By HELEN CARROLL FOR THE DAILY MAIL
Whenever I saw my boss striding purposefully towards me, my heart would race. What would it be this time; was I to be sent to investigate a brutal murder? Or knock on the door of an errant celebrity, only for it to be swiftly slammed in my face?
Regardless, it was never the assignment itself that provoked utter panic but the location.
Because what left me feeling like I had a hand around my throat, unable to catch a breath, was the prospect of having to drive to wherever the story was unfolding.
My physical reaction – nausea, headache, shaky legs – could hardly have been more overwhelming if I’d been ordered to the gallows, rather than on a two-hour drive to Milton Keynes.
Although I hid it well, this was a regular occurrence in my 20s and 30s. Unbeknown to my newspaper bosses, I was in the grip of a driving phobia so intense that, in moments like these, I simply couldn’t get behind the wheel. On this occasion, like so many others, I had to call my then boyfriend, now husband, Dillon, to drive me so I could do my job.
My vehophobia, to give it its proper medical title, was my guilty secret for many years. It was most acute when I had to travel somewhere unfamiliar, navigating busy motorways or, even worse, quiet country lanes. I didn’t need a psychology degree to figure out that the roots of my fear lay in the trauma of seeing my eight-year-old sister knocked down and killed by a car when I was nine.
We were holding hands on our way home, alone, from school in Bradford, West Yorkshire, walking across a zebra crossing on a dual carriageway when a car came down the inside lane and hit Jane at speed.
My vehophobia, to give it its proper medical title, was my guilty secret for many years, writes Helen Carroll
The roots of my fear lay in the trauma of seeing my eight-year-old sister knocked down and killed by a car when I was nine
I will be haunted by what I witnessed, the catastrophic damage that a ton of metal can inflict, until my own dying day.
Her death devastated our family and, as the older sibling, I blamed myself. There were only 11 months between us and we spent all our time together, even sharing a bed most nights. I’m not sure I’ve ever truly come to terms with her loss.
But you don’t need to have suffered trauma on the road to develop a fear of driving.
More than a third of people feel anxious behind the wheel, according to research by insurance firm Aviva, with separate surveys showing around 10 per cent experience it so severely it counts as a phobia.
Physical symptoms include rapid heartbeat (23 per cent), sweating (22 per cent) and feeling nauseous (15 per cent), while nine per cent experience chest pains and difficulty breathing. It’s particularly prevalent among women, with those in their 40s and 50s typically most likely to fall victim.
Considering anxiety in general is a common symptom of perimenopause and menopause, it’s hardly surprising that hormonal changes can affect your driving, too. Certainly, among my own friends – all in our 40s and 50s – there are several who admit to feeling increasingly nervous about driving, with some having stopped altogether after dark.
The good news is that, regardless of when the fear of driving develops, it does not need to be permanent. However, it was only as a 45-year-old mother of three young children that I finally stumbled across the solution for my own long-standing fears.
I was 24 when I passed my driving test first time. I wouldn’t take it until I’d had so many lessons I felt certain of my competence on the roads –unlike many of my friends, who were desperate for the independence and adventures a licence would bring.
Back in the early 1990s, a time without video calls or internet searches, everything had to be done in person, so driving was an essential tool of my journalistic trade.
The year I passed my test, I made the move from a local paper in Yorkshire to a regional paper in the North-East. Though I had a driving licence, I lacked the confidence to climb into the driving seat.
My best days were spent holed up covering cases in the magistrates’ court, which was just a short walk from the office. Back at my desk, however, I lived in dread of having to put my sweaty palms on the wheel.
Two years later, Dillon got a place to study for a master’s degree in economics and philosophy at the London School of Economics, so I followed him and got work on a newspaper in London.
Luckily for me, for the first two years at least, Dillon was usually around and willing to drive me to ‘doorstep’ potential interviewees as far afield as Dorset or Durham. When he wasn’t, I’d beg a lift with a photographer, pretending my car was in the garage.
The hours poor Dillon spent reading academic texts by a dim internal car light while I interviewed bereaved families, betrayed wives and neighbours at loggerheads, are testimony to his unerring patience and the intensity of my phobia.
Could I have survived as a news reporter had Dillon not been around to drive me? Definitely not.
So, once he began his academic career and was no longer on hand during the day, I had to reassess my own. First, I took a role on the news desk, reading copy and coming up with ideas for stories for other reporters. But I desperately missed writing, so I moved into feature writing, which rarely had the same intense pressure to be somewhere tout de suite as news reporting had done. Public transport was my friend.
When I went freelance in my 30s, after having children, there was less of a need to travel. The less I drove, however, the more I dreaded it.
The year I passed my test, I made the move from a local paper in Yorkshire to a regional paper in the North-East. Though I had a driving licence, I lacked the confidence to climb into the driving seat
When I went freelance in my 30s, after having children, there was less of a need to travel. The less I drove, however, the more I dreaded it
When my three children were young, I’d walk everywhere, pushing them in the buggy, telling myself it was a good opportunity to get some exercise. It became harder when they were too big for a pushchair, but still easily tired, complaining bitterly about walking the mile to school, especially on rainy days.
