License to Hope

I suffer from severe mental illness. Some doctors say I have an anxiety disorder and severe depression, others have labeled it a personality disorder, but regardless of the diagnosis, these issues have plagued me since I entered beis medrash. For eight years I was a shell of myself — I joke that I’ve had more inpatient psych hospitalizations than most people have gone on vacations.

Holding down a job was essentially impossible once my breakdowns began. I was determined to succeed at least in one area — driving — but even that seemed out of reach. I failed my driving test not once, not twice, but three times. I finally passed on my fourth try, when I was 18. It was a big milestone.

Sometime down the line, my cousin, who owns three stores and a warehouse, hired me to drive for him. I transferred merchandise, made trips to wholesalers, and took care of various errands. For six years, I drove his van hundreds of miles a day all over the Tristate area. Zipping between double-parked cars in Brooklyn, navigating pedestrian-filled Manhattan, even shutting down the lower level of the Verrazano Bridge one Friday afternoon when the transmission went haywire and the van caught fire, I became an expert driver. Driving was therapeutic — and even fun.

My driver’s license gave me the freedom to hold down a job, and to be good at that job. That license, and what it represents, showed me I can become an expert at anything I want.