Reckless

When I was in college, one of my good friends often repeated the phrase, “Safety never takes a vacation.” Though I didn’t take it seriously then, it was cute hearing her say it, and fit her sweet natured personality. But, later, at my first bartending gig in Boston, it slipped out of my own mouth. My boss was beside herself, incredulous. The girl that always wore black, that rode a giant mountain bike to and from work, that loved dark sorcery, just earnestly uttered, “Safety never takes a vacation.”

She told me it was perhaps the dorkiest thing I’d ever said.

Funnily enough, that didn’t stop me. I continue to say it, especially at workplaces. Usually to commend someone for making a safer choice. And I’m never joking. I know firsthand how horrifying it feels to make a choice that puts oneself or others in danger. I know what it feels like to be a bottomless well. Like people can talk to you but the words will just echo off the walls of your numbed out self-loathing. 

I know this, because when I was halfway through my three year Mental Health Counseling and Addiction Masters program, I got a DUI. The hypocrisy was deafening, then and still now. I know.

It is common knowledge that in the field of addiction counseling many professionals come from a personal background of addiction. Some clients even prefer their instructors or counselors to be in recovery, so they can relate. So they actually get it. Many of my fellow students opened up about their histories with addiction and were regarded well for sharing them.  

What isn’t regarded well? Getting in trouble with the law for drug or alcohol related behavior when you’re in the middle of being educated to become a professional addictions counselor. 

Unfortunately for me, it was not just viewed negatively among my peers, but also by the school board.

I had been going to the airport to pick up a friend that evening. I’d made a promise. Still, my gut was screaming at me not to get in the car, that something bad would happen if I did. But I didn’t listen. 

I had come from a barbecue a couple hours prior, drinking multiple unmeasured drinks. Something I never should have done knowing I was picking up a friend later. But I went, biked to and from, while the sun was still high, thinking there was plenty of time to sober up after. I didn't want a fifteen minute drive later to prevent me from having fun that Saturday, one of my few days off. 

To admit I wasn’t in the right shape to pick up my friend would have been to admit I’d made selfish choices. To admit I wasn’t as good a friend as I thought I was. The kind that always says yes when someone needs a hand. One who is responsible enough to make a promise and be able to keep it.

So I walked in a straight line and determined I was fine to drive. 

I wasn’t.

It was dark out by then. I barely made it down the street from where I lived when I took a turn, lost control, and hit a parked sedan, totaling it. My head slammed against the steering wheel. My seat belt protected the rest of my body, but not my head. The air bag did not go off. My head throbbed like it had a heart beat. 

I just wrecked someone’s car, I realized, taking in my surroundings. I fished my way out of my mangled car, surreally assessing the damage as if I was watching someone else’s life. This could not have been something I’d done. It couldn’t be. 

No one was in the car, thank god.

I was horrified. Ashamed. Aghast. 

Reality set in and I dragged myself to the door step to let the car owners know. Though fear tried to paralyze me, my sense of moral obligation took over. I needed to do the right thing. The only thing. 

My heart was in my throat, beating just as hard as my head. 

A woman answered first. She opened the door with great confusion, took in distraught me, and the scene behind me. Maybe she saw the sadness in my eyes, the mortification written on my face. She was clearly upset but did not verbally ridicule me. She called for her husband. It was his car. That I’d smashed.

He yelled. And I mean yelled. Absolute rage was spit at me for a solid five to ten minutes. That was his means to work. That was his everything. What the fuck had I done? 

I apologized over and over. He only seemed to get angrier. I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears.

I was sitting on a curb, tear-streaked face in my hands with this man furiously spewing at me when some passerby assessed the situation and called the cops. 

It hadn’t even dawned on me that I might be issued a DUI. I’m embarrassed to say, the alcohol component of the situation wasn’t obvious to me in that moment. Just the outcome, the damage.

I wasn’t aware yet that I might actually be arrested. If so, I would have FREAKED. Maybe I was in denial.

