dear mom,
I got into a car accident earlier this year. It was bad. Sunny (my 2013 Honda CR-V that I drove all the way out here from North Carolina) was totaled. You would be stressed that it was the middle of the night, but you would be relieved that I had two friends with me who got me through it. I was too flustered to comprehend what happened or what had to be done, and I kept shouting "What the fuck were you doing?!" Someone told me to call a tow, and I ended up on a long phone call with insurance while people gathered around the accident, maybe rubbernecking, maybe helping. Someone told us to move my dead car out of the middle of the road, and we told them they are welcome to fucking try because it wouldn't start. A couple came out to investigate under the premise of walking their dog. Turns out, their back porch Ring camera caught the entire crash. They were the only helpful humans of the evening. The police did eventually stop by and were so casually useless - they didn't even want to file a police report for some reason, and it's unconfirmed if they even breathalyzed the kid who was driving. I learned later that to avoid sending your car on a wild tow adventure, you should request the police call a tow - especially if it's near midnight. You probably wouldn't believe how routine this would be considered for a Friday night in Oakland. I'm sorry I chose to live here, mom.
And yet, during the entire night, I just couldn't believe it had happened at all.
I wouldn't have told you about it until I was home safe though. I didn't tell Dad until after the ER visit and a long nap. Since I was clearly alive and okay, dad jumped into logistics mode, focused on making sure I navigate the insurance process effectively. Maybe that's what he's good at - financial and logistics support. I wonder if I would've called you for the emotional support. I wonder if then I would have responded with any emotion other than rage. As I recounted the night to some of my friends, most of them said, "I'm glad you're okay though."
"I'm glad you're safe."
"I'm glad you're alive."
I wonder if I would've cried with relief at this realization instead of burying myself in apathy and more rage that now I was saddled with the aftermath of property damage, liability, personal injury, evidence, loans, money, money, money. I'd rather have been killed.
Fuck this guy, I thought to myself almost every day after the accident. I still had to commute to work. I had to tamp down my anxiety about being on the road again so I could fulfill this obligation just to keep surviving. I was so angry every morning and then again every evening. Fuck this guy and the guy that killed you. It was overwhelming, and sometimes I'd let myself cry during the drive, wiping away the last tears just before I pulled into the office.
I collected and organized all my rage a month later and reached out to therapists, digging out an email of referrals from almost a year ago. During my first session, I sobbed. I shook with more rage, but also a deep sadness I hadn't felt in so long. As I've gotten older, I've gotten less and less self conscious about crying in front of other people because, mom, I cry. A. Lot. But it felt uncomfortable to feel this kind of empathy from my new therapist, that didn't also feel heavy with pity or awkwardness or shock. I guess that's why she's the professional.
I have a lot of broken pieces to process, and I guess that's why I started writing you letters again in the first place. For now, I want to think about what I'd share with you if you could've been with me after the accident. I imagine we would've curled up together in my bed so I could lie down, and then when I drifted off to sleep, you'd make me something warm and comforting and heavy like porridge. Cooked with aromatics and dried shrimp. And then topped with a smattering of my favorite savory condiments like chili oil, anchovy crisp, jiang dofu, sesame seeds, fresh scallions, and a tea egg.
I miss you so much.
-Amelia
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