vehicular torture
silent drives and tattered nerves
We never listened to music in the car. Really, we never listened to music at all, but it struck me this morning that we never listened to music in the car.
The hours and hours we spent driving together, usually sitting in the cab of my truck - which I was never allowed to drive - over thousands of miles, all to and from destinations they decided, and often to perform labor that they would profit from… I think those hours were some of the most painful.
Whether we were driving to drop off CSA boxes for their farm’s patrons (which I organized, administrated, and kept records of), driving in the moving truck for the company they did contract work with when we first met (the pay from which I never saw a penny of), or driving downtown on a whim to satisfy some particular food craving they had (always an over-order that I would pay for, and that they would probably end up not even eating because of an argument they would start), there was never once music playing on the stereo.
Instead, the chorus of, “what are you thinking about?” would play on repeat over and over again - often with a coy, deceptive smirk - until I finally caved and gave them even a shred of what was on my mind. Without fail, each time they would turn what I shared against me, no matter how benevolent the thought was. My hesitancy to share with them would soon enough also be turned against me, despite the pattern of distrust they had manufactured.
In the months that followed my initial departure from the farm, when my algorithm bombarded me with content from narcissistic abuse educators and counselors, I learned that this is a common tactic.
“driving in a car with a narcissist can be dangerous and scary”
“in the car, you are trapped: why narcissists always fight with you in the car”
“narcissists may use the car as a weapon to try to win the fight.”
“narcissists may risk the safety of everyone in the car"
Let me be clear, since this might be the first time I have used the word narcissist since starting these reflections - I am not diagnosing M. I am not categorizing them according to the DSM. Language is limited and subjective. Most people, when I share examples of how M would interact with me, have used diagnostic terminology, whether “narcissist,” or otherwise. Maybe this is useful insofar that it gives a framework to relate to.
I want it to be clear that I do not believe in villainizing people based on their mental health. For an entire year, I clung to that belief and allowed it to keep me trapped. No matter how harmful they got, I would remind myself that hurt people hurt people; and I would convince myself that I was the problem for not properly minding their needs as a hurt person. In order to finally walk away, I had to start recognizing their deliberate wickedness. Now that I have been no contact for more than nine months, it has been incredibly challenging to process my experiences while still maintaining a sense of respect for M’s humanity.
My perspective has pendulated between compassion-centered and cynical countless times, and it is because I now find balance in the middle that I feel ready to write as a means of reflection.
What I can see now is that they brought me along on every drive not because they liked having me close, but because they liked knowing what and how I was thinking so that they could distort it to their liking. They liked having control over my body as it moved through space, usually at 80mph on the interstate while they texted and smoked. Nothing seemed to satisfy them more than me sacrificing my own time and needs in order to sit in the passenger seat and be berated.
I still get a tension headache if I turn my head to the left in order to carry on a conversation with someone seated beside me. I still feel my frayed nerves.
When they totaled their Subaru on the interstate and we survived colliding with a deer going over 80, I played Tetris for weeks. All I could hear was the sound of them screaming, and had read about the impacts of playing Tetris immediately after a traumatic event on ongoing PTSD symptoms.
“You almost killed us,” I said sometime in the hours after the crash. My eyes were full of tears and I was so scared, still in shock. I wasn’t criticizing, and I wasn’t speaking for the sake of assigning blame, it was just how I had experienced it: they had gotten angry about something else earlier, and were still fuming as they sped towards home; I was feeling small in the passenger seat, and anticipating a lecture when we got home.
“FUCK YOU! I saved your life,” was their response. They proceeded to tell me how fucked up I am, and then stonewalled me until I was sobbing, apologizing, and thanking them for saving my life.