It’s so easy to wallow in self-pity. Heck, it can even be fun temporarily.

You gain the sympathy of your family or peers, finding some piece of solace when they say, “It’s OK, things will get better.” You revel when expectations laid upon you are made lax in a tough situation.

In reality, though, it’s not very helpful or practical in everyday life, especially when it comes to driving.

In fall 2007, I spent far too many trips on a Regional Transportation Commission Access bus drowning myself in such misery because of a condition that made it unsafe for me to drive. My freedom had been taken away. I tediously planned my days for the sake of efficiency and around other people’s timetables. My life wasn’t my own.

I often wondered if any other passengers aboard Access felt the same way.

Last week, RTC announced potential cutbacks to the Access program, which provides transit for the disabled. One proposal is to increase the one-way fare within the mandated Americans With Disabilities Act zone from $1.75 to $4 per ticket and increase the one-way fare outside the ADA zone to $8. No changes would be made to the service area.

Another option would be to eliminate service outside the ADA zone and increase that fare to $2.

I cringe thinking back to when I was counting my dimes and nickels when the fare rose from $1.50 to $1.75 for one way in 2007.

To the able-bodied, the Access program is probably just one more needless burden on taxpayers to put on the chopping block.

But for the rider who depends on the bus for going to work or running simple errands like going to the grocery store, Access offers freedom. It’s like that insatiable feeling most teens get when they have their license and they’re just dying to get behind the wheel to go to the store just because, well, they can. It’s mobility to go to work, to the post office, to the doctor’s office.

The Access bus accommodates people with disabilities who are prevented from boarding a regular RTC RIDE bus, can’t get to a bus stop or major transferring point on their own or are unable to identify bus stops or landmarks.

In fiscal year 2008 alone, according to RTC spokesperson Felicia Archer, Access serviced 241,799 passenger trips.

Cutting the Access program would be a considerable loss to the disabled of Reno and Sparks.

I know. I found out how critical its service is through one of my own mistakes — by not taking better care of myself.

Looking back on those bus rides is often painful. That year was not a highlight among the 27 years I’ve been given thus far. Although I detest talking about it, even with those closest to me, I’m compelled to give the reason for why an outwardly healthy 25-year-old ended up in the Access program in the first place.

I have a condition that at times causes more stress to my mind than it does my body. Some people faint at the sight of blood, others because they’re nervous or have low blood sugar. My spells can be triggered by a subtle change in body temperature or a bizarre mental moment of déjà vu. I am borderline epileptic. It takes two seizures to be formally diagnosed; I’ve had one. As my neurologist has told me, it’s quite literally an electrical misfiring of my neurons — like a million fireworks going off at once without the fanciful kaleidoscope of colors — causing frequent lapses of consciousness.

A scare in my newsroom after a fainting spell in the summer of 2007 forced me to see my neurologist, who told me not go get behind the wheel for about four months.

Then the real gnashing of teeth began. For those four months, Access vans were my lifeline to work. In any other kind of business, it might not have been such a problem. But I’m a reporter, a storyteller for the community. The journalist inherently knows that one of the worst handicaps you can face is to have your ability to drive taken away. It cripples your purpose.

Sure, the Tribune has Internet access and we can download Associated Press stories and much of what I do is behind a desk. But I was restricted to that old desk nearly the entire four months while my doctor monitored me. I yearned for a ray of sunshine glistening off asphalt, even to listen to the obnoxious honk of the horn from that all-too-common idiotic driver on the freeway, as my colleagues happily wandered off to their next assignment. I had a serious case of cabin fever after the first day of restriction.

Financially, it added up. I was fortunate not to have to pay for two Access trips a day to work if I had a friend helping me out, but those days were rare because I lived so far away from the office or my friends. If earlier appointments for pick-up weren’t available from RTC, I often had to stay in the office up to extra two hours after putting in a full nine hours. And worst of all, there was the stigma of showing up somewhere in a van for the disabled, a word with which I didn’t want to associate myself because my body appears so healthy.

Bitter, table for one? Perhaps.

But my eyes were quickly opened to the value of Access and I was deeply humbled by its operation and care for the disabled of our great community.

For four months, I was amongst them, occasionally sharing rides with them, even hearing one or two of their stories or listening to the dialogue between them and their driver, who had probably been transporting them for months, maybe years.

I also saw how compassionate the drivers are by the way they treated me. They opened the door for me. They made sure I had my seatbelt on. It didn’t matter whether I was in a wheelchair or not. In Access, the passenger’s well-being always comes first.

After realizing I just needed to suck it up and be grateful that I had a way to still get around, the truth finally hit me: I was chained to Access for a trivial four months, a measly one-third of a year. Most of the folks I had the privilege of riding with probably had been taking the bus for ages and I didn’t hear them complain at all. They could need that assistance indefinitely. I learned to admire their spirit and it certainly put me in my place in the grand scheme of things.

Inevitably, the self-pity has to end and then you’re left with the clean-up, a swirling mess of cynicism, anger and the looming reminder that whatever got you into the situation can only be countered by how much resolve you have to get over it and move on.

Before long, my time on Access ended and I’ve been behind the wheel ever since — a more conscientious citizen and driver, faithfully taking my meds and constantly mindful of the privilege I have to rely on no one to take me places, especially when I pass by one of those white vans with the green lettering.

So my plea to RTC: Don’t leave our disabled stuck without Access. They need their freedom.

Jessica Garcia is a reporter with the Sparks Tribune. She can be reached at jgarcia@dailysparkstribune.com.