When the police arrived, I answered their questions honestly. They were minimal because safety was the primary concern and I was the injured one. Once I said I’d hit my head hard, they stopped their questioning and called an ambulance. In what felt like minutes later, I was placed on a stretcher and taken to the ER. 

Though the ambulance came in a flash, I had to wait a while once at the hospital to be seen. I had what felt like hours to wallow in regret. To replay my actions surrounded by people in far more horrible conditions, one practically coughing their lungs out near me. 

I finally got called into a room, glad to get some answers. Did I have a concussion? No.

This was good, because I had forms to fill out and a breathalyzer to take. 

I could have refused it but I honestly didn’t think I’d be over the limit. I blamed the accident on it being dark out and my headlights being dim. My headlights had been, in fact, dangerously dim for weeks. I thought they needed replacing. I had made an appointment to get them checked the next week. Not soon enough. I regret this. 

When I heard my BAC was, indeed, over the legal limit, I was beside myself. I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. My brain jumped from thinking I couldn’t possibly be arrested to thinking it was now inevitable. I was going to be a felon. I was certain I would soon have a black mark that would never leave my record. 

One might think that everything said to me that night would be burned in my brain, but that night was traumatic for me. I have always dealt with trauma by dissociating. Faced with a DUI, to potentially lose everything I’d worked for, it was all too much. 

What I do remember from the night in the ER is a female cop entering the room after I got x-rays taken. I remember her talking to me like I was the scum of the earth. She asked me questions and explained next steps. I was cited and suspended from driving. I’d need a lawyer. I had court appearances to attend. 

After the cop gave me all my instructions, and the ER cleared me, I was able to Uber home. It was daylight. No one else in my house was awake. I closed the blinds and got a couple hours of sleep in, but then I was up again. Too much on the brain. 

That night I destroyed someone’s car and my reputation. But what destroyed me most was the fact that I could have maimed or killed someone else. 

My housemates were all aware of the situation. I had texted the gist of it to the friend I was supposed to pick up from the airport, so she knew I wouldn’t be getting her. She had informed the rest of my housemates, and they were all very kind to me. I don’t know how I would have survived otherwise. It was through them that I realized the ER (and the long wait) might have been the reason I didn’t spend the night in jail. It stunned me when one of them said she had checked my toothbrush for moisture in the middle of the night to try to determine if I’d returned, assuming I was in jail.

And though my parents and family were stricken when I phoned and told them the next day, they were also emotionally supportive. They reminded me that the most important thing was that nobody else was hurt.

I am very lucky. I come from such a supportive family that was there for me even in my worst time. Not everyone is. I am eternally grateful for that.

They helped me find a good lawyer and, through him, I received a misdemeanor from the court that could be cleared from my record in 7 years, provided I stay sober for a whole year, no drinking whatsoever, and complete all their requirements, which included: attending addiction counseling sessions, lectures from people who had actually killed people on the road, and frequent randomized urine tests.

Staying sober was hard but my motivation was resolute. The alternative was unthinkable. I had nightmares for years afterwards. Of unintentionally slipping up. Even nyquil would have resulted in a failed urine test, which were administered in a professional facility downtown, at least three times a week. I had to explain myself once when I had a dessert with burned off alcohol that tainted my urine. Luckily they believed me.

When I started driving again after my car was repaired and my 90 day suspension was up, I had to install a breathalyzer. So anyone who got in my car or passed me in the school parking lot knew I had a recent DUI. I had to learn how to breathe correctly into it, as it was very finicky. It would go off at any time, even in the middle of a busy highway intersection. It wouldn’t stop beeping until I blew into it right. It was very distracting. Like learning to snorkel properly, on the roads.

It would be easy to chalk up my DUI as one day of bad decisions. But that would be one hell of a coincidence. The one day I made a bad decision, I got in trouble with the law.

