I am a yoga therapist and trauma specialist.

I work with the manifestations of stress and trauma in the body. I have my share of work experience in the field domestic and international, refugee groups, first responders, post-crisis zones.

On this road my own experience of tension and trauma has changed. Nowadays I have a tendency to experience my stress in two ways: firstly from within, as the subject, and secondly from without, as in diagnostically. As a professional making an assessment.

But last night something happened to me. Last night I experienced a fear that felt like terror. Last night a brutal feeling tore through me that made my chest pound, my hands shake, my voice escape me, and rivers of tears gush down the side of my face without me even being aware of my crying.

Last night my being incurred a wounding. Last night felt like my soul was dragged along gravel until it was shredded with deep, dark ridges.

This morning, where things are more or less okay and I am licking my wounds, I am trying to piece together why this feeling, despite how brutal it was, did not feel unfamiliar to me. When had I felt this terrified before? I am shuffling through the highlights of my fairly average childhood traumas trying to remember.

The time that some kids managed to stop themselves in the middle of a long and winding water slide causing all the children to pile up on top of each other, our bare, wet legs wrapped around strangers with 10 kids already wedged in the tight, cold tunnel ahead. No. Last night was worse. Way worse.

The time I learned why minimum age requirements exist on movies, having been exposed to the movie Candyman at way too young an age, causing me to stumble disoriented from room to room while hysterically laugh-crying? No. Last night was worse than that too.

What about the time when at three years old I was separated from my family in an elevator and lost in a 13 story hotel for hours? I thought I would never see my mother again. Last night cut deeper than that.

Somewhere though, I had felt that terrified before. The way I felt last night was not new territory.

First you must first know that recently I have had a few run-ins with the law. Yup. After having a public record for most of my adult life that was so shiny it nearly squeaked, the last two months finally brought some drama to what was once an utterly dull read. I was hit with two back-to-back traffic tickets. Both for running stop signs. Yup. Watch out. I’m a dangerous woman.

The first ticket was sort of funny and deserved. It’s okay. Every five years or so you just gotta. It was January and I didn’t appreciate the $200 fine so shortly after the expenses of the holiday season, but this single girl in her early thirties deserved it.

The second was only three weeks later and a lot less funny. I had moved to a poorer neighborhood on the other side of town, but continued my Monday night yoga class on the East Side that I had been teaching for years. It pays next to nothing and I arguably spend more in gas than I earn from teaching, but when you do what you love, your students become your grounding force, your community. I was not ready to let this group go.

I was just about the only white girl in my neighborhood and most certainly the only girl living alone in a one bedroom apartment. My landlord had been on some inexplicable war path with me, ignoring my calls for over a week, then being insulting and then hitting me with exorbitant fees for calling his maintenance man without consulting him first. I had started ignoring home repair problems for as long as I could and then sourcing my own handy help when something finally cracked, busted, fell or broke.

I currently turn my shower on and off with a wrench. My car was having issues and needed repair, but I borrowed a friend’s car while I saved the money to fix mine. The fact that the vehicle was a red, lifted Jeep Wrangler, that finally forced me to learn to drive a stick, was cool at first. But that was before I realized how much unwanted attention I attracted.

Having finished the yoga class, I made my long way back to my rather grimy part of town and stopped at the grocery store. The jeep was laden to the brim with the paraphernalia that make up this life in working transition: 10 rolled yoga mats, straps, poster board, scissors, crayons, spare shoes and clothes, plus the plastic encased basketball signed by the entire 2015 University of Arizona basketball team (a raffle prize I had yet to take to its winner). I was exhausted as I hoisted the groceries into the car.

As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot I saw the bright lights behind me. I had not the faintest idea what I may have done and so I calmly made my way into the turn lane and came to park right in front of a small, surprisingly still open, gaming and card trading store. I assembled my documents from wallet and glove compartment. I sat back in my car seat and awaited my talking-to as the store’s operator stumbled out of the glass doors into the blue and red disco lights outside his store.  He seemed to be here for the show as he lit a cigarette and leaned up against a wall not 12 feet from where I was sitting.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I honestly don’t know and take a guess, “Umm…turning out of the parking lot into the middle lane?”

“No, you turned into the correct lane, but you didn’t stop. (Huh?) Every time you pull out of a parking lot onto a street, you have to treat it like a stop sign. Even if there isn’t a stop sign.”

I ran an imaginary stop sign at 10:30 at night on a Monday on an empty road, I think to myself. I would roll my eyes if I could. In my sweetest ways, I attempt to explain to him that I am tired, that it is late, that I didn’t mean to, that I just completed traffic school and that I really appreciate him. He takes my information and goes back to his car. I feel fairly solid that he understands that I am not the entitled college girl he may have taken me to be, but am working on making peace with whatever will be.

