call and tell them I love them, and I still have puppy videos to watch, I still have (more) pairs of shoes to buy, I have all of this.
I got so lucky to live another day and get all of this.
I got so lucky to be the one who called my parents and told them what happened and not the first responders.
I got lucky to laugh with the cop about the fact that I had gotten two tattoos the day before, and I wasn’t so nervous to show my parents anymore because they’re probably just happy to have me home.
I got lucky to have one of my best friends pick me up the next night, and drive under the speed limit because she knew I was terrified, and carve pumpkins with her and she played all my favourite songs (because the new Halsey song came out that day and I listen to her religiously). And she drove me home and I closed my eyes and I remember thinking I was so happy just to be sitting there next to her.
I got lucky to have a friend give me an angel that now hangs over my rear view mirror, reminding me that she loves me and that someone was definitely watching over us that day.
I got lucky to have a boyfriend who calms me down when things get wound up in my mind, and buys me KitKats and puts HGTV on for me with iced tea. And he knows I don't like to drive anymore so I don't even have to ask him to take the keys.
I got lucky to have people who listen to me tell this story. Once, or seven thousand times. Because they probably have no idea, but every time I talk about it, it lifts a weight off my shoulders. And I’m so grateful.
Not to sound like a 3-star Hollywood plot line, but I have a new outlook on life. I appreciate everything so much more than I ever did.
When I hear my moms laugh, I feel so warm. And thankful that I can smell lasagna cooking in the kitchen. And I hear my dad watching hockey highlights on the TV in the squeaky recliner and I’ve never wanted to sit beside him and watch more. I’m grateful that my sister asked me to come over the next day to play some fun board games because she knew I could barely walk and she just wanted to be around me.
And I realize that my life is not as small as I thought it was. It’s not some little thing that could only effect me. I realized that my life is twisted and tangled into everyone I know, and I have a lot more to live for than just myself.
I learned the importance of being able to talk about my mental health, and have people around me who can recognize when I'm not doing well and help me to take the next step.
But in therapy I learned that I need to care for myself too. And when my brain starts to wander and I get really sad, I have to ground myself and recognize that I’m here, and I had a whole life before the accident, and I’ll have a whole life after. I will be gentle with myself, and be careful and mindful of the way I treat others, because you never know what sort of crazy stuff they're going through.
I will forever miss my memories with my old car. This sounds stupid, but it almost felt like my baby. Cleaning it out, getting new tires, learning to drive standard, I took care of her (Ariel-Beatrice was her name), and in the end, she took care of me too. I will miss singing so loud with all the windows down, throwing sandy towels in the back seat, getting ice cream and having it melt in the cup holder, hearing my best friends laugh and sing to Tequila by Dan+Shay, but hey, I have a cute new car to make memories with. Her name's Angie, short for angel.
I have a long way to go. I have a long time before I can see a deer on the road and not feel nauseous. Or until I can think about it without breaking down. I have a long time until I can get a rush of adrenaline and have my body realize that it’s excitement and not panic.
But yesterday, I drove the highway past where I crashed for the first time in four, almost five months. And I cried. And I laughed because I was crying.
And that a goddamn good first step.
P.S. I miss you. The old Haleigh, and my little red Ariel-Beatrice.
For the people that know me, this story is probably boring, sad, and over-told. I get that. It’s probably annoying to hear about the worst day of someone’s life over and over and over again. And I can see how the feelings that come from someone who is suffering can become a burden on those around them.
They just want to help. I know that. They feel defeated when they can’t.
My whole life, everything has been almost laid out perfectly, like an outfit on my bed, or paint swatches for the spare bedroom. I have made easy choices, had complete control, had complete understanding of yesterday and tomorrow and the future.
Then I crashed my car. Pretty badly.
In the moments after the crash, hanging upside down, suspended by my seatbelt with my legs squished underneath the dash, I felt myself change. The airbags were slowly deflating, and the lights were still on. After being trapped inside for what felt like forever, my passenger (one of my best friends) and I finally made our way out of the wreckage. I wasn’t even shaking. I wasn’t even breathing heavy. Or crying (at first). And when I called my parents, they were so worried on the phone, and I was calm. I learned later that this was my brain dissociating myself from the trauma I was about to process. I looked into the ditch, my car leaking from god-knows-where, our belongings strewn in the rock and grass, tires ripped apart, glass everywhere, I knew that my old life was over.
This is cliché. But when you come so close to realizing that tomorrow may not exist, all of that understanding of a normal, simple life, stops. It gets placed in a box of TNT and blasted in a million directions. In thousands of pieces. Everything I knew tilted on it’s axis, all of the easy things my life had offered me, slipping away as my world shifted upside down.
I didn’t sleep a wink for almost four days. When I looked in the mirror I just saw a deep black eye, and bruises and cuts everywhere. And I saw a Haleigh that I didn’t recognize anymore. I was so sad. Devastated. I felt like I could not have possibly made a more colossal mistake.
