The Blues

*cross-posted to livejournal*

written for Gayle (the fabulous frequent flyer), Alli (the comet flyer), Amy (the ‘last breath of fresh air’ flyer), Mac (the ‘this is ALL normal, let me sleep’ flyer) and the girls (‘we love turbulence’ flyers)

There’s a science to flying.  There really is.  This bloke Bernoulli decided that air moves and then there’s wings and pressure and stuff like that, so all in all most planes should fly.

It’s relative.  It’s real and workable and happens 200 million times a week, and more people die in automobile accidents that will ever, ever, eva perish in an aeroplane crash.  It’s very safe.  It’s fast and reliable.  It’s proven to be popular with business people, singles, families, holiday-makers, queens, popstars, movie magnets and Doris from down the road.

How many things can we say that about?

Well answer me this — why every time I have to board a plane do I feel as though I would rather be at the dentist, pulling out all my own teeth sans anesthetic (with the dentist supervising) only to then eat some rusty nails and brush my gums with acid?

Hi.  My name is Rosie and I hate flying.

It’s not a recent dislike either.  If anything, having children and watching them love everything to do with flying has made me reevaluate my desperate despising of all things airborne.  (Not all things airborne, simply those off the ground with me inside).

I’ve been fortunate enough to travel over the last couple of decades.  I adore being in a new city, walking through historical sites, or exploring the local hinterlands and bush tracks.  It’s a fantastic and enriching experience.  Imagine missing out on seeing, smelling, tasting and embracing places in Europe, Asia, the Americas merely because one cannot STAND to fly!

But people do.  Sadly.  They miss once-in-a-lifetime opportunities due to fears of being enclosed in a steel capsule, catapulted along a runway at 3 trillion miles an hour, forced off the ground in the said coffin capsule, and left to endure hours of being trapped.

Only then to feel the weight of a mechanical thrust ‘die off’, so that engines slow and the steel coffin descends (via gravity, chance, luck…oh, and science) to thud down upon a concrete tarmac, decelerating 2.9 trillion miles per hour to a SCREECHING halt along the length of a very small driveway.

I could easily be one of the people who misses ‘going places’ because of a hatred of flying.  Interestingly, I don’t mind heights at all.  It’s not a worry about being up in the air and looking down on small objects that relates to a fear of being inside a Boeing 747— I’m at ease on bridges or in tall buildings (in my cape) or on something like a ferris wheel.  So, what is it?  Is the phobia specific or is it a general fear of being ‘closed in’?

I’ve narrowed it down to a few aspects:

Loss of control:  perhaps if I was flying the plane, I wouldn’t be afraid?  Doesn’t matter that I have no idea what to do, but at least I’d be calling the shots ; )

Claustrophobia: Yep, not too keen on being trapped inside with lost of peeps and not much space.  Perhaps if I had the entire jumbo jet to myself . . .?

Imaginitis: I think my mind envisages scenes from The Hindenburg, where there will be fire, screaming, panic, falling, disaster, CATASTROPHE.

Masochistically, I force myself to fly at least every other year.  I don’t want to, but my need to see family, friends and places that have been locked in my mind since I started reading is greater than the 1-24 hours spent in transit.  Usually.  If I could get out of it, I would.  If I could hire a Nimbus 2000/hydrofoil/fast catamaran/personalized wings/ride Edward Cullen’s back, I’d do it.  If I could afford to travel first class with 4 cabin crew to my one nervous flyer, I’d do this instead.  It’s all about increasing comfort and lessening panic.

And I’ve tried it all — meditation, alcohol, sleeping tablets, courses, talk therapy, music blaring to drown out the engines (before I realized my iPod would crash the plane, FFS), alcohol, flying with a friend, flying alone, the Mile High Club (before I realized an orgasm might crash the plane) reading, writing, alcohol (oh, I’ve mentioned that one) .  . .

at my very worst, I suffer nervous anticipation about 4 weeks prior to the flight, listen to each news bulletin for breaking reports on flight disasters (they happen in threes, apparently) prepare my last will and testament (because I’m going to die for sure) say my final goodbyes, stop eating, live on anxious energy, stop sleeping, start being nice to people (so I might have more chance at the Pearly Gates given there will be a lot of other souls with me = competition) and generally get into a STATE.

It’s exhausting.  And this is before I’ve gotten to the airport, queued for tickets, had security tape threaded through my fragile psyche, visited the ladies at least 7 times, heard the clacker of the Arrivals and Departures board and associate that with boarding a plane, watched for people likely to create problems in flight, refused all food and drink lest I be sick . . .

Because REALLY?  THERE MAY BE SCIENCE RELATED TO FLYING AND ALL THAT WHO-HA, BUT IT’S NOT NATURAL TO BE SHAFTED INTO AN AIRCRAFT, PUMMELED AND MOVED AT THE SPEED OF SOUND, PRESSED INTO SEATS RESEMBLING CATTLE BEING TRANSFERRED TO MARKET, MADE TO BREATHE RECYCLED AIR WHILE EATING PLASTIC FOOD AND BEING ROCKETED THROUGH TIMEZONES, ALL WHILE FLYING THROUGH ‘HARMLESS TURBULENCE!’

And yes, I believe when there’s a call put through to the cabin staff in my area, and he/she picks up the phone and looks concerned, THERE MUST BE A FIRE/A TERRORIST/AN ENGINE COLLAPSE/A THREATENING THREAT on our plane.  The Captain is saying to the cabin attendant ‘get the passengers ready to brace, coz we are going down, and all going to die!’

Pfft!  As if a brace position will help for the love of God!  What’s IT suppose to do?  Prevent whiplash in the event of a plane crashing into a snowcapped mountain?  Stop a cut to the forehead while the jumbo jet pitches into the sea at midnight?

Flying is getting a lot easier for this sufferer of Aeroplane Anxiety.  This post might not indicate any healing or positive thinking on my behalf, but at least I walk down the entrance ramp and onto the fuel-smelling aircraft by myself now.  I don’t need a straightjacket or wheelchair to accompany me in!

Have a pleasant flight : D

*A couple of details are fictional in this account.  The author has NEVER dallied in The Mile High Club or worn a straightjacket while doing so.  Perhaps these things might have helped?

Random Reads

• January 14, 2012 -- Lea
• March 28, 2010 -- The Carpet Whisperers Take a Trip
• May 18, 2010 -- PWS
• May 2, 2012 -- Your Best Sibling
• May 28, 2010 -- The Gnarly Fashionista