by Joe Thomas
I let the fear of loneliness blind me and my goal. What was I actually afraid of? All the hard work was done. All I needed to do was pull out my poster-sized atlas, hit the gas pedal, and enjoy the scenery. I couldn’t even do that. I vowed to never let fear dictate my life again but I have learned that vows are easily broken, even ones we make to ourselves.
Fear lay dormant inside me for years until it broke out again like a painful case of shingles. It controlled my every decision and experience. I was hungry for a boyfriend but afraid to go on dates. I craved a new job but barely worked the nursing agency shifts that I picked up. I refused to face Irene because, even though I never admitted it, she was right about my friends. Fear forced me to do things that I would have never done if I had known how to stand up to it. I employed fear as my personal assistant. It stunted my growth as a person, scheduled my life, and managed my experiences. Fear was a parasite, invading the deepest parts of my brain, through my bloodstream, and feeding off the horrors I kept sequestered from my friends, loved ones, and most often myself. Fear delayed me from maturing into a healthy adult who could maintain a loving relationship, prevented me from traveling to exotic locations to lands I never set foot on, and from taking risks.
It kept me in unhealthy relationships when all I really wanted to do was run screaming to escape for the betterment of both individuals involved. I ignored opportunities because fear worked me over like a drunken puppeteer with a marionette. Drinking made these feelings worse.
I’ve struggled with fear everyday of my life, and even though it has had a strong hold on me, it’s not something that defines me anymore. It should never be an obstacle but the wick that lights the fire under our asses to make our dreams come true. Fear should propel us forward to live life and gain knowledge from things we felt too afraid to accomplish. Whether it’s going after a job we never thought we were qualified for, winking at the handsome guy across the bar and buying him a drink, or—if you are like me—traveling on an airplane without having a nervous breakdown.
I don’t remember the exact moment I wanted to become a flight attendant. It could have been under the influence of drugs, but I don’t think the occasional Ibuprofen mixed with a few Bud Lights has the same effect as say, downing four Vicodin. Being hired as a flight attendant was as foreign to me as owning a dog, two things that were not on my to-do list. Dogs are not my pet of choice, and flying was something that I dreaded every time I packed my suitcase. I haven’t always been afraid to fly but I have always been afraid to die. In my mind that was the only possible outcome when I boarded a flight. I couldn’t control myself. My husband couldn’t control me. The seatbelt couldn’t contain me. The sweat, tears, and thoughts invading my mind were overwhelming with every noise the airplane made.
“What was that?
“I think they’re loading on the bags.” Matt said trying to get his thighs into the economy seat.
“What if the cargo door snaps off during the flight and we get sucked out?”
“Does that happen? Why are you thinking of these things?”
“You know it’s happened before.”
“What?” He asked fighting to get his large frame in a comfortable position.
“The cargo door broke off during a flight and a row of people were sucked out into the engine.”
“Jesus Christ! You are so grim. Read your book and relax!”
All that while the airplane was still parked at the gate with the jet bridge attached. Once the pilot released the brake, the tug pushed the airplane away from the gate, and we taxied to the runway; I needed another seat belt extension to make sure I didn’t run around screaming.
The charming pilot’s voice over the public address system (PA) did nothing to sooth me. Hearing “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be underway shortly. Flight attendants, prepare the cabin and take your seats for departure…” was equivalent to a judge sentencing me to death. Not a peaceful death like lethal injection or falling into a coma. I prayed for that. I’m talking seriously fucked up death by fireball in the sky. The kind of death that melts the skin of your face and results in a member of the NTSB slipping on your entrails in a burnt out corn field in the middle of South Dakota.
That kind of death. The kind that comes from flying on Malaysia Airlines.
The airplane rolled to the end of the runway and I became inconsolable. While Matt rolled his head wondering what to do with me, I fantasized about wringing his neck for getting me on a metal deathtrap.
“What’s wrong with you?” He whispered carefully placing his hand on top of my knee. A calming gesture lost to my hysteria.
“Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone.” I refused to look at him or out the window that I demanded to sit next to.
Irritated his voice rose, “You need to order a bloody mary. You are a mess.” After realizing how loud he was his voice lowered, “Calm down. I am only trying to help.”
Nothing helped. Matt’s calmness intensified my jitters, but explaining that made no sense. Igniting an argument with my husband moments before I was sure to die at the end of the runway was not how I wanted to remember our time together. I wanted to remember the laughs and fun times, not the screams and terrors. The only way to solve the problem was to get me off the airplane and onto a fast moving train. Or my car. I would have ridden a tricycle with training wheels and rainbow tassels to my destination if it were plausible. Anything was better than mustering up the courage it took to sit prisoner on an airplane. None of these were options. I sat in my window seat, suspended in fear, reliving every movement the airplane made until its final right turn to face the long runway.
The roar and pressure from the engines dissolved the glue that held me together. If only I had the option of turning on my cell phone and making a quick call to my therapist, who I was sure could get me through this torture. Unfortunately for me, the electronic device policy was cock blocking my sanity.
