Anxiety. Angst. Apprehension. Panic. Terror. A dozen more nouns could describe my fear of driving.

One could call me a late bloomer. I didn’t get my license until halfway through my senior year, and I’d be astounded if I accumulated more than a 1,000 driving miles in the first 18 months I had a car.

I hated driving.

And I hated myself for lacking the courage to slide behind the wheel and start up the engine.

Now, let me just say, I feel weird about discussing personal problems in a public forum, but I don’t see the shame in talking about it. I know it’s sexy to be shrouded in mystery, but my experiences have taught me that openness is my key to staying sane, as hard as it may be sometimes.

If only I had followed that advice earlier. Had I done so, the anxiety would not have controlled my life. I would have taken certain classes a year ago, such as this journalism class, instead of fearing I’d have to drive somewhere to cover a story. I would have gone out some nights, instead of sitting at home, because I was afraid of a two-mile drive.

It took nearly two years, but finally last October I’d had enough and entered therapy for my anxiety. I was tired of living with a correctable problem that had gotten so bad I was buying books devoted to telling readers how to live without a car.

I can’t say I’m 100 percent “cured” when it comes to driving, but there are times I actually enjoy it. Better yet, it doesn’t interfere with my life anymore.

All I can say is this: Don’t be shamed by yourself or others, if you have a problem. Help is available, and seeking it out only makes you a stronger person.

Contact Jonathan Roisman at [email protected]