Truth is, with or without alcohol, I was a reckless driver. Pedal to the metal kind of girl. Always late and always trying to make up for lost time. And man, did I get angry and impatient. It became part of my persona. Being tough, and fast, on the road. 

I had been told when I was younger that I wasn’t cut out to drive. That I’d never learn the rules. I wasn’t capable. I hated hearing that. Perhaps the anger came from a deep-seated place of wanting to prove I did belong there.

Driving in my twenties…what can I say? I was an angry driver. Road. Rage. 

Beep at me? I’ll beep harder. Pass me? I’ll swerve around and pass you right back. Ride my tail? I’ll slam on the brakes. 

You didn’t get to edge me out. Maybe it had something to do with always being small, short, petite. A woman still constantly mistaken for a young teen, a girl. In a car, I was suddenly more powerful. I was large and could throw my weight around, so I did. For better or worse.

And yes, I knew drinking and driving was bad, but other people did it all the time. Why couldn’t I do so every once in a while? One or two beers in the system couldn’t hurt right? If enough time passed, it was fine. It sure seemed like it was for others. I wanted to be like other, capable drivers. Like other capable people. I didn’t want to admit I was different.

Before the DUI, I had already been stopped by police many times, for speeding or recklessness, but I rarely got in trouble. Flirting with male cops became an expertise of mine as well as a bragging point. 

Turns out being salacious had not done me any real favors. It kept me from accruing tickets, but also from reckoning with my actions in the rearview mirror. 

I’d hit a couple things before, a friend’s mailbox and someone’s bumper, but nothing that amounted to any injuries or irreparable damage, nor a strong impact on my driving behavior.

I guess I hadn’t learned my lesson. Up until my DUI I was invincible. 

See, I went straight from undergrad to grad school. No breaks. This meant I was consecutively attending school since pre-K, with the semi-respite of one semester abroad. In high school, Amsterdam, and college, I had great groups of friends that came together quite naturally. We all remain close to this day.

By the time I moved to Oregon, I was jaded from the idea of making more new friends. Of doing the whole ice breaker thing. That felt sooo lame. My first semester I channeled April from Parks and Rec. Her iconic, “I didn’t win…but at least I didn’t make any new friends,” quote was my mantra. I think I was honestly just burnt out, but not able to admit this. I craved space. To find myself again. 

At first, I didn’t really need friends. I was content on my own and knew I wouldn’t be in Portland forever (just three years). When I wasn’t doing homework, I played soccer with law school guys and wandered through the enchanting Lewis and Clark forest right outside my house. Being right near campus and all my classes was ideal. 

Unfortunately, I shared a bathroom and wall with a screamer. A man who was a sports gambler and also left a blanket of hair in the tub of the shower every time he shaved. Despite my desire to remain apathetic, it became clear to me that I’d need to put in a little more effort to be friendlier with classmates. I needed out. I needed roommates.

I guess that manifestation worked because by the end of the second semester I’d made multiple amazing friends and moved from being right outside campus to being all the way across the city in a shared house. The forest and campus were beautiful but it felt good to be removed. To have distance from school. I had a car and Portland is a smaller city so the commute didn’t seem like a problem.

I had not anticipated that my car would be wrecked and that my driver’s license would be suspended. My commute went from twenty minutes to two hours. From an easy drive, to waiting for multiple busses and often being stuck in the rain. I know, I deserved it. In retrospect, it was a very small price to pay for my actions. Still, the DUI ripped up everything in my life. I faced utter disdain from various students and professors, had to pee in a cup on a randomized basis, attend copious court-mandated addiction counseling sessions, and, worst of all, leave the fate of my very expensive education in the hands of the faculty board (which included teachers who overtly hated me).

It also came right before we were expected to land internships, which are needed for practicum. AKA a requirement to graduate. 

THANKFULLY, I wasn’t expelled from graduate school. Though I think one of my advisors had wanted me to be. When I met with her privately she told me (apparently due to my expression) it didn’t look like I understood the full weight of my actions. She tearfully showed me a picture of her friend who had died at the hands of a drunk driver. 

