When I decided to change my life in 2015, there were certain things that I had to put behind walls in order to regulate my pain intake.
It was painful enough just to exist in the situation I had put myself in, so by building walls, I was buying myself time, like putting my pain on an installment plan.
I constructed these walls very tightly around me, to prevent myself from unraveling in every direction, bewildered, floundering, and unable to contain my emotions. Behind them I hid people, places, and things that I knew I would eventually have to face (metaphorically speaking) and process, I just didn’t have nearly the head space or energy to do it all at once. Not even close.
Over the next few years, I tore down these walls one by one, faced what was behind them, and processed my emotions around them. Consequently, I also set myself free of them. But, I could only do this when I was truly ready.
Even after dealing with most of these walls in the past few years, there has been one awkwardly left standing, reclusive, hiding in the back. Behind it was my beloved Old Truck that I’ve been storing and using very little for four years.
Yes, while the idea of letting go can be applied to many things in life, today I am shamelessly applying it to a truck.
Have you ever had a material possession, an inanimate object, that you were inexplicably attached to? So much that you could never, ever see yourself getting rid of it?
“It doesn’t have a soul, it doesn’t know, it doesn’t love you back, it won’t miss you,” they say. Still, you remain attached. It’s always been there for you, it’s dependable. It has caught your tears, withstood storms, lasted longer than pets, friends, boyfriends, maybe even spouses…
For me, this is my Old Truck. My dream car. My 1994 Toyota Pickup, glorious manual transmission, last model before they started calling them “Tacoma” in 1995. A true gem of a vehicle. The kind of Toyota truck that will last forever, still runs like a champ, and has held its value for the last 15 years.
I got this truck when I was just 20 years old. Read: For nearly my entire adult life, I’ve been as much a Toyota truck owner and driver as I have been a traveler. It’s me, this truck is me.
Even as I write this, I understand that from the outside this could be seen as silly, even ridiculous, writing about being so attached to a truck. “It’s just a truck!” You might think, and if you see it like that, that’s fine, there’s no required reading here. This is just me, tearing down a wall, and processing it the way I need to, with words. You’re welcome to stay or go.
I hate the phrase “get rid of it” for something so dear to me, so today we’ll call it “letting go.”
Today, I let my truck go.
I never thought this day would come. Honestly. Every time I tried to imagine it, thinking it might be in my best interest to let my truck go someday, my “right” mind would intervene and vehemently push the thought out, restoring my thoughts to a pleasant and unthreatening homeostasis. The mere thought would almost have me in tears. No. It would just. never. happen.
It’s a Toyota. Owners of old Toyota trucks just don’t do that.
But, after 15 years, to my utmost surprise, it is happening.
I love that old hunk of metal with an engine, more than I should. I love the way the engine roars up like a big truck when I start it, I love the way the big skinny steering wheel feels in my hands. I love shifting that tall stick shift, and the pause the truck takes to do so. I love that I can do zero to sixty in 5 minutes flat, and that I never beat anyone off the line. I’m the one you pass going 35 mph up a hill.
I love the black body and white topper “oreo” look and passenger door that only unlocks from the inside and only opens from the outside. I’m used to its quirks. I speak its language.
It has moved with me across states and held everything I own in the back more times than I’d like to count. I love that machine for what it is and how it has been there for me through so much of my life.
But sometimes, we have to set aside the good to make room for the great.
Paying to park a vehicle, even a beloved vehicle, at a storage unit where it gets no love or second glances, just crusty tires and a dead battery, isn’t good. It isn’t serving me to own it now, especially after buying my Subaru Outback last summer. I can’t even park it at my house.
It’s finally clear to me, after not having driven it for a year, that my time with this truck is over. And though I never thought I’d be able to do it, I’m choosing to let it go. And with it go certain things that it represents and still holds for me, that I also haven’t been able to let go or even realize I needed to process, until now.
The truth is, this truck is part of my past. A major player in my story whose role has been fulfilled. We both need a new adventure now. (Yes, I’m also a shameless anthropomorphizer.)
I’m not in the same place I was before. It’s okay to move on, it’s okay to let go, even if it goes with a lot of tears.
Tearing down this wall will only set me free from some part of this truck, this history, that has been containing me. Today, I choose to move forward, and I choose to let this truck bring joy to someone else.
And I must say, those 2020 Tacomas are lookin’ mighty fine… #stillmydreamcar
