Many of you know, or may not know, that I’m an anxious flier. I have gravitated over the years from total meltdowns to
actually doing pretty well on flights. Is there a method to the madness? A pattern?
Today I attempt to talk through my experiences and thoughts on the matter. I
know I’m not alone, so I hope this will shed some light and perhaps help other
fellow anxious-fliers out there.
As a kid, I loved to fly. No surprise, maybe. Kids love to
fly, the views out the window, even turbulence to me back then felt fun, like a
ride at Disney World. The stewardesses would bring you “wings” that you could
proudly wear. I loved the magic of being one place one minute, and somewhere
totally different mere hours later. I always claimed a window seat – my nose
pressed to the glass, looking at tiny houses, fields, cars, and clouds below.
All of that changed on September 11th. Not, perhaps,
as the same reason as other people. I was in a plane that day. It was a Tuesday
during my junior year of high school – not a typical day I’d be on a flight but
my grandfather, Daddy Quent, had passed away September 7th and we
were in Kentucky for the funeral. Our flight back the morning of September 11th
had us grounded in Atlanta. The first tower had been hit, but we didn’t know.
When we came off the aircraft all televisions were down, no airport personnel
were communicating with us at all. We were stumped – I actually remember, in my
15-year-old wisdom, complaining that “nothing” could explain why we were being
indefinitely delayed without good reason! I had band practice tomorrow, after
all. I was a drum major. I had “priorities and commitments.” I’m sure I sounded
very self-important at 15.
The gate we flew in next to was a flight headed for
LaGuardia. Back in 2001 cell phones were still a new phenomenon but I had JUST
gotten one, in preparation for turning 16 that month and having my own car. My
mom thought I should have it for emergencies. And it was when they started
getting phone calls and screaming that my dad walked over. I remember sitting
there next to my sister (my mom was still in Kentucky, helping my grandmother
with post-funeral needs). Our arms touching, our faces twitching with
nervousness. My dad returned and his face was pale his eyes sank. “Planes,” he said,
“have flown into the World Trade Center towers.” The north tower, Windows on
the World, we had eaten at 2 mere months before. My dad was from NYC, we spent
every other summer there growing up. It wasn’t just the attack – it was
personally devastating, to no one more than my dad.
I remember feeling mystified, horrified, confused. An
attack? With planes? On buildings? It was unimaginable to me. Everywhere in the
Atlanta airport we looked for television stations to tell us what was happening
but Atlanta was in full-blackout mode. For a while I just sat there, phone in
hand, desperately trying to call my mother to tell her we were okay. It took me
over an hour but I finally got through – signals were jammed in the crowded
airport. “Mom!” I exclaimed. “We’re okay, we’re okay, we’re in Atlanta, we’re
grounded.” Her response was nonchalant “oh honey don’t worry. TSA will get you
on the next flight.” Relief, and also dread hit me. Relief that my mother and grandmother
hadn’t spent the last hours panicking, staring at the television worrying about
us but also realizing I would be the one to share the news. “Mom you don’t
understand. Turn on the television.” Moments passed. All she said was “Oh my
God. Thank God my daddy didn’t live to see this.”
I have no strong visual memories of that day. We managed to
get a ride to Gainesville with a good Samaritan who was taking his daughter,
whose flight was also cancelled, back to UF for classes. We rode in silence,
listening to NPR. I heard screams, shouts, reports from the streets. I remember
every word. It wasn’t until almost midnight that I even saw the towers, the
crashes, the collapse. By that point I was already numb. I experienced
September 11th mostly through audial senses.
In a way it opened my eyes. I’m not sure I would have
followed the same career path, same interests in college without it. At the
same time, I suffered more than anyone else in my family, extreme flight
anxiety. For two years I refused to fly anywhere. Then my graduation trip in
2003 was to NYC, with one of my very good friends from high school Ashley.
Mid-flight I experienced my first panic attack. Tears streaming down my face as
we approached the city. Hands shacking. Nothing any flight attendant could do
seemed to calm me down. When we landed I felt relief, and also instantly dread.
How else would I get home except to fly again? The return flight was worse. I
thought of my boyfriend, my life, every noise the plane made sent me into a
spiral of panic and tears.
Yet… at that point in my life I was 17. I didn’t have a
passport, let alone a desire to travel the world. I was just fine in Florida,
thank you. I even planned spring breaks in college around cruises. Visit a new
place, avoid the plane. But in late 2004 my parents told me I would be studying
abroad the next summer. It was an experience both had, but never got. As a
bright futures scholar with 3 additional scholarships, I was not costing them
anything to be in school – this was something they thought I earned, and would
be good for me. My mom even said she and Jenni would fly over with me, to get
me acquainted with London and settled for my 2 month program. We flew business
class (first and only time) and I think the excitement over free drinks and
footrests won out over anxiety that time. I also took some of the regional
airlines to fly to Italy and Ireland. For a time, I felt my flight anxiety was
gone. I recall no anxiety my senior year of college, when I flew to visit
Chrissy in Washingotn DC and when I flew alone to Rome for a 7 month internship
experience.