I knew I did, in fact, feel horrible, but there seemed no way to convince her. I got the sense she would only have taken me seriously if I was sobbing in her office, begging for forgiveness. I was still processing. In shock. I prefer to cry alone. And did. Many times. 

I just couldn’t for her, so she disliked me. Many did. I wasn’t able to express regret in a form they understood, accepted. Maybe I should have cried, but I had learned as a child to withhold large emotions. 

The faculty board determined I had to receive weekly counseling that my supervisor be looped in on, in addition to the court mandated sessions. I had a lot to juggle now, and I could not drop a single ball.

The state mandated sessions were terrible. What I got most out of them was a glimpse into the profession I was studying to work in, addiction counseling, but from the other side. It became clear fast that I was not an alcoholic, so the counselor didn’t know what to do with me. She was bored and rather unhelpful. Disappointing. 

By interesting comparison, the counselor I was allowed to choose for the school required sessions was great. She asked the right questions. She cared. One of my last sessions with her involved me breaking down, Good Will Hunting-style, in a very public coffeeshop. It was just after it had dawned on me how much of myself I’d bottled up under layers of armor. Under layers of emotional repression. 

She understood that my DUI wasn’t necessarily indicative of addiction, but bad choices, and that those choices came from something deeply rooted. I am grateful for the time I spent with her. She showed me what it really means to help someone. 

It seemed the school board was letting me off easy, but then I was warned. No counseling facility would take me as an intern. The internship fair was just around the corner. No internship meant no practicum. And no practicum meant no graduation. And no one was offering advice. They didn’t care to. This was my impossible test. 

I was beside myself thinking I wouldn’t be graduating with the rest of my class, or at all. I’m a great interviewee, but what was the point of prepping for tables when they’d all just later deny me? I felt defeated.

I overheard other students saying “What if no one takes me?” And I wanted to punch something, or cry. Of course they’d all be scooped up. It was free labor. 

It was me who’d be left with nothing. 

I knew I had brought this on myself. I knew I deserved it. But I also wanted a chance at redemption. I didn’t want to be held back. 

And I might have been, had I not been tipped by one of my housemates about the one kind of place that may just take me anyway, provided I was willing to work with a very undesirable population. 

Court-mandated sex offenders. 

If you’ve read any of my poems, you have probably caught on to a theme. One being that I have a LOT of pent up emotions about men, particularly the ones who take advantage of women’s bodies.

But I was desperate. So I interviewed for a sex offender counseling clinic. And, because I don’t want this already long blog to go on forever, I will try to summarize. In short, it scarred me. There are images in my head I will never be able to shake, of the things I learned people had done to children, animals, objects.

But it was also enlightening. I discovered my love for facilitating groups, and making an impact on people mandated to receive counseling. The best part was that my higher-ups were incredible, during a time when I was very impressionable. My supervisor was a tiny woman in a wheelchair, and she had grown men just released from prison scared of her. And I mean trembling. She was one of my best teachers. 

The manager there, who had selected me even after learning of my recent DUI, was very supportive. He continued to tell me throughout my internship that his hunch that I would be spectacular in this work was correct. This was exactly what my fragile sense-of-self needed to hear. He was like the world’s kindest cheerleader in the most dismal of situations. At the end of my internship he offered me a job there, despite telling other interns there were no job openings. My self-confidence in the counseling field tripled from his encouragement alone. 

I used to be told all the time in high school that I was the quiet one, small and shy (from those who had not seen my angry side). It didn’t feel true to me, but I felt pigeonholed. 

During my grad school practicum, when classmates anonymously all wrote down adjectives to describe me, almost all of them were synonymous with being strong willed and powerful. To get there, I first had to believe in myself. And I truly think it took being at rock bottom for that to happen. 