Horribly guilty that we had a car parked outside that I was perfectly capable of driving, I forced myself to do the school run as well as other journeys – to ballet, gymnastics and swimming classes – local to our north London home.
While these familiar routes became second nature, the thought of venturing outside my comfort zone would trigger the sickening panic familiar from my younger years.
It was on a journey during half-term back in 2013 – when I was 45 and my children were aged 11, nine and five – that I knew I had to get a grip on my debilitating phobia once and for all.
I had arranged to meet a neighbour at the RAF Museum in Hendon, about half an hour from home. Although dreading it, as it involved driving on the North Circular – the busy dual carriageway that runs within a couple of hundred yards of my front door – I was determined to have a nice day out with my children.
My friend’s then six-year-old daughter had asked to come in our car while her mum would drive there with her younger son. Not wanting to make my four young passengers anxious, I put the address into the satnav and hoped for the best.
Minutes from our destination, however, as I circled the huge roundabout at the foot of the motorway for the fourth time, my throat started closing, my stomach felt like it was gripped in a vice, and my arms were so shaky I had to grip the steering wheel not to lose control.
I remember screeching at my eldest son, Daniel, in the front passenger seat to help me make sense of the satnav. ‘Is it really telling me to turn up the M1?!’
When he confirmed that it was, I knew we had to turn back.
‘Sorry kids, we’ve got to go home,’ I snapped, as I tried to stop myself throwing up in the footwell.
Daniel texted my neighbour to break the news. Although she never said so, she no doubt regretted entrusting her precious daughter – now in tears in the back seat – to my care. I felt both guilty and deeply ashamed. It was at that point that I resolved to do something about this debilitating fear.
I recalled a conversation a few months earlier with a school gate mum – at the time I knew six who were highly competent in other ways but, despite having a licence, were too scared to get behind a wheel – about Drive Therapy. A cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) based technique taught by driving instructor Carmine Mastrogiacomo, it is aimed at those who, like me, have passed their test but are nervous about driving.
My first session with Carmine was conducted over the phone, going over the roots of my phobia and what aspects of driving I feared most: motorways, getting lost and causing a terrible accident. While symptoms of vehophobia tend to be similar for everyone – heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, intense sweating and wanting to escape the situation – triggers vary, according to Carmine.
‘For some it’s anxiety about dealing with other road users, feeling rushed by vehicles behind, dealing with complex junctions and roundabouts or driving at night,’ he told me. ‘Causes can vary but usually result from a traumatic experience, such as a car accident – feelings about which are triggered when you encounter something similar.’
He recommended weekly sessions where I would drive with him for an hour, and receive homework, driving to unfamiliar places alone between sessions.
Today, in-car packages start at £579, and virtual courses from £249. My first Drive Therapy task was to drive along the North Circular with Carmine at my side.
I felt OK when he was there but my homework was to do the same journey alone. I remember the intense fear as I drove down the slip road – panicked that other drivers wouldn’t let me in, then terrified of increasing my speed to 50mph, in case I lost control.
Just as I was getting used to it, I felt my stomach clench at the thought that I might not be able to change lanes in time to leave at the exit. I did, however, manage to calm myself using commentary driving, a technique Carmine had taught me. This involves describing aloud all the things you can see on the roads and pavements as you drive.
‘Coming up on my right is a Tesco, followed by Wembley Stadium; lights at the pelican crossing are changing, I’m slowing down, letting the man with the young girl on the scooter cross; the furthest vehicle I can see is a blue van . . .’
It’s designed to bring you into the here and now and prevent your mind running wild and imagining all sorts of alarming scenarios. I was hugely relieved to find it actually worked and couldn’t have felt prouder – and more relieved – if I had just flown a jumbo jet. While the trips varied, future lessons followed the same pattern, until eventually we tackled the dreaded journey to the RAF Museum, via a non-motorway route, before finally cracking the M1.
Every new trip – whether to Ikea, Brent Cross or London Gateway motorway services – helped build my confidence and, after nine months, I felt ready to fly solo, without Carmine’s comforting presence by my side.
He told me that I was a good, observant driver who had been perfectly capable of going it alone from the first lesson, my mind just needed to believe it.
Twelve years down the line, I’ve notched up many a drive that would previously have been daunting, from dropping my daughter at university in Brighton to airport pick-ups.
I still feel a surge of panic in unfamiliar places, when the satnav malfunctions – but calm myself by remembering Carmine’s techniques.
Now aged 57, I am eternally grateful to Carmine for opening up the country, if not quite the world – I still defer to Dillon when it comes to driving abroad.
Unlike him, I don’t think I’ll ever be someone who relishes weaving in and out of traffic in Manhattan, or bombing along an autobahn – but I’m relieved to no longer be gripped by terror going to Tesco.
I think my 20-something self would be proud.