I locked eyes with the beast. My breathing became shallow and staccato-like as we rose up into the air, hurtling across the spine of this
A couple of weeks ago I planned an impromptu trip to Charleston with my family. The weather man promised me perfect weather, plus I was utterly sick with Spring Fever. After a cold and snowy (for the South) winter, we all needed to be some place sunny, colorful, and ocean-y, with a pub every ten feet or so. I quickly searched online for a hotel room, and I landed on a good deal in Mount Pleasant, across the Cooper River from the historic downtown area. While visions of shrimp and grits danced in my head, I couldn't shake a bad feeling lurking down deep inside me: How in the world would I make it across that very
I get it. Bridges don't kill people, bad drivers on bridges do. Believe me, I have tried for years to discover the root of this phobia because it has completely changed how I live my life. How can I drive to unfamiliar destinations? What if I encounter a body of water or a highway overpass taller than my house? As with all phobias, my fear of what will happen is totally
Here's the kicker that should have been the cure: I have to cross a river everyday to get to my office. This is definite proof that
I crossed the bridge in Charleston three times that weekend, each time a little easier than the last. On our way home, we took a different route to visit a friend which meant I didn't have to face it again that Sunday morning. I felt more relaxed thinking that maybe the new route would mean a smaller, less heart-palpitation-inducing bridge, and that I would even be able to open my eyes and not stop breathing during the ride. But that wouldn't be my luck, would it? The alternative bridge was old, not so shiny, and came with a cage at the top (because people have OBVIOUSLY careened over the edge). This time? I screamed like a little girl.