You will probably not see me in the driver’s seat of a car much these days. More likely, you’ll see me in a sweat, running or biking to work. By choice. After my 90 day suspension was up and my car was repaired, I did drive again in Portland, out of necessity. I was a tamer driver, having understood the weight of my recklessness on the road. I became better and better at safely navigating the streets of Oregon and Washington. 

When I moved just outside of Boston, for my first job post grad school, I took my car with me. I drove it regularly because I needed to, but I usually hated it. I got lost constantly. Boston roads (and Massholes) seem built to drive you insane. Then I moved again. To a place with no parking option, but better pedestrian access to the city. So I gave up my car. It was the sensible thing to do. I thought it was temporary. 

Then I discovered I actually feel more free without a car, especially in the city. I have declined two very nice offers for cars, from loved ones who don’t want me to brave the cold Boston winters, or the public transportation.

I can, and enjoy, getting around a city without a car. That’s what cities are best for. The number of times my runs, walks or bike rides have inspired my writing or controlled my restlessness is countless. And the best part is that I’m pretty sure my bike won’t be causing any major crashes, even if I’m running late. I’ve also gotten very good at defending myself from drivers that have it out for me. 

Even with a bike, however, I take having a few drinks very seriously, though that lesson took more trial and error to sink in. Now, if I think there’s any chance I’m not in good condition to ride, I will leave my bike (locked) to pick up the next day rather than risk my or another’s wellbeing. And I always wear a helmet. 

Safety never takes a vacation.

The only reason I actually even wrote this piece is because I stumbled upon an assignment from my EcoPsychology minor (written post-DUI), where I was asked to return to a nature spot multiple times and connect to it. I chose a tree in the middle of downtown. Across from where I had to wait up to a half hour to catch a second bus home from class.

Every week I wrote a letter to the tree while I waited. I felt like crap, emotionally and physically. Oftentimes I was shivering in the cold, rain pelting on my notebook as I stood there jotting down angrily formed observations that I tried to make sound pleasant. May as well get some homework in while I was at it. But I was not happy about it. Nor did I think this scrawny human-placed tree had anything to offer me.

In rereading recently, I came to realize that any judgments I cast toward the tree were self-judgements. And by the end, when I came to admire the tree, it was also me learning to love and accept myself.

I am now grateful for the DUI, because, truthfully, I had not taken getting behind the wheel seriously. I always felt I was in a safe protective bubble. I trusted my aggressive driving skills. I trusted I and others would be fine, every time. Now I am aware my driving style was extremely unsafe, and though I could learn to control it, I’ve found more peace and pleasure in mastering alternative means of transport. I choose to hone my biking and running instead, which gives me more freedom and less concern of harming others. Yes, I guess that sometimes makes me the freeloader on the passenger’s side. But for me, it is just not worth the risk. I want to be wreck-less. Despite having been, in my past, inherently reckless.

You have reached the end of the blog post (hoorah!) but below I am including the letters I wrote to the tree. If you choose to read them, I hope that, with the added context, maybe you too will see the deeper meaning.

Melinda Baker Place Journal Entries

9/21/2016

Dear Tree,

It is 9:30 pm right now. The sky is dark and the wind is heavy. A light shines on you, illuminating your shape. You must have peaked early on in the summer because although Fall has just begun,  it appears that you are nearing your end. While other trees around you are full and green, you stand slender with leaves a mixture of yellow and brownish green. It looks like you’ve been picked over. I can see all your branches clearly, but your remaining leaves quiver in the wind, adamant to keep holding on. Your branches are all easy to see because you are already quite barren. You wish to tell me you’ve had prettier days. I believe it, but you harbor no shame. 

The best and brightest are the first to go, you say. I am not sure I believe this, but I won’t argue it. It is fun to watch your leaves tingle. I have yet to witness one fall off but it looks like they could all come cascading down with a single shake. You disagree. 

