Читать книгу Leaving the OCD Circus - Kirsten Pagacz - Страница 28

On my sixteenth birthday (I can remember this because I was having a quiet moment by myself at the dining room table eating a piece of cold fried chicken), my brother Brian came in and said, “It's your birthday and we're going to get your license.” Brian took me in his souped-up Impala, and we raced down Eisenhower Expressway to the Chicago driver's license facility. I'm fairly certain that the old guy who passed me on the driving test had never sat in a car with such a jacked-up ass, rust, and a bitchin' cassette player; it had teenage wheels written all over it. I was thankful to have my license but wished I could have finished that piece of cold fried chicken!

I found that driving did give me the sense of freedom that I longed for. I could leave and I could drive, and drive I did. It was empowering. I went everywhere, including the north side of Chicago, where there were loads of funky shops. I loved observing city life; it had a real mystique to me coming from the suburbs and all. Driving and going out drinking with friends gave me some desperately needed distractions from the litany of obsessions and compulsions. Then came my budding addictions, each one like a barnacle that gave me a little protection and my sensitive self some coverage, a little hiding place.