The car saved me

There was a season I couldn't shower alone. Couldn't use the bathroom alone. Couldn't go for a walk or make a cup of tea. I could barely do a single thing, honestly. My nervous system, and my children's nervous systems, were stretched so thin that being apart, even for a few minutes, wasn't possible.

But I could put us in the car.

Care didn't always look like rest in that season. Sometimes it looked like ignition. I stopped waiting for a break to arrive from somewhere outside of us, and I started the car instead.

I've since stopped feeling guilty for leaning on it, and I've started recognising it for what it actually was. A form of regulation. A form of care. One of our main tools. So I want to write about the car, and the different ways it held us.

The scream drive

Sometimes I'd get in the car alone and scream at the top of my lungs. I desperately needed a safe place to relieve the pressure, somewhere it wouldn't come out sideways at the people I love. Holding in tension emotionally means holding in tension physically, and relief wasn't a luxury. It was crucial. The car gave me a container for the sound I needed to make.

The music drive

Most afternoons, sometimes into the night, we got in the car and just drove. No conversation, no destination. We brought snacks, pillows, blankets and our favourite music. Headphones, stuffies, books, iPads, whatever any of us needed. It gave me time to sit and breathe, and it gave my children the motion their bodies were asking for.

The drive-thru drive

Some days care looked like everyone in the car and fries and a drink through the window. Hot food that was sensory familiar, eaten in our own seats. There is a lot of noise in the world about what feeding a family is meant to look like, and on those days I let it go. This was exactly what we needed.

The car wash drive

I'd pack the kids in and drive through the car wash on purpose. The rumble, the water, the colours, the sounds and the lights were sensory medicine, for the price of a wash.

No destination

Over time I stopped needing the drive to be "to" anywhere. Around the block. Through the suburbs. Until I could breathe again, until we were all as regulated as we could be. We'd spot animals, notice the landscape, do whatever we wanted with the time. The point was never arriving. The point was the driving.

The car as regulation

When I look back at why it worked, it makes sense to me now. Movement. Containment. Side-by-side seating with no eye contact required. So many of the things a stretched nervous system reaches for, all held inside one familiar space.

I stopped feeling guilty for using it, and I started recognising it as one of our main tools.

The car can be a tool that counts. Care for a parent in crisis doesn't have to look the way the world tells us it should. Sometimes it looks like ignition.

Kristy x