Time ticks on and he is still tinkering in his car. To calm my nerves I strike up a conversation with the cat puffin’ on his cigarette out front of his store—what he sells, what business has been like these days and so on.

His sweaty and pasty skin and the dark rings under his eyes along with his hoarse voice make me wonder what he uses to stay up all night, but I don’t care. Right now his presence is helping me keep myself calm, even if his ways seem sort of sleazy. I pull the basketball from my backseat and proudly show it to him. He sells stuff like that all the time, he says. Okay. I sigh and sit back in my seat once more and into the stillness my fear rises.

I look in my rear view and then ask the sports shop guy: “Do you think he is actually giving me a ticket?”

“Yup,” he says. “You might wanna take that sweater off and look hot. You don’t stand a chance in that thing.”

I feel like I have just been punched in the mouth. If I had had the chance, I would have said something to him. I would have let him know what a pig I think he is. I have worked too hard to become the woman who no longer shoves these kinds of things down far enough so everyone stays comfortable.

But before I can collect myself from his statement, I have the handsome face of the young officer in front of me again and my freshly printed ticket in my hand.

“No..!” I tell him.

“Yes,” he says.

“No, no, no,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he says.

“You know what? Fine,” I am testy. “But may I at least get a few things off my chest?” I ask him as my eyes well up.

“Sure.” He sounds almost kind

I tell him that this is not fair, not my car, not been an easy few months, that I have learned my lesson here, that I don’t need my wings clipped, that I cannot absorb these fines every month, and that the city does not need these $200 more than I do. He waits till I finish and we sort of thank each other and wish each other a good night.

Four weeks go by. I work my ass off. Between work and teaching, I start an LLC, open a business account, launch the first go around of therapeutic workshops, go on food stamps, am called a brat by my landlord, get my taxes done, buy insurance, $250 for the broken laptop, print business cards, find a new place to live for when my lease ends at the end of May, work on the promotional material and the business plan that is supposed to get me out of this hole.

I decide to fight the last ticket in court. The officer meticulously recreates the scenario on a diagram indicating me with a red X and himself with a blue arrow. I would have preferred to be the blue arrow. He walks around, creating the diagram, taking a superior and authoritative position over anyone sitting on the court floor. I listen as he details that night.

I am surprised when he reiterates much of what I said verbatim. Those things came out of my mouth, but he is being selective and I am unclear about relevance. He even mentions exactly when I started crying. I feel embarrassed, but I hear my sweetheart shuffling somewhere behind me and I have to smile. We had a joke going about my recent water works. The officer’s version does not include where I live, what I do, how hard I work. I let him finish.

I thank the officer and tell the judge that all that was shared was absolutely correct and that I have learned my lesson. That said, I feel the City of Tucson did not need my $200 nearly as much I did. I tell him of my living situation, being knocked around by my landlord, being harassed by the guy outside the gaming store, how hard I work, that that was not my car and that from now on I will make sure to stop at all stop signs, even if they are imaginary.

He says he appreciates my “upright conduct,” but it’s not in his power to waive the fine. He can’t lift my fine even if he wants to and we have left no room for compassion in this law.

So there. Add $20 to my ticket for having requested a hearing and arrange for a payment plan. I had said my peace at least. Riding the elevator down to the ground floor, I turn to my honey as my eyes bulge and with a huge gasp ask:

“Did we park the car and forget to pay for parking?!?”

“Sh*t!” he responds.

Then I go for a quick bike ride—at 10 at night on a Friday.

My lover asks me several times if this is a good idea. But having learned that getting in the way of my roaring independence will get a guy mauled, he resigns himself to worrying about me. I am going to be real quick and real careful. Not even taking my phone, wallet or keys. No drama. Be right back. I ride a large loop south and when I came back by his house, I decide to take another small loop north. Just to the main road and back.

I am a strong bike rider and I don’t mean in the Spandex sense. I mean in the city riding sense. I am confident and steady on my mountain bike and when I take my hands off the handlebars, feel the wind in my hair and my music in my ears, I let go. I fly. This is when I can feel my central nervous system unwind and I finally relax.

And then, with the beats of Jurassic 5 in my ears, I get cocky again and push into the busy intersection on a yellow light. I should know that I was playing with my luck, but I stupidly think I am invincible. Before I even made it to the other side of the street, I see the flashing lights of a squad car. It’s okay. I’m a girl on a bike. There is no way this guy is going to give me more than a warning. I slow my bike, still happy and floating from the joy of riding and climb off as I smile at the police officer who is walking toward me.

 

Keep Reading on to the conclusion in Part 2:

Bike Riding in the Land of the Free.

~

Author: Sarah Spieth

Editor: Travis May

Photo: galleryhip.com