When my Dad told me I needed to learn how to drive, I never thought it would be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I knew somehow, the first day I went to the driving school, that it was the begining of a chore.
“You need a car, honey. Well, maybe not now, but you will soon. You’d be glad you did it.” my Dad said. He didn’t know how bad this was gonna be, I’m sure he would change his mind if he knew how bad I am. I hate driving, I hate people on the road, I hate speed, I hate being in control in something I don’t trust. I hate driving so bad I feel like I’m not meant to be an adult. It took me more than two years to have my driver license. I never want to touch a car ever again. (I’ll change my mind if a zombie apocalyse happens. I’ll be glad to drive for survival.)
A friend of mine said I was stupid to think like that and that I needed to stop make a fuss about it. Driving means freedom and independance. I don’t really believe that because I don’t need such a thing. If I want to go somewhere, I can peacefully take a train or a bus, I don’t care if it takes an entire day. Am I that strange? Is it that stupid?
They all say I will get use to it and I hate hering that as well. Maybe it’s true, but, deep down, I know I will never love driving. It’s too much pressure onto me. I suceeded everything I needed to, but people won’t understand how terrified I am of that. Sure I got a driving license but I failed three times before succeeding. The examiner told me he was doing me a favor. I technically know how to drive, I just need to be “more confident” to quote him.
Drving is such a burden. I wish I could NEVER drive again.
We all know that’s a lie, sadly. But I do want to believe in it.