Friday, May 5, 2017

Rising From the Ashes of Loss, My Voyage Through Grief: excerpt # 25

The Dangers of Unresolved Grief
The Ride
I’m driving back home after having had a nice lunch with a friend and I’m feeling quite good, if not a little pumped up on caffeine due to the last double espresso I had hurriedly ingested before taking the road.  As scheduled, I stop at the Lancaster provincial police station to report damages made to my car by the previous week’s wind storm.  The station, which is the first one coming into Ontario from Qu├ębec via highway 401 is surprisingly modern and impressive for a rural one, but when I try to get in, I butt my head on a locked door.  Wondering what the heck is going on, I finally get wise and decide to read the notice stuck on the door: closed for vacation. Bewildered, I smile to myself thinking, only in the country man, only in the country.  At that instant, I find myself transported in an old episode of the famous Andy Griffith’s Mayberry television series where a similar hand written poster wedged on the police station door said: closed for the day, gone fishing.  Who the heck has ever heard of a police station left unattended?  But as I will find out later, only the administrative office employees are cooling off their heels, not the local gendarmes.  
Discombobulated, I walk back to my car and proceed to make the trip back home.  As I am pulling out of the parking lot though, something strange occurs in me and I 'snap' as I stare at the enticing road ahead.  At that particular moment, my sense of reality is distorted.  I feel besides myself and I am not seeing just a road, I am staring at a stretch of asphalt begging to be desecrated and violated.  It’s as if my wild side is taking over, and in an almost uncontrollable youthful boldness, right in front of the police station, I load an aggressive jazz 'cd' on my stereo, max out the volume, slip on an imaginary pair of driving tight leather gloves, look ahead and say out loud with a daring voice; "ok ROAD, let's see what you've got" and I step on it leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind me.  Man, what a rush!
The feelings I experience as I get lost in that moment are nothing less than exhilarating.  Each gas pedal kick down I make dramatically increases the speed of my vehicle and transforms the exciting groovy roar of my baby’s muffler along with the entrancing racing sound of its intricate engine into an unparalleled experience.   My blood boils in my veins and I’m like a teen having forbidden sex for the first time.  I feel awesome, a weird mixture of guilt, fear, exhilaration, joy and excitement all at the same time.  I know that what I am doing is wrong, but like a possessed man caught up in the thrill of the forbidden, I do it anyway.  I’m aware of a growing sense of freedom and trepidation like I’ve never experienced before.   The more I step on the gas pedal, the more I want to push it as I unwillingly transform myself into some kind of angry devil taking over the car’s commands.  My speed is way over the safe limit but I don’t even want to look at the speedometer anymore.   Negotiating the steep curves of the narrow winding road at alarming speed gives me a kick that is almost orgasmic and brings me to marvel on the fact that the Caddie sticks to the road like a champ; not even a single screech from the over stressed tires.  "Man, what a car,” I marvel.  
My wild and entrancing ride goes on for a while and I’m so lost in the thrill of the moment that I do not even notice the first signs of civilization and ignore the usual speed limit notification as I enter the village where I live.  As one can expect, the disturbing manifestations of my crazy behaviour does not remain unnoticed by 'you know who' and the inevitable happens.  My ass is fried and 'Inspector Clouseau' appears out of nowhere with blazing flashers and terrifying siren bringing me back to reality.  As I'm finally forced to slow down, with heart still racing I pull in front of the village’s post office and stare in my back mirror at the incoming trouble.  Mr. Gendarme steps out of his vehicle wearing a nasty grin.  At that moment a disturbing thought pops up in my mind: “Shucks. I’m done!”

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Dr. Pierre Milot, Ph.D., Ph.D. (tc)
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