I hate flying. I am overcome by irrational fears that consume my thoughts until I reach the gate of my destination. Don’t get me wrong, I love travelling. I love travelling far distances and even across oceans, I just hate getting there. My husband has started suggesting I “take something” to calm my anxieties before my flights. I don’t even like to take aspirin so making the jump to an anti-anxiety pill is highly unlikely.
Currently, I am aboard a full flight heading home from a great trip to Montreal. Cue rain storm and crying baby and I have the making for a terrifying assent into the air. Part of my problem is my complete lack of understanding of physics. I just can’t fathom how a plane, a humongous airplane that weighs… a lot…can stay up in the air. As the plane climbs so does, what I can best describe as, my sheer terror.
The physical realization of my stress comes in the form of holding my husband’s hand and squeezing it as hard as I can as a form of release. I often don’t open my eyes until we are “safely” flying at 30 000 feet. My heart rate rises to dangerously high levels and I have caught myself rocking in my chair which the sight of might actually cause fear amongst other, otherwise happy passengers.
When flying through clouds I am sure we are going to fly into the path of another plane. Turbulence is every wary flyers worst nightmare. It is at this point that I start wondering if I have left things properly in order for my children in the event that I was to die. Death is ultimately what drives all of this fear. If I could only know that each time I fly, I would arrive safely I would enjoy the experience of soaring through the air so much more.
My anxieties do subside when we are at our cruising altitude and it’s smooth sailing or…flying I guess. The next hurdle I have to overcome is on the descent where fortunately my fear of dying dissipates but is unfortunately replaced with terrible air sickness. It starts with uneasiness in my stomach that grows until I break into a sweat. I desperately reach for the fan to blow cool, “fresh” air on me. I do not want anyone to touch me or talk to me at this point. I try to go to my happy place to avoid having to reach for the barf bag. How humiliating it is when it gets to that point. All of my well planned travel outfits and hair are thrown out the window when I start heaving into a bag, a complete spectacle in front of complete strangers.
A whiter shade of pale, I emerge from my trip disheveled but alive. And I will do it again, the next time a great vacation calls. I will not let my unfounded fears stop me from enjoying my life. A life full of experiences that are often bookended with irrational thoughts and sometimes even behaviours which only makes the times in the middle, the parts that count, that much more meaningful.
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