What would I even say to her? “Hi Melinda. I’m about to die in a plane crash so I won’t make my next appointment. Thank you for everything. Oh yeah, one last thing, what was that breathing technique you taught me?” I really should have paid attention the first time.
Matt observed me like a scientist watching a monkey put together a puzzle. It was moments like this when he questioned my stability and considered never flying with me again. I couldn’t blame him. As the airplane sped down the runway, slamming into what seemed like large speed bumps every few feet on, I was seconds away from a mental decompression. Were they fucking kidding me with this? Speed bumps on the runway? Why not just hang me from my belt in the lavatory during take off. This was more of a mental breakdown than a mental decompression although a mental decompression might actually have worked in my favor. Think about it. My mental decompression would cause the oxygen masks to release leading us back to the gate where I’d tell the airline, its flight attendants, pilots, and ground employees to refund my money, keep my airline points, and shove them up their ass. Airline points wouldn’t matter because I never planned on flying again. My new best friends instantly became Amtrak, Greyhound, and Budget Rent-a-Car.
While the airplane and its magazine-reading, television-watching, music-listening passengers eased into their freakishly tight coach seats, removing their sneakers for a comfortable flight, I was wishing I had hair to pull out of my head. I’d just pull out Matt’s. It was his fault I was here. It wasn’t really his fault but someone needed to take the blame. The anticipation of blowing a tire, swerving off the runway, and cartwheeling like a high school cheerleader during football season infected my brain like syphilis. I wanted to shout, “Does anyone have any cocaine? I’ll need a dollar bill, too”
Instead of screaming out for drugs, I took cleansing breaths, placed my right index finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, and rocked back and forth in my window seat. This soothed me into a state of calm. In my warped delusional mind my rocking was assisting the airplane with lift so that we wouldn’t return to the Earth and expl
ode into a million pieces.
“Are you alright?” Matt asked as the airplane broke through the dark clouds. I did not respond right away. My life was flashing before my eyes on what looked like an IMAX screen. It was a dull life controlled by fear. Sad. My first thought was that I should have masturbated more often when I was a teenager instead of worrying about getting caught in the restroom stall at Kmart. I also wished I had eaten more chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.
“I’ll be alright,” I reassured myself aloud as the airplane banked aggressively to the left. I forgot where I was and blurted out, “Oh my god! What’s that? Why are we turning?”
Flustered from my outburst and the passengers now craning their necks to see the crazy person, Matt cooley smiled, “We have to turn, babe. If we don’t we’ll just fly straight and eventually run out of gas and crash into the ocean.”
Is that what you tell someone who believes they are about to become shark food?
The five minutes it took for us to go from screaming down the runway until 10,000 feet was an eternity.
The double ding chime was equivalent to the snap of a hypnotist’s finger. Once I heard the flight attendant pleasantly reciting our beverage options over the PA I became a different passenger. I was calm, cool—almost human. Matt sensed my bipolar mood shift and relaxed knowing that Dr. Jekyll had returned and Mr. Hyde would reemerge later when we departed from our final destination.
Taking off flared up my fear. My angst wasn’t flying at cruising altitude but the time it took to get there. From the moment we reached 10,000 feet until we were safely taxing to the gate at our destination, I was a seasoned airline passenger. Nothing to fear while cruising along at 38,000 feet except for the unexpected turbulence which sent me back to rocking in my seat. When the airplane finally landed and I was able to undo my seatbelt I wanted nothing more than to get off the airplane. We shuffled behind all the slow-ass people and I really wanted to start kicking them and their children down the aisle.
Walking behind me Matt asked, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His attempt at being encouraging came off as condescending.
“It wasn’t bad. I just don’t like taking off.” I stepped off the airplane and smiled at the gate agent who was waiting with paperwork in her hand.
“Hope you had a nice flight.” She smiled.
Did she really want to know the truth? Probably not. I nodded walking passed her towards the terminal. Once inside, I walked alongside Matt embarrassed at how I acted on the airplane even though I had no control over it. “I hate acting like that.”
“Why are you so afraid? Have you always been afraid to fly?”
“No. I haven’t.”
It was never my favorite thing to do but I tolerated it because the reward was landing in a new and exciting destination. It fascinated me that I could leave a city and be thousands of miles away in two hours. Incredible. I knew airplanes crashed but I never thought much about it. I traveled by air from Orlando, Florida to Hartford, Connecticut on numerous occasions and only had a minor meltdown when I flew a few days after ValuJet Flight 592 crashed into the Everglades. I traveled by myself and never once felt panicked or that my life was threatened. It wasn’t life threatening. It was flying in an airplane, not sharing needles with a prostitute or having unsafe sex outside a gay bar in Ft. Lauderdale. My fear came from the actions of the terrorist on September 11 when they used airplanes as weapons of destruction.
9/11 pushed me over the edge. The fear of crashing during take off haunted me. That and flying into a building while I watched it approach out my window. That fucked me up too. The fear switched off the moment we reached 10,000 feet. In my mind I was finally safe. I didn’t worry about being blown out of the sky, which sounds odd to me now. It was normal for me to panic and prepare to die each time I got on an airplane.