At the suggestion of my parents, I saw a therapist. About 3 months after the accident. That was the next hardest thing I’ve ever done.
When I got told I had PTSD, my world shifted even more. I became a different me. Not even that different on the outside, but my insides changed. It was no surprise to me, yet somehow, I have never felt more confused or separated from myself.
Suddenly I felt like an infant, not sure of what was planned for me that day, not able to move because I wasn’t sure what one move would do. If it would take me further from safety.
I spent a long time thinking about what-ifs and wondering if things could have been different that day. If I could done something better. If I would have left 5 minutes earlier. Or stopped for gas in a different place.
These are the kind of thoughts that will drive you absolutely insane. But I had to learn that saying or thinking these things isn’t going to change anything. It’s not going to take away any of the hurt. It’s not going to erase the past.
This is not a heroic story (sorry). I’m still in the process. A work in progress. But I’m doing so much better.
Firstly, I have people around me who do listen. They listen to me say the same things over and over and over again. They listen to me complain about bad drivers on the road, and they don’t mind if I keep the music quiet or shut it off if it’s dark out. They give me hugs if I have a bad day. And they tell me they love me and that they’re proud of me for being brave.
And they trust me. After my accident, I swore I would never drive again. I couldn’t put anyone else’s lives at risk. I couldn’t put that stress on my parents or my family again. And once I did start driving again (three days later, thanks dad!) I told my family I would never drive with another passenger. Seventy percent because I was scared of putting someone else’s life at risk and thirty percent because I was nervous that nobody would want to be my passenger ever again.
But they do. They trust me. And they sing in the car and sometimes they even fall asleep because they believe I’m gonna keep them safe. And I do everything in my power to do that.
Lastly, I thought about the fact that I survived, and not only that, but I’m still living and breathing, and I still make good memories and I still have friends to call and tell them I love them, and I still have puppy videos to watch, I still have (more) pairs of shoes to buy, I have all of this.
I got so lucky to live another day and get all of this.
I got so lucky to be the one who called my parents and told them what happened and not the first responders.
I got lucky to laugh with the cop about the fact that I had gotten two tattoos the day before, and I wasn’t so nervous to show my parents anymore because they’re probably just happy to have me home.
I got lucky to have one of my best friends pick me up the next night, and drive under the speed limit because she knew I was terrified, and carve pumpkins with her and she played all my favourite songs (because the new Halsey song came out that day and I listen to her religiously). And she drove me home and I closed my eyes and I remember thinking I was so happy just to be sitting there next to her.
I got lucky to have a friend give me an angel that now hangs over my rear view mirror, reminding me that she loves me and that someone was definitely watching over us that day.
I got lucky to have a boyfriend who calms me down when things get wound up in my mind, and buys me KitKats and puts HGTV on for me with iced tea. And he knows I don't like to drive anymore so I don't even have to ask him to take the keys.
I got lucky to have people who listen to me tell this story. Once, or seven thousand times. Because they probably have no idea, but every time I talk about it, it lifts a weight off my shoulders. And I’m so grateful.
Not to sound like a 3-star Hollywood plot line, but I have a new outlook on life. I appreciate everything so much more than I ever did.
When I hear my moms laugh, I feel so warm. And thankful that I can smell lasagna cooking in the kitchen. And I hear my dad watching hockey highlights on the TV in the squeaky recliner and I’ve never wanted to sit beside him and watch more. I’m grateful that my sister asked me to come over the next day to play some fun board games because she knew I could barely walk and she just wanted to be around me.
And I realize that my life is not as small as I thought it was. It’s not some little thing that could only effect me. I realized that my life is twisted and tangled into everyone I know, and I have a lot more to live for than just myself.
I learned the importance of being able to talk about my mental health, and have people around me who can recognize when I'm not doing well and help me to take the next step.
But in therapy I learned that I need to care for myself too. And when my brain starts to wander and I get really sad, I have to ground myself and recognize that I’m here, and I had a whole life before the accident, and I’ll have a whole life after. I will be gentle with myself, and be careful and mindful of the way I treat others, because you never know what sort of crazy stuff they're going through.
I will forever miss my memories with my old car. This sounds stupid, but it almost felt like my baby. Cleaning it out, getting new tires, learning to drive standard, I took care of her (Ariel-Beatrice was her name), and in the end, she took care of me too. I will miss singing so loud with all the windows down, throwing sandy towels in the back seat, getting ice cream and having it melt in the cup holder, hearing my best friends laugh and sing to Tequila by Dan+Shay, but hey, I have a cute new car to make memories with. Her name's Angie, short for angel.
I have a long way to go. I have a long time before I can see a deer on the road and not feel nauseous. Or until I can think about it without breaking down. I have a long time until I can get a rush of adrenaline and have my body realize that it’s excitement and not panic.
But yesterday, I drove the highway past where I crashed for the first time in four, almost five months. And I cried. And I laughed because I was crying.
And that a goddamn good first step.
P.S. I miss you. The old Haleigh, and my little red Ariel-Beatrice.
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