We Don't Talk About This
2024.08.12.
I did it. I did it again and again. I always felt terrible afterward, but for some reason, I never did anything about it. I kept doing it for years, maybe for so long that I thought it was completely normal. Normal, because others do it too. It’s ingrained in our culture; books are written about it, we have expressions for it, countless articles discuss it, and now people even talk about it on podcasts. We talked about it too. Sometimes, we were even proud when we shared it with each other. And there were those who didn’t talk about it, just hinted at it or smiled mysteriously when it came up. I haven't done it in years.
What changed?
I remember the first time. I didn’t do it—it was done to me. I realized it. I don’t remember the feelings, but I can picture how the events came together. I didn’t do anything at the time, just tried to understand what was happening. When I left, that’s when I started to get really angry. It was like my first big accident. That time, it was my fault; I didn’t yield, even though it was clearly there:
S T O P
When the other car crashed into me, I just sat in the car. There was a burning smell. The radio was playing. My glasses fell off. Everything was so slow; the movie stopped for a moment. The windshield wiper, knocked forward by the collision, was rhythmically wiping nothing. The radio was still playing. I couldn’t find my glasses. Then suddenly, everything came together, my thoughts sped up—I need to get out, check on the other driver. I need to call the police. What about the car? Wow, it’s totaled, and a sign got knocked over too, glass everywhere, oil leaking. I need a body shop, maybe two. The more convincing one can take the car. The police wrote everything down, and I could leave.
I just sat there.
I sat there, staring ahead. The images kept spinning, my chest hurt. Not from the collision, but from my mistake. From the weight of what I’d done. From the imagined consequences. Someone could have died. What if someone had been walking there? A group of kindergarteners? Someone would have definitely died. I could have gone to jail. I could have ruined everything. And what about my family, my kids?
What had I done?
I remember that moment. In the car, and how it felt afterward. That was the first time. It was like that when it was done to me too. It wasn’t my fault. Wasn’t it my fault? The moment I found out, it was empty. Empty and silent. The world stopped for a moment, the film slowed down. I was rational, gathering data, analyzing, observing. Everything. The silence was empty. The other’s mouth silently gaped as they told me what they had done. I left. I sat in my room, trying to understand what had happened. What had the other person done?! How did they not see that massive STOP sign? They rammed into me, no, they stomped on me.
I was shattered.
Totaled? That’s how I felt. After that, everything changed. I went to demolition derbies. With partners borrowed for minutes, we’d smash into each other, into ourselves, into others.
I did it again and again.
Why? Was it that I might die in one of them? Or that I just wanted to understand the first one better? Or that I wanted to control things? Or was it something I inherited? I remember when my father did it. I was there. In the car. In the back seat. An inherited fate? Or maybe I just craved the adrenaline? That feeling of crashing, breaking all the rules, knowing I’d get away with it? They won’t catch me. They won’t catch me? I’m smart, alert, crafty.
Catch me already!
I didn’t want to do it anymore. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why. Each crash became worse. It hurt, I think. I thought about myself. About the back seat. About the inherited fate. And about the STOP sign.
I want to stop.
I didn’t know how. How should I stop at that sign? I don’t need to stop. I don’t even need to start. If you’re where you belong, if you’re already where you want to go. But that doesn’t exist; we’re always going somewhere. These days, I prefer to walk. I have time. I walk and observe. Sometimes someone bumps into me because they’re glued to their phone. They’re on Facebook, reading something, sending messages. I politely step aside, avoiding unnecessary conflicts. I walk, and I no longer have a STOP sign. Sometimes I get a red light. I wait for the green.
Many of us don’t stop.
We convince ourselves why we shouldn’t stop at the STOP sign. We walk in forbidden territory, whatever that means. Because we have to keep moving. Wherever that may be.
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The article was translated from Hungarian to English by ChatGPT. Thank you, ChatGPT, for being here.
