I never really liked to drive

I remember quite well the first time "Daddy let me drive." Actually, he insisted I drive. I had no choice but to get behind the wheel the day I turned 15 and drive home after passing the test to get my learner's permit. I didn't want to drive. I'd never driven before and I was afraid. I wanted to learn in a parking lot or something, but Daddy said, "you either drive home now or forget about driving altogether." I guess he was having a bad day.

So, with tears in my eyes, I got behind the wheel and ever so cautiously began to drive home. Dad was pretty laid back about it, offering only a few instructions, just letting me figure it out. I was a nervous wreck. (It seems to me that it is usually the other way around, spunky overly confident kid, nervous Dad.)

I had been driving all of ten minutes or so, carefully observing all rules and speed limits and staying ever so cautiously in my lane and then, on a small country road with little traffic and one horse, suddenly there was a car and horse encounter, a lot of horse noise and rearing and a lot of young girl screaming. Through the tears, "I told you, Daddy, that I didn't know how to drive. I told you I didn't want to. You made me." Daddy quietly drove the rest of the way home. Neither horse nor human was really hurt, but the dent and the trauma lasted a long time. I wonder if that experience was the reason I never really liked to drive.

So , I am going on a long road trip, all by myself. Three months. Interstates. Country roads. City traffic. And I'm not even nervous.

Psychologically this must mean something. But what?