Love Conquered My Fear of Flying
By Jeremy Glass for Five O’ Clock, A Harry’s Magazine
I’ve never been completely comfortable with flying, so don’t try to mollify me with all the clichés like “you’re more likely to die on the way to the airport” or the always sunny, “there’s nothing you can do about it.” You wouldn’t be the first.
Shockingly, these oft-repeated words had zero impact as our puddle-jumper dropped thousands of feet from its “comfortable” cruising altitude on a trip to Durango, Colorado about six years ago. Ok, maybe the plane didn’t drop thousands of feet, but this particular freefall — from what felt like the International Space Station’s unexpected atmospheric re-entry — cracked open an untapped fear that essentially ruined the next six years of travel for me.
In case you were worried, I managed the return flight thanks to some deviously-acquired Xanax. But even with the chemical assist, I clutched my father’s arm — keep in mind, I was 18 years old — and just wished the trip would be over.
The moment we disembarked, I swore I’d never step on a plane again. And, masochistic as it was to deny myself air travel, I’d like to take a moment to congratulate myself for upholding this remarkable pledge for nearly seven years. Had I known that a bumpy ride would mutate into a mind-melting compulsive death-fantasy, I probably would have raced back to the doctor for a couple thousand more Xanaxes.
By the end of the sixth year, my anxiety had gotten so bad that even movies with an airplane scene — even the tamest of airplane scenes — made my heart pound, and nothing…nothing could get me on a plane.
Here’s just a taste of the fun things I missed during my six-year stint as a lunatic:
- A free trip to Egypt via my pathological liar ex-girlfriend
- A free trip to the Bahamas
- Numerous opportunities to visit family and friends in foreign, far-off lands
At least I stuck to my guns.
What finally convinced to me to even consider getting over my fear was my current girlfriend. We’ll call her Cake, because I call her that and I think it’s cute. She went to grad school in Wisconsin, which is a 15-hour train ride from New York City. While I felt bad relinquishing my title as the only person willing to take a train for over 200 miles under the age of 73, I ultimately got over my fear of flying because I wanted to see my girlfriend (long distance relationships make people do crazy things). With Cake a half a day away via Amtrak versus a two-hour plane ride, I made the executive decision to tackle my anxiety at the source: inside my head.
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I watched videos about flying, listened to self-help podcasts, tried hypnotism, mastered cockpit visualizations, read endless articles addressing every conceivable aviation-related…
Ok, it’s true that I tried all of those things, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t work drugs into the pre-flight regimen. I do. Heavily. Two Klonopin, half a Xanax before takeoff followed by the second half during cruising altitude, and no fewer than three nips of bourbon. I know what you’re thinking—I’m not over my fear, I’ve just suppressed it. I can’t fully disagree, but I’ve at least acknowledged that it was never about that tiny cabin or the sudden inexplicable changes in altitude. That leap for my girlfriend helped me confront my (slightly) more rational fears: of losing control, of feeling stuck, of being trapped—in other words, my fear of death.
When you think about it, I was never truly afraid of flying, I just don’t like the thought ofdying. I am sure-as-shit going to die one day, but I now realize that it (probably) won’t be at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, strapped into the seat of a 747. Writing this story probably jinxed that, but rest assured that the irony wouldn’t be lost on me…even in death. Nay, especially in death.
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