When Your Fear Becomes Their Fun
A reflection on dangerous driving, dismissed fear, ignored boundaries, and recognising abuse in moments that were laughed off as “just a bit of fun.”
When Your Fear Becomes Their Fun
“Please don’t. You’re scaring me.”
I remember saying those words in the car, approaching a roundabout or a sharp corner, knowing what he was about to do. He would deliberately make the back of the car slide around, particularly when he was driving one of his sports cars.
I would ask him to stop. He would look at me and laugh.
Then we would reach the next roundabout, and he would do it again.
“It’s fun,” he would say.
But I wasn’t having fun. I was frightened, and I had told him that over and over.
That is the part I understand differently now.
People enjoy different things. Some enjoy speed and adrenaline. But when you are driving with another person, your enjoyment does not give you permission to disregard their safety. And when that person explicitly tells you that you are frightening them, you have a choice about what happens next.
He knew how I felt. I had made it clear. He chose to carry on.
I had already asked him to stop
For a long time, I didn’t recognise these moments as part of the wider pattern in our relationship. They sat among all the other things I found upsetting but struggled to explain.
Looking back, I can see that I was expressing a clear limit: I don’t feel safe. Please stop doing this with me in the car.
I didn’t need to find a more convincing way to say it. I didn’t need to become more relaxed, more adventurous, or better at taking a joke.
He needed to listen.
Instead, my fear became something he laughed at, while I remained in the passenger seat, unable to control the speed or the next corner. I couldn’t simply step away while the car was moving. I had to depend on the very person who was ignoring my request to feel safe again.
How I tried to make myself safer
I began offering to drive most of the time because I knew I would feel safer behind the wheel.
At the time, that probably looked like a practical arrangement. Now I recognise how much was contained in that small decision. I was changing what I did to reduce the chances of being frightened by him again.
There is something painful about realising that you were finding ways to protect yourself within a relationship where you should have been able to expect care.
I shouldn’t have needed to take over the driving to know that my fear would be respected.
There were occasions involving my son and his friends, too. Young people were allowed to film him speeding, and it was treated as something impressive. Looking back, I find that deeply troubling. Their excitement did not remove his responsibility as the adult behind the wheel.
Why this belongs in a conversation about abuse
Deliberately frightening a partner through dangerous driving can be a form of intimidation. The driver controls what happens, while the passenger’s pleas can be dismissed as an overreaction or an inability to have fun.
Calling it a joke does not erase the fear. Laughing does not make it harmless.
For me, what makes these memories so revealing is the repetition. I told him it frightened me. He heard me. Then he did it again.
I cannot tell you exactly what he was thinking. But I can tell you that my distress did not persuade him to stop, and that his enjoyment repeatedly took priority over my sense of safety.
My understanding of those journeys has changed. What happened has not.
I was asking the person I loved to take care of me in a moment when he had control of the car.
“Please stop, you’re scaring me” should have been enough the first time I said it.
What I understand now is how closely fear and control can sit together. He controlled the speed, the corners and whether he listened. I could ask him to stop, but I couldn’t make him. My safety depended on his choices, and he repeatedly showed me that my fear would not change them.
When this happens often enough, you can begin anticipating the next frightening moment. You watch the road, notice the approaching bend, weigh up whether saying something will help. Your attention goes towards predicting what the other person might do, rather than simply being present.
That is one of the quieter effects of living with fear. You begin organising yourself around avoiding it. For me, offering to drive was a way of recovering some choice and making the journey feel safer. I can recognise that now as a protective response. I was doing what I could with the options I had.
Experiences like these have shaped what safety means to me today. It matters that someone listens when I say I am uncomfortable. It matters that their response is care, rather than laughter, irritation or another attempt to push me further.
I want to be able to relax beside someone without having to manage their behaviour or prepare for what they might do next. Trust grows when my words matter, especially when respecting them means someone has to change what they are doing.
I am learning to give my own discomfort the attention it deserves. I don’t have to wait until I am terrified to speak, and I don’t have to persuade someone my fear is reasonable before they take it seriously.
He had control of the car. That never gave him the right to decide how much fear I should endure.
Love Molly x