I have a love-hate relationship with airports. I love them because if I’m in them, it typically means I’m traveling somewhere, which is a passion of mine. But I also hate airports because I have a pretty significant fear of flying. My stress and anxiety begin at least ten days before I get on a flight.
I have battled with this fear for years, and have made some strides in overcoming it, but every time I have to fly, it creeps back like a rude relative reminding me that I still have issues. I understand that flying is the safest transportation out there, that planes don’t just ‘fall from the sky,’ and that it’s typically the quickest way to get from point A to point B. But, I am not a pilot. I am not physically flying the plane. Therein lies the problem. I have absolutely no control in the air, and am placing all of my trust in an individual who I hope has the expertise to take the ginormous tin box I am encased in to its destination safely.
I’m writing this blog today from Boston’s Logan Airport waiting for my first flight of the day to Charlotte, NC. From there, I’ll take another plane for one hour to Knoxville, TN to see my daughter at college. My plane boards in 45 minutes and my stomach is doing flip flops. I’m psyching myself out. This time, I wasn’t able to mentally prepare for a few days. This time, I booked a flight last night and got to the airport at six this morning. My kid needs a hug, so I’m going to Tennessee to give her one.
When I’m in an airport, I become a spy for the TSA. I size up everyone on my plane. Everyone. I check out the loner dude with the beanie leaning against the window, (what’s his deal?) the groups of families, the women retirees traveling together (they always look like they are having fun.) I size up who I think I can count on to help if shit goes down. I size up who I need to watch out for on the flight. I size up the cabin stewards and the pilots chatting as they walk with coffees towards the gate. (Is that guy my pilot? Did he sleep well last night? Is he hungover? Oh, that steward is smiling, she’s nice, she’s not afraid. That pilot looks too young!)
I’m a lunatic. I know it. These are the insane mind games I play with myself before I fly. This is what I do, and it’s awful. As I notice everyone else around me waiting in the terminal, I wonder if I’m the only crazy one. For the most part, people look calm, ready for their trip, excited to get on the plane and get to their destination. Folks mill around readjusting their neck pillows, shifting their carry-ons from one shoulder to the other, laughing over cups of Starbucks coffee. Me? I can’t relax until I step off my final flight and have my feet securely on the ground.
I often wonder if my fear of flying is due to me not being in control, or if it stems from a fear of heights. I definitely don’t like heights, so that’s probably the majority of it, but I also know I have a problem with letting other people do things for me. With both of these vices, it's tough to stop my nerves when a plane races down the runway and lifts up into mid-air, climbing gradually towards the clouds, bumping back and forth, seatbelt signs binging. That’s the worst part for me, the takeoff. Zooming down the runway at master speed, my imagination too often goes to disastrous thoughts. My hands wrapped tightly around the arm rest, white knuckling it, I push my feet into the floor and picture the plane not lifting properly, skidding off the runway, taking off then plummeting back down immediately, crashing epically in a fireball that they can see for miles. I try to settle, watch my breathing, force my eyes open to notice people reading their books or sleeping without a care in the world. I frantically look for the stewards, secure in the fact that they rarely look frazzled.
Once a flight is at altitude, I loosen up a bit. Mind you, I’m never quite off my guard. God knows I need to be alert in case the plane goes down! But, I try to chill. I play word games on my phone, watch T.V., or write in my journal. If my seat-mates seem decent, I’ll engage in conversation, hoping for distraction. I love cabin service. It’s heaven when they come by with coffee and a Biscoff cookie. But the final landing of a flight is my favorite. I get a bit nervous bumping about as we descend, but am usually too excited that it’s almost over to be anxious about all the catastrophes that could happen when the plane hits the tarmac. Once the pilot starts his approach, I can see the finish line. I picture the Uber waiting for me outside the terminal, or my cozy bed if I’m returning home. I exhale. I’ve survived!
And then we slide onto the runway. Sweet, sweet pavement.
