A Vehicle For More Than Just People

The quiet parts of the trip are always the hardest.

When the white lane dividers disappear beneath my hood as the tires rumble with varying degrees of severity over the asphalt and the bucolic mixes of patriotic farmland and unincorporated forest rush past in green blurs.

When the black and white dairy cows mix together with the brown workhorses and occasional goats or sheep, each making their respective moos or neighs or bleats that all get swallowed up by the wind.

When the only sound in my ears is the popping from the changing altitudes or the drone of the occasional tractor-trailer as I pass.

When the ride is so smooth, despite driving a Toyota Sienna minivan that’s significantly bigger than the RAV4 to which I am accustomed, that I almost forget that there are five other people with me.

It’s during those moments, when the other passengers are asleep or reading or somehow otherwise occupied, when I have trouble focusing.

Those are the times, between the museum visits and waterfalls, between the restaurants and hotels, between the fireworks over the river and the sparks flying from the glass-making oven, when my thoughts begin to make their presence known. My brain presses “Play” on the internal narrative with which I’ve become familiar and I begin replaying the mistakes and missteps I’ve made over the last few weeks, months and years. I picture the potholes, both figurative and literal, that have disrupted my journey and the varying degrees to which I’ve been able to recover from them. I consider the differences between the images I present on social media as compared with my “true” experiences every day.

The sun shifts from the source of life and light to a lamp with a single light bulb, hovering over the van as I interrogate myself about my choices. I ask why I procrastinate, why I always seem to be looking for what I can get away with, why I keep putting myself in the same position even though I know that the outcomes of anger, sadness and disappointment are practical certainties. I ask why it feels so simple to speak with clients and coworkers about identifying problematic behaviors and changing the steps to break out of negative patterns but I struggle to do the same with the man gazing back at me from the other side of the looking-glass.

I switch on the music from a playlist that isn’t my favorite but that I know is less likely to disturb the other passengers from their hard work catching flies. The bluegrass music is soft and pleasant and at least distracts somewhat from the negative self-talk. I am able to focus more on the road, helping the Sienna to hug curves and avoid the odd unfortunate animal who should have spent some more time practicing on Frogger. I lift my left leg, rotating my foot in small circles to remind the blood to keep flowing and ease the building tension in my sciatic nerve. The Sienna is comfortable – I can think of many much less favorable places to spend six hours than the front seat of the Toyota minivan – but even the cushioned leather seats in the vehicle we were loaned for our road trip can’t seem to stop the pain in my thigh or the building emotional tension between my shoulder blades.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and glance in the rear-view mirror. S and E are both stirring in their car seats, likely thanks to the dual-exhaust sports car that just roared past us. They settle back into sleep after a moment, though, and I exhale, surprisingly thankful that the quiet will last longer. T shifts her position in the passenger seat and glances up at me.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I pause before answering, considering how much I want to reveal at that moment. I’m sure she doesn’t realize how much has just gone through my mind, the conflicts that have been filling my thoughts or the self-doubt I’ve felt weighing on me for weeks. I’m sure she knows something has been off with me – she always seems to understand me better than I understand myself – but that is a question for another time. I’m sure she is asking whether I’m okay physically, given that I’m the person at the wheel and she’s only half-conscious as she asks the question.

I take a deep breath, quickly mulling my options. I can reassure T that I’m awake, alert and watching the road, ignoring the deeper emotions that are pressing down on my shoulders. I can unload, blind-siding her with the weight of my needs and my vulnerability, forcing her to figure out a response while she recovers from the exhaustion of returning to work and her parents and our children doze behind us. Or, I can make an active choice, a deliberate decision to perform some extreme self-reflection and change my behavior. I can step up where I need to and demonstrate that I am the reliable, trustworthy husband and partner that she thought she married and that she deserves. I can change the steps  and become a better version of the person I portray on social media.

“Aaron?” she asks again.

“Yeah,” I say, turning to T and smiling. “I’m fine.”

And I know that I will be.