Its been 6 months. Do you know where your diagnosis is?

My six month sick-a-versary came and went on the 6th without me remembering it. I don't have much more to say about it other than:
1. I hate Kaiser Permanente
(I hope someone finds blog this via a Kaiser google search)
2. I've gone out with my forearm crutches TWICE now!!
(I didn't realize how tall I am.)
3. I'm terrified.

Whenever you find yourself in a state of exceptionally ill health, the most common result is a new found clarity in priorities. This has happened to me three times, the most recent being this wonder acute idiopathic polyneuropathy. The priorities I discovered were ones I already appreciated; Jacob, cookies, my family -1, and American muscle cars.
Honestly, I haven't been myself in nearly two years now. Pathetic, materialistic, obscene or ridiculous as it may sound, driving a muscle car is what I live for. Though this illness took away my ability to walk, the more depressing inability on my mind was pressing pedals and shifting gears. While shoes have never done anything for me, the smell of racing fuel makes me shiver. Driving fast and aggressively, or being a passenger when someone I trust drives that way, makes me laugh like a diabolically mad woman. Before this week, the only time I had forgotten about my disability for more than 15 minutes was at Firebird International Raceway in Arizona during Friday night drag races.

Not only have I driven less than six times in the last year, the two cars involved in those circumstances were 1) the official Justin.tv Civic and 2) a Buick that I sold to my parents to afford the move to San Francisco. I used to joke about going through car withdrawal, but I wonder now how much truth was in that statement.

Ford day at the drag strip. Even after suffering from 24/7 nerve pain, this is still my version of Hell

Losing my Camaro, buying an '04 GTO, and selling said GTO during a nasty breakup is the story of my car relationship ruin. While I was exhilarated by the GTO, its six speed transmission and LS1 engine, it was like throwing myself into a hasty relationship with "the hot but uninspiring rebound" after losing true love. I yearned for my Camaro every day, every night, and the sorrow of it tore me apart. I lost 10 pounds in the five days after the accident, this after I had already lost over 20 pounds in the three weeks prior due to a digestive illness. I threw out every picture I could find, digital or film, from pure anger. I have only two pictures and a bit of video of the Camaro, as well as the original owner's manual and the license plate.

Just as I remember seeing my baby brother, sister, and nephew for the first time, I remember seeing that Camaro perfectly. Its silver/gray paint glistened in the mid afternoon sun as we came around a bend. My nails dug into the seat beneath me, and like a child I shouted to my then boyfriend, "There it is! Is that it? Does it have a for sale sign? That's it! Are those guys looking at it!? Hey @$$holes, thats my car!" (I'm not exaggerating, I got fighting mad at some random people looking at the car)

The car was a disaster, vacuum lines wound in bizarre unfamiliar routes as the engine sputtered in disdain. I was so jittery and meek that I asked my boyfriend to do the
test drive while I sat in the back. Behind the seat headrest and underneath a cleverly placed hand, I hid my enormous grin. The interior was hideous, there was no stereo, but the air conditioning was ice cold and... it was a Z28! I figured my older brother, a mechanic who owns an '86 Iroc, would be disappointed in my selection, but I was already too far gone in love with this car.

I remember the smile the motherly former owner gave me as she handed me the keys. I tried to not cry while I started it for the first time. As soon as I pulled away, I screamed with an excitement I have not since felt. I cried and laughed as I make my first left turn. I screamed/sang "I have a Camaro! I have a Camaro! I have a Camaro, hey hey hey HEY!" I drove for 45 minutes with no radio, and no need for one. I promised myself that I would take care of that car, make it into a beautiful, fast, restored Z28 (minus the 80's style decals).

Now I sit in the darkness, my mind long since tired of going over what I should or should not have replaced, removed, or done. My skin goes white at the thought of the heat from the fire that cool evening in March of 2006, the noise of the melting of the engine fans my brother and I installed, the smell of the paint and oil enclosing me in black smoke. The sounds, smells, and sight was a display of a part of me dying, a part I had relied on and took shelter behind for many years. When friends were unavailable, when confidants were uninterested, when support through dark times was no where to be found, I relied (happily) on the Camaro.

My eyes water whenever I speak of it aloud. Each 3rd generation F-body that I see makes me yearn, and break up songs make me think of a 1984 Camaro before I think of any relationships lost. None of my relationships before Jacob were as valuable to me as that car. I loved that car more than I loved my cat. (I'm a dog person!)

Knowing this about me, I hope it serves to explain why, despite my illness, my mind has dwelled on wanting to drive, wanting to repair, wanting to enjoy another muscle car. I knew that having a car that you cared about in this city was insane, so I never planned on having one, but I can't plan away my feelings and desires. The most heartbreaking moment of my illness was when I was in the hospital, the nurses buzzing around me, trying to run an IV line into my hand.

At this point I was in excruciating pain, the worst of the past six months, and in an effort to escape I thought of the Camaro. The duel snorkel air-cleaner my brother gave me for Christmas just 4 months earlier, the Sirius satellite radio that glowed bright blue in the darkness, the speedometer that never quite worked, the way the wind felt through my hair when I drove with the t-tops out, the misaligned shifter letters, the thunderous roar of the 3" Edelbrock exhaust that set off car alarms in every parking garage. I began to sob harder and blasphemed, thinking of the life I lost.

The car assimilated into me. Its accomplishments (32 mpg city) were my accomplishments. Is intimidating stance, its ferocious sound, its elegance in simplicity, and its breath taking beauty made me feel strong, fierce, and beautiful. Being without it has made me regress back into post-high school awkwardness; I am re-experiencing the feeling of being unarmed, forgettable, and directionless.

But seeing pictures of the 2010 Camaro woke up a part of me that has been dormant since that day in March. I want to grip a steering wheel as I break the law, I want to have marriage proposals at red lights, I want to get pissed off and drive on a barren freeway to compose myself. I want to have police officers ask me to race them, I want to tell off Corolla drivers when they sneer at my more efficient V-8 muscle car. I want to sit in a car of my own, a place where I can feel safe, a place where I can focus on new parts to buy or repairs to make, rather than the trouble at hand. I want to be proud of myself, I want to be free.