Dolly's blog: My Driving And Other Disasters

What is it with middle aged women and a fear of driving?  Fact:  I'm a good driver who hasn't even scraped a car let alone had an accident.  Reality: I've just emerged from four years of being unable to drive on motorways without having a colossal panic attack.   And I know I'm not alone.   

The causes in my case aren't hard to fathom.  Growing up I experienced my mother having motorway panic attacks with my dad at the wheel - and entire days spent driving to Wales on A roads with only a Rod Stewart Greatest Hits cassette for entertainment.  I didn't think it had affected me until life got tough in my 30s (husband in Afghanistan, two children under three, high stress job) and suddenly I thought I was dying at the wheel.  

I got my mojo back for several years, until life nearly fell apart in 2021 (The Bad Thing That Happened) and the stress was so immense that sometimes even driving on A roads required all the bravery I had left.

I leant on my husband during this time, which wasn't ideal because Mr D hates driving and does so in a way the children euphemistically describe as "sporty".  This has resulted in a series of speed awareness courses which my 83-year-old mother has also attended, having been nicked for doing 23 miles an hour in her 1 litre Honda Jazz.

Whilst serious in purpose, I'm told these courses are comedy gold.  My mother found the clattering sound of her fellow geriatric miscreants dropping their walking sticks hilarious. The highlight from Mr D's perspective was undoubtedly a charismatic van driver from Maidstone whose contribution included but was not limited to the following: 

• In the middle of an earnest discussion about the psychological impacts of road traffic accidents: ‘I’ve been run over twice.  First time was bang up me.  I was steaming and ran over the road.  Second time was just this twat in a Corsa.’
• Responding to a question about what he’d do if his son got run over: ‘I’d ask him did you step out in front of a motor, you nugget.’
• Explaining how he came to be on the course: ‘I got flashed by one of them sneaky vans on the way to pick up my Christmas tree.’
• Discussing strategies for remaining calm behind the wheel: ‘My wife’s made me this Spotify playlist of whale noises to stop me turning into The Hulk.’
• Considering what he might miss if driving too fast in future: ‘Speed traps, like wiv the Old Bill and that.’
• Commenting on a computer simulated tailgating incident: ‘I think it’s well funny he’s driving an Audi’.

But I digress.  With Mr D relocating to the Middle East to pay the school fees, I had to conquer my fear and so I got CBT.  For several weeks this largely consisted of me describing the past few years and the therapist saying, “That’s awful!”. But eventually I finished my tale of woe, the therapist explained the anatomy of panic attacks, and I eagerly awaited the big reveal when she'd explain some cunning breathing technique that would return me to my old self. Nope. Turns out the cure to being scared to drive on motorways is… to drive on motorways.  I felt like I'd been told the meaning of life was 42.  

So I'm sorry if you've read to the end hoping to learn of a magic cure.  But you know what?  It worked.  Learning point?  Feel the fear and do it anyway.