When I threw my boyfriend in front of a car

Thu, 19 May 2011 20:01:00 +0000

One Tuesday afternoon last January, I was crossing the street -- with the light in the crosswalk, mind you -- when a white Crown Vic taxi came barreling around the corner. I did what city folk usually do in this situation: I continued to walk as I turned and made eye contact with the driver. I thought we had an understanding. He was going to stop and I was going to glare and then we would get on with our days. Right?

Instead, the cab accelerated into me. I bounced off the hood of the cab and rolled on the ground in the gutter. This was definitely not the standard Chicago standoff I'd expected.

Ultimately, I sprained my ankle and ruptured my Achilles tendon. The sprain was what hurt, but the brutal snap was the tendon. The ruptured Achilles tendon required surgery, four weeks in a cast, four weeks in a boot, and three months of physical therapy. And I noticed another change.

I was afraid.

I started having dreams about the cab hitting me, the hard unyielding bumper hitting my legs, my head bouncing off the hood and then off the asphalt, rolling, scratching my hands up, the pop in my ankle. The way the engine sounded when it revved.

Salon.com > Beth Dugan

When I threw my boyfriend in front of a car