The beauty you have is fragile-maybe that is why I was drawn to you. You symbolize what is yet to come with the season. It is interesting to watch the contrast of your moment of stillness when the wind pauses. At a closer look, your branches are never completely still, but they appear so. I wonder if you get bored being in the same place all the time. I’ll have to ask next time I see you. 

I am not sure why I selected this place to write my entry, why I chose to write about you. It is not in a park, it is downtown where you stand out like a sore thumb. The place itself, with the noises, the cars, and the flashing lights gives me anxiety. But looking at your simplicity calms me. I feel that you get overlooked, that you could use some attention. You have things to convey. I guess I will find out as we continue to meet each week. You are guarded, just like me. But I am patient. I will return.

9/28/2016

Hi Tree,

I feel sadness looking at you today. There is not much wind today so you have to stand with your pain. I feel it. I sense that you don’t like being in this setting. It doesn’t allow you to flourish. With no distractions I can see how artificial it looks. You were placed in a little square of dirt on the sidewalk of a metropolis. There are other trees in other squares strategically placed to add some nature to a man-made area. People move in and out but you stay in your square that someone designated for you. Looking at you clearly marks the intersection between man and nature. You don’t look that different from last week, but it is hard to tell. To take a photo of you each time would not feel right. Nor does going up to touch you. I sense that you prefer to be observed from a distance. Maybe it is easier for you to communicate that way. Maybe you don’t trust people easily. I don’t blame you. I bet you don’t receive much appreciation. I bet you see many people at their worst, walking out of a bar, in a rush. 

Seeing you in a sorrowful state does allow me to pick up on something special about you though. I sense that you never lose your dignity, even when you are feeling low. Even when you have lost a lot of leaves and your peak season is ending. I am starting to more clearly see why I was drawn to you, despite the low energy. 

10/5/16

Dear Tree,

I think I am starting to develop a kinship with you. Right now it is late, dark, windy, and rainy. I did not wear enough layers; I am cold. But you offer familiarity. You accept the wind and the rain, as you must accept all seasonal changes. I feel solace looking and communicating with you today. Although I initially was frustrated with the placement of “nature” in an urban landscape, I can truly see the benefit now. Though you are slight, you are grounding amidst the noise and chaos of this place. You stand strong and assured, but you also move with the wind. I think I can learn from you in the ways I react to urban areas. The tree directly next to you is already almost completely barren, but your leaves are still dancing in the rain, shaking with the wind. I can not stay long because it is getting colder and the rain is coming down heavier. I am glad, however, that I got to experience observing you at a time when I was feeling out of sorts. Maybe if we can locate our core, as you seem to so naturally, we can withstand any environment. 

10/12/16

Dear Tree,

I gotta be honest. I thought my final entry would be about how all your leaves had fallen and your branches had turned barren and desiccated. But here you are, many leaves still intact, swaying your branches. If trees could grin, you would definitely be grinning at me. I can feel your smug pride from a street over. I look to your left and see the tree beside you matching the exact state I had expected to see you in. How did you manage to keep holding on? You’ve got some determination, that’s for sure. To be honest, your persistence gives me hope. Sure I see the humongous tree a few yards from you that is lush with leaves and whose trunk is thicker than five people put together. But your scraggly frame is in some ways more impressive.

 I never noticed before, but your trunk splits in two and seems to be reaching out like arms. Both extend in opposite directions but come together at the top, where all the leaves you still have are hanging on. I see your character. Because this is my last entry, I ponder why I chose this spot, why I chose to look at you. I think it is because I saw something in you that struck me. You are not in an ideal spot for a tree. You’re not the biggest, brightest, or fullest. You’re in a busy area where the “wildlife” is placed intentionally. I am in this area frequently and I don’t often think about how the planted trees impact people. For anyone waiting for a bus, you would be what their gaze would likely go to. Maybe you are aware of that and that is why you have such pride. I am glad that I chose you for this experience. Thank you for your lessons,

Melinda