Two months ago, I sold my beloved 2002 Volkswagen GTI. I had been kicking around the idea for nearly two years, hemming and hawing about money, resources, self-image and past decisions. In leaving the life I had for the life I want, I had to let go of so much. I had to let go the person I was, the person I thought I was and the image of my self that I created.
And I had to let go of my car. I had so much of my self-image tied up into the VW, feeling too deeply attached to an engine, to metal, plastic, leather. I made the decision to buy this car when I was but 21 years old because I wanted a cool car, not thinking about the upkeep, the inevitable downhill slide a car takes as it ages. And I couldn’t keep up with it. It fell into disrepair. Pulling to the right, balding tires, worn suspension. It was too much; I felt anchored to this car. So, I sold it off to someone who could take better care of it, who could provide the time and money it deserved.
I gave up the ability to move about without asking permission. I gave up a small part of my sanctuary, where I hid and cried and screamed and felt safe. I gave up the long hours behind the wheel, seeking images and places and experiences I needed to have, so that I could feel connected to something other than media. I gave up irresponsible straight-aways at 90 miles an hour, tight mountain curves and the whisper of the interstate. I gave it up so I could, maybe, be present in my life. I gave it up to access something that’s more concrete than running away.