Learning to drive, in many ways, is like going to university. There are hazards, teachers you hate and things you love. You feel in control when you’re organised and might panic when you’re disorganised. But I find the greatest parallel is that oftentimes, when I climb out of the car at the end, I’m exhausted, and terrified, and hurt and upset. And I know that I’m going to have to climb back in sooner or later, and I take my metaphorical bottle of whisky and I sit down and dull the aching by the fireplace. Yet I know that no matter how hard it is, I need it. I need the skills I learn to be able to pass my driving test so I can be a qualified driver.

My father is not an easy man to work with. The car is silent, save for his instructions, my stomach tensed in knots as I try my best not to give him reason to yell at me. And yell he does. There’s always some fault he wants to yell at me for and once he gets started he really can’t stop. I received a compliment today- well, almost. A compliment is far too much to hope for. He said “That’s how you should do it!” in the same voice he said “You’re too far to the left! Speed up, you’re dragging! When I say STOP you immediately hit the brakes!” It may as well have been an insult for all the aversion he put into it.

I know I’m just whining, and I know I’m not the only one who goes through this. I really should just suck it up, build a bridge and get over it. But every time I climb out of that car, I always feel a little shaky, and never entirely sure of myself.

I don’t know why I wrote this. Desperate cry of attention, I guess. Pssht. Deal with it already.
But I have to post it anyway. Just to say to myself I wrote it.


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