Today is the anniversary of the crash that changed my life.
And yesterday I was out riding my motorcycle. It was an eerily similar scenario as far as weather and timing go: A severe-clear Sunday afternoon. Roughly 50 degrees. Streets somewhat quiet by metro-Atlanta standards.
Near home, I stopped into a store to deal with some life stuff. I had to wait for a bit. No problem, except for the heightened awareness of how close-by I was to “the” intersection. The place where I was hit by a car, and nearly killed. Feeling out-of-sorts, I noticed a familiar headlight directly outside the door. Yep, there sat the exact make and model of the car that crushed my leg and much of my life one year ago.
Again, I found myself uttering an involuntary, ironic laugh. I thought to myself, “Fuck, seriously?”
With some mental gymnastics and the use of some coping skills I’ve learned in therapy, I managed the situation. Then I rode home with renewed fervor, determination, and a sense of burgeoning freedom from the ghosts of this past year.
Yes, my leg is still trashed. It always will be.
My life is forever altered. This will always be with me. The scars are a constant reminder.
I have not yet found peace. But I see it on the horizon.
There hasn’t been one defining turning point in this process. There have been several hard-earned shifts in the path.
I’ve battled to maintain my fierceness over the last year. After rising above yesterday’s challenge, though, I finally know I’m on the downhill side of the bumpy road through trauma. I win.