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I like to drive. In fact, I like to drive a lot. If I’m ever deeply stressed or struggling, I’ll go for a very long drive. Something about driving just soothes me.
It may be because I enjoy the scenery or because it gives me the time and space I need to think. But, the more I think about it, the more I think my driving has to do with the fact that my dad drove me back to life.
Some time ago, I was twenty-years-old and grappling with a serious addiction and deep depression. Things became so intensely dark and painful that I decided to end my life. In this, I would have succeeded had my dad not discovered me.
I was rushed to the hospital where the doctors were able to prevent my death — but they were unable to give me life. You see, even though I was alive, I felt empty, hollow, and emotionally numb — dead to the world.
In an attempt to revive my spirit, my family rallied and offered every imaginable form of life support. There were heartfelt conversations, encouraging notes, frequent phone calls and there was lots of time spent together.
But, I think my dad was at a bit of a loss at what to do. After all, he wasn’t a professional at emotional therapy. He had never struggled with depression or addiction. How could he know what to say?
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