But it hit me again, on a flight from Rome to Madrid. It was
a flight where the pilot seemed to speed up and slow down quite a bit. Perhaps
a new pilot, or perhaps it was just the type of plane where I noticed it but as
we slowed down I thought we were going to fall out of the sky. Silent tears ran down my face as my travel
companions tried to cheer me up, assure me we were fine. Again on a flight to
Germany with my friend Emily the panic set in. Emily decided a lesson on the
physics of flight would help me conquer my fear. To a degree, she was right.
She kept me distracted on that flight and before I knew it, we were back in
Rome. On my flights to and from Prague I was hopelessly anxious. It had
returned, for reasons unknown to me.
Maybe all this history isn’t relevant. I eventually flew
much better especially during grad school.
I flew a little puddle jumper in Tanzania to go on a safari. I flew
extremely long flights to India and back. Then again in late 2012, I started
doing badly again. It made no sense. Was it social media, hearing about any and
all potential plane issues and incidents? Or was it, as some theories on fear
of flying suggest, that I began to fear I had much more to lose. When you are young, there is a feeling of
invincibility, some say. But as I grew in my 20s, found my life partner, and
adopted my first “child” – a reddish brown 12 pound mini dachshund I started to
feel like I had so much more to lose. Perhaps it’s a good thing, believing that
your life is worth living.
All this begs the question – why, then, when I have
crippling anxiety – as recently as my honeymoon where I had a complete and
total meltdown on my return flight from Bali to Singapore (to the point where
several stewardesses asked if I was okay) do I continue to travel? And not just
to mandatory things like weddings and family reunions, but I seek out far-flung
vacations halfway around the world. Why do it?
I have tried to reconcile this fear with logic, with
medication, with attempts at distraction, drinking alcohol, meditation, you
name it. What I have found is that I deeply love to see new places. I seem to do better on bigger planes that go farther, smaller planes make me more anxious. I also tend to do best on Delta flights, I think I have some emotional connection to the brand that gives me a sense of security. I tend to do best when I keep myself distracted - the success of that depends entirely on how much I have thought about the flight leading up to it. If I have been worrying for a day, or a few days, distraction is almost impossible. If I have not, I may experience a few hours of anxiety but after takeoff and the plane leveling out, it will usually go away.
Beyond that, I have
come to understand that I will probably never really love flying again. I try
to make the best of it – find time to write, read, watch movies that I never see
because I hate going to movie theaters. I have learned pretty well how to
sleep, and that has helped. I have tried to channel the moment, the experience,
into something that I can harness and keep me tied to earth even as I float
nearly 40,000 feet above it. I have faced some fears, like ziplining, with
failure. But this one – I have never yet booked a flight I didn’t get on, and I
don’t intend to start now.
We all have fears in life. We also all have dreams. To
travel, to me, is to discover new things about myself. If I had never left the
US, I don’t think I would have really discovered who I am and what I love. I
try to focus on that love, rather than the fear, when I am shaking and my blood
is racing. I try to let go of control, of the need to know how it will all turn
out. It helps most to travel with my husband, my best friend, who knows just
what to say, with a squeeze of my hand he soothes me. He never treats me like a
child, yet he is always understanding, never saying “get over it.”
We’ve been together four and a half years now. When we first
got together I told him “get a passport” (he didn’t have one). He said why – do
we have plans to travel? And I said with me – you never know. Sure enough, his
first trip out of the US was when I suddenly was sent to Italy for a month for
work and he came to join me for a week. Now, years later, he has already hit
double-digits (10 countries) and I reached a milestone of 25 on our honeymoon
(not too shabby for a 28 year old who only got her passport 9 years ago).
I may still be a little afraid to fly. It is still magical
to me, how planes stay up in the air. But I have to trust those smarter than
me, I have to learn to let go, sit back, and enjoy the ride. Most of all I have
to trust that even though 10 years ago I wanted to be a hermit, and probably
never travel again, I wouldn’t change a minute of the experiences that I have
had – they have enriched my life and helped me create the person I wish to be.
And so if that means I must conquer my fear on a weekly, or monthly basis – so
be it.
Final parting note – I’m not sure we can ever conquer our
fears, but we can learn how to manage them. This coming from someone who had a
meltdown yesterday, so I’m no expert. But I hope this blog post helps anyone
who might feel similarly.
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