I am terrified of flying. Terrified isn't actually a strong enough word. I'm petrified of flying, to the point of being ill. I sweat and cry during takeoff. I swear and say "Something's wrong! Oh God, what is that noise?!" over and over to my embarrassed husband. I gasp and grab at him, sob and whine. I vow to never fly unmedicated again. The times I've flown alone I have drunk copious amounts of alcohol in an effort to just get drunk and pass out, rather than subject the poor bastard next to me to my antics and body temperature fluctuations. The time between connecting flights is usually spent in an airport bathroom, vomiting and trying to work myself up to getting back on the plane.
I'm not scared of death, really. I'm scared of that minute before death, that 60 seconds or so while the plane drops out of the sky and everyone realizes their impending doom. The time spent before we're smashed into the ground filled with utter fear and dread. That's the feeling I'm most frightened of.
I tend to have morbid thoughts in general. I'm the person in the back of the theatre who checks the distance between the exits and my seat. In case of what I'm not entirely sure, but just in case. I'm also bad for making survivor lists - sorry strangers, but not everyone makes it in my mental narrations of doom. If you've got anything slowing you down, chances are you're going to be one of my statistics. It's nothing personal, statistics just make me feel better. The more of you that die, the higher my chance of surviving. It's just numbers.
I have this sense of impending doom anytime I'm not directly on the ground. Going up in an elevator, looking off of a balcony, really it translates into an extreme fear of heights. I'm not sure why it's classified as a fear of heights - it's really a phobia of falling. I imagine the concrete balcony ripping away suddenly from the building and me being hurled to the ground. In an elevator I find myself trying to remember that myth that was demonstrated once on television; If you jump at the exact time the elevator you're plummeting 40 floors down in hits the ground, will you survive? I can't remember if it was a legitimate way of outsmarting death, or if the egg that was used to simulate a human being was broken into a billion pieces, the yolk mangled and oozing everywhere.
Wishful thinking likes the former, but I suspect it's actually the latter.
I'm envious of people who enjoy flying. People who get into their seat and grin while strapping themselves in, eager for the sensation of speed and flight. My husband is one of these people. You take one look at his face during takeoff, and it's doing the physical equivalent of "Wheee!". He's blissfully unaware of how close we are to death. It's like flying with a golden retriever.
I do have a favourite part of the flight. I love looking out the window during descent, when we finally reach the point where if something were to go horribly wrong I would probably survive. That moment when life becomes probable, when maybe only one passenger would die of an already known heart condition. That is a beautiful moment in time. I look over at my husband and grin, relief and happiness spreading throughout my body and mind. He usually rolls his eyes, calls me a few choice names, and tells me it's the last time I'm flying unmedicated.
But I don't care. I'm off to shop and vomit.
Word of the day: Sylvan
Used in a sentence: Nothing ruins the beauty and peacefulness of a sylvan setting like the sight of crashed jet with body parts scattered around it, an unnatural and unholy pinata of death.
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