Going Nowhere

March 18, 2010
By Anonymous

I yank the door; it opens reluctantly with a screech and a jerk. I plop down into the seat. It’s too far back—I slip it forward a few notches. I pull the seat belt taut against my chest. With a click I’m ready to go. “Where are you going?” Mom hollers.
“Nowhere!” I yell back. I whip out of the driveway and I’m gone.
I slam the power button, the radio flashes on. A monotonous NPR voice radiates from the speakers. I flip through the stations until I reach 95.7. I crank up the volume and “Forever” by Drake blasts out of the stereo. I roll the windows way down—cool air rushes in. It stings my face; my hair whips back and slaps against the seat.
I cruise along. Scenes of trees and wide-open fields flick by. I stare out the window, winter grips Indiana and all the trees and bushes look bare and skeletal. Sheets of crisp snow cover the ground outlining animal prints. Brown slush has puddled on either side of the road. I leave a spray of it in my wake. I am going nowhere, I have no destination, I have no purpose. I waste gas and pollute the environment for no reason; no reason except my mental health. Driving nowhere but having the power to go anywhere is my medicine, my way of relieving stress. Knowing that if I keep going I could wind up anywhere is a powerful tonic. Knowing I have nowhere to be and nothing expected of me—at least for the next 45 minutes—gives me a break from daily stresses. I feel free.
I arrive back at my house. My cheeks are bright red, my lips are chapped, my hair looks like birds have nested in it, and I’m frozen to the bone. I love it. I can’t wait to do it all over again. It’s my favorite place on earth.

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