That all changed a few years later. On a whim, Matt and I decided on traveling across the pond to visit Manchester, UK. We booked an overnight nonstop flight direct from Orlando because I figured it was best to go nonstop and keep the takeoffs to a minimum. I was eager but deathly afraid of the Boeing 747. If I went into hysterics on a 737 how would I react on this giant? Bigger airplanes make bigger explosions.
We arrived at Orlando International Airport and after walking up to the boarding gate area I glanced out of the window to take in all her beauty. The 747 may have been frightening, but she was majestic. She really was the Queen of the Skies. I know a lot of queens so I took a few deep breaths and felt confident that we’d get along just fine.
Matt wasn’t so sure. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat and a few drinks at Outback?”
“Sounds great. I probably need a drink.”
“That’s why I suggested it.”
Boarding wasn’t scheduled for another hour and after flying with me for years, Matt knew what to expect. He was risking jail time for purchasing a seat next to mine. The 747 was the largest airplane I had ever flown on and like anything that big— you gotta take it with great ease—and alcohol. Ingesting four beers put me in the right state of mind to walk down the jet bridge, put my bag in the overhead bin, and find my aisle seat without running away screaming. When boarding had completed, one of the lovely blonde flight attendants made her way down the aisle stopping at each row to talk to the passengers.
“Hello sir,” She said with an intense smile. She had wonderful teeth which answered my question about all British having horrendous teeth, “We have over 200 open seats available on this flight. You are more than welcome to move once we reach cruising altitude.”
“Thank you. Anywhere?”
Her smile almost blinded me this time, “Yes. Anywhere except first class.”
I looked over at Matt. He was seated next to the window with the seat between us empty. He grinned at me. I grinned back. Then my grin turned into a frown. Through that entire interaction I hadn’t realized we already moved away from the gate and were taxiing to the end of the runway.
I panicked. “Are they going to do a safety demonstration?”
“Yes, honey. Everything is going to be alright.”
That was easier said than done. The moment he finished his sentence the television screens in the seatbacks flickered to life and a friendly British man proceeded to tell us how to evacuate the airplane in an emergency.
“You’re right again, Schmoopie.” I said putting my hand out to grasp onto his.
The safety demonstration video ended and the pilot came on, “Crew, take your seats. We are about to depart.”
I released Matt’s hand and gripped the armrest so tight I could have snapped it like a twig. He placed his hand over mine to calm my nerves. It did not work. This impressive aircraft lurched forward, I let out a squeak, and after a few white knuckle moments we were airborne. It was such a gentle lift that I couldn’t even tell we were moving.
“You can open your eyes now.”
“We are in the air already? Wow.” It was like skating across untouched ice.
When we leveled off, the flight attendants sprung from their jumpseats and pranced around preparing for service. The seatbelt sign went off and Matt and I grabbed our small bags and moved into our own rows toward the front of the airplane. I unpacked my headphones and book and settled in. It was pure airline travel bliss. I couldn’t believe I was actually flying and not sitting on the end of the runway awaiting clearance to depart. The flight was that smooth.
I was plugged in channel surfing when the overly-friendly British flight attendant, with a less than stellar smile, stopped the cart next to my row, “May I offer you a glass of wine with dinner?”
“How much is that?”
“It’s complimentary.”
Complimentary? I found my happy place and it was on an international carrier. “Yes, please.”
She placed my dinner on the tray table with a crisp white napkin, “White or red?”
“White.”
“Will there be anything else?”
�
��No. This is wonderful.”
“Enjoy your dinner.” She unlocked the cart and moved up to Matt’s row.
I was all smiles. I wanted to pinch myself but was afraid I’d wake up from this amazing dream. While flying along the east coast and enjoying my meal, I switched from the map channel back to searching for a movie to watch. Nothing interested me so I clicked on the button leading to the preprogrammed offerings available on the flight. That was when I saw it hiding among the travel and cooking shows.
Are You Afraid To Fly? Such a simple title that screamed out at me and grabbed me by the collar. I choked on my shepherd’s pie. I answered out loud as if the television was talking to me, “Yes.”
I sipped on my complimentary white wine enthralled with this 30 minute broadcast like a toddler watching Sesame Street. The same British man who informed me how to get out of the burning airplane was now teaching me the ins and outs of airplanes. Why don’t all airlines with a television have this option?
For each questioned I conjured up in my brain, he had an answer. How do airplanes stay in the sky? Magic. How do the wings stay attached during the flight? Magic. How do pilots know how to navigate through the clouds? You guessed it—magic. In all honestly, he never once said magic but that’s what my brain processed. Maybe it was that second glass of wine I asked for when the flight attendant came back through the cabin. No, it was definitely the British dude sucking the fear right out of me and into the television screen. My first British sucking and—I won’t lie—it was damn good. Nothing like a good sucking at 38,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean to take away your fears of flying.
