One morning a few weeks ago as I headed out to meet a friend at our local coffee shop, I noticed that my car seemed really loud inside.
Really loud. Hmm.
I kept driving.
Then I changed lanes and when I ran over the reflector bumps in the middle of the road, it was super-super loud.
Again, hmmm.
I kept driving.
Wondering why the car was so loud. Driving a little slower, in case it was going to blow up or something.
Then I tried running over the bumps with the other wheels, and it wasn’t loud. So then I started thinking that maybe I had a flat tire.
Guess what?
Yup. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true: I kept driving.
All the way to the coffee shop. Then I got out of the car, looked at the tires, and sure enough, one of them was flat as a pancake.
Whereupon I did what I always do when something mechanical or technical malfunctions: I called Andy. And he did what he always does: he came and fixed it.
I would say “no questions asked” because he never makes me feel bad about fixing whatever it is I’ve broken.
But actually he did have questions like, “When did the noise start?” and “Exactly how far did you drive on this tire?” Those were legit questions, trying to ascertain the possible extent of the damage.
My answers, unfortunately, were pretty vague, because I just sort of didn’t know. I don’t pay much attention to the mechanical and technical things in my life. Maintenance doesn’t cross my mind. I just roll along, expecting everything to work.
I was thinking about that this morning, because my first experience with anxiety and depression years ago was a lot like that flat tire.
I was rolling along in life, when some bothersome symptoms began to appear. I had repetitive nightmares. I would wake up in the night with racing thoughts, and have trouble falling asleep again. I was unhappy and tearful and down about myself and other people and life in general.
There was a lot of emotional noise, but I didn’t know what it meant.
So I kept going.
