I have faced down death time and time again in my life. Or, at least—to be a bit less melodramatic about it—my brain believes it has. My poor old brain has been convinced over and over that a terrifying descent into a hellish death is imminent, and my poor old body picks up its commands and obeys accordingly: dry mouth, trembling limbs, excessive sweating, tense muscles, rapid breathing, racing heart—the whole lot. My limbic system puts me in a readiness for action that I cannot possibly take, and so I sit there and wait for the inevitable. There is nothing I can do.
Death has never come, quite obviously. And when it does, I know that it is statistically highly unlikely to be during a plane journey. Despite a few quite recent high profile air tragedies, the year just passed has been one of the best ever on record for the safety of air travel. But knowing something with the rational part of your mind is so very different from knowing it with your body. And frankly, for me, a fear of flying seems to be a fairly common sense, rational sort of phobia, as phobias go: you are defying gravity and the laws of physics in the most blatant way possible; if something does go wrong, you are as dependent as a baby on the actions of others (who might well be incompetent, alcoholic idiots – how do you know they aren’t?); it is statistically likely that a plane will go down in an unexpected manner every now and then, and why should you so smugly assume it won’t be yours? Thus the ravings of an anxious mind!
Why do I feel like this? Perhaps it is because my father’s job enabled us to fly so frequently as a child. Apparently, it is common for frequent fliers to develop this irrational fear. Or it might be because a school friend from infanthood was on board a plane that smashed into a mountain on a similar journey to the one I took. Or was it the unannounced emergency ‘go round’ that I took in my stride at the time (a truck was on the runway) but thought about too much afterwards? It could be any of these things, but I suspect it is mostly just the kind of person I am. I have an apocalyptic mindset, borne of too much imagination: I check out fire exits in every crowded cinema, shop or theatre; I visualise an evacuation plan for every conceivable emergency. I can never stop myself wondering ‘What if…’
But this irrational rant does have a happy outcome – sort of. I do fly. I keep on doing it, putting myself through the fear because I don’t want to let my irrational side win. My love of travel, holidays and seeing new places just about outweighs my fear of fly-dying (until the night beforehand, when I desperately wish we were holidaying in Bognor Regis). And I’ve managed to trick my brain into keeping things under control these days (e.g. I don’t start crying and trying to tell the cabin crew that there is obviously, definitely something wrong with the plane….) by employing a few strategies that you might find useful if you have any empathy with my anxiety. I don’t use pills (how would I be alert in an emergency then…?). And I don’t drink more than a glass of wine to get through it, but the following things have helped me a lot:
Fake it till you make it. I discovered what so many other people knew already. If you pretend something, act in a certain way, then eventually you trick yourself into believing it. I realised I had bought in too heavily to my fears; I needed to start disowning them. I guess it is the same psychology as forcing yourself to smile to make yourself feel happy.
I think about the kids. Obviously, not helpful if you don’t have kids—but once I was the one with the responsibility, it was easier to put my own worries to one side.
I try and accept that whatever happens, happens. I don’t have any sort of belief in fate or destiny. But I tell myself that I have made a choice to get on the plane and now I can just deal with the consequences – which, in all probability, will just be that we have a lovely holiday!
I try and sit as near the cockpit as I can get. In the old days, you used to be able to go and have a look, and reassure yourself that all was well up in the clouds. But observing the banter between the pilot and the cabin crew as they go in and out can still reassure you that there is no hidden emergency going on.
I set some rules: I have vetoed certain airports, and I won’t fly on airlines who are not granted permission to fly in and out of the UK. There are some planes I won’t get on. I don’t know how rational these rules are, but it makes me feel more in control that I have them.
I control my breathing. I’ve learnt this from yoga, and there is nothing mystical about it at all. It is just that deliberate, slow regular breaths, with the mouth closed will slow down your heartbeat and all that adrenaline flooding your system. Your body will start to understand that it is not in mortal danger after all, and will feedback that information to your brain, which will send out nice chilled signals in response and so on. You can intervene in your body’s bio- feedback mechanism; it doesn’t have to be in control.
None of the above has completely taken away my fear, but it has enabled me to control it. And that, I have come to realise, is almost exactly the same thing.
Death has never come, quite obviously. And when it does, I know that it is statistically highly unlikely to be during a plane journey. Despite a few quite recent high profile air tragedies, the year just passed has been one of the best ever on record for the safety of air travel. But knowing something with the rational part of your mind is so very different from knowing it with your body. And frankly, for me, a fear of flying seems to be a fairly common sense, rational sort of phobia, as phobias go: you are defying gravity and the laws of physics in the most blatant way possible; if something does go wrong, you are as dependent as a baby on the actions of others (who might well be incompetent, alcoholic idiots – how do you know they aren’t?); it is statistically likely that a plane will go down in an unexpected manner every now and then, and why should you so smugly assume it won’t be yours? Thus the ravings of an anxious mind!
Why do I feel like this? Perhaps it is because my father’s job enabled us to fly so frequently as a child. Apparently, it is common for frequent fliers to develop this irrational fear. Or it might be because a school friend from infanthood was on board a plane that smashed into a mountain on a similar journey to the one I took. Or was it the unannounced emergency ‘go round’ that I took in my stride at the time (a truck was on the runway) but thought about too much afterwards? It could be any of these things, but I suspect it is mostly just the kind of person I am. I have an apocalyptic mindset, borne of too much imagination: I check out fire exits in every crowded cinema, shop or theatre; I visualise an evacuation plan for every conceivable emergency. I can never stop myself wondering ‘What if…’
But this irrational rant does have a happy outcome – sort of. I do fly. I keep on doing it, putting myself through the fear because I don’t want to let my irrational side win. My love of travel, holidays and seeing new places just about outweighs my fear of fly-dying (until the night beforehand, when I desperately wish we were holidaying in Bognor Regis). And I’ve managed to trick my brain into keeping things under control these days (e.g. I don’t start crying and trying to tell the cabin crew that there is obviously, definitely something wrong with the plane….) by employing a few strategies that you might find useful if you have any empathy with my anxiety. I don’t use pills (how would I be alert in an emergency then…?). And I don’t drink more than a glass of wine to get through it, but the following things have helped me a lot:
Fake it till you make it. I discovered what so many other people knew already. If you pretend something, act in a certain way, then eventually you trick yourself into believing it. I realised I had bought in too heavily to my fears; I needed to start disowning them. I guess it is the same psychology as forcing yourself to smile to make yourself feel happy.
I think about the kids. Obviously, not helpful if you don’t have kids—but once I was the one with the responsibility, it was easier to put my own worries to one side.
I try and accept that whatever happens, happens. I don’t have any sort of belief in fate or destiny. But I tell myself that I have made a choice to get on the plane and now I can just deal with the consequences – which, in all probability, will just be that we have a lovely holiday!
I try and sit as near the cockpit as I can get. In the old days, you used to be able to go and have a look, and reassure yourself that all was well up in the clouds. But observing the banter between the pilot and the cabin crew as they go in and out can still reassure you that there is no hidden emergency going on.
I set some rules: I have vetoed certain airports, and I won’t fly on airlines who are not granted permission to fly in and out of the UK. There are some planes I won’t get on. I don’t know how rational these rules are, but it makes me feel more in control that I have them.
I control my breathing. I’ve learnt this from yoga, and there is nothing mystical about it at all. It is just that deliberate, slow regular breaths, with the mouth closed will slow down your heartbeat and all that adrenaline flooding your system. Your body will start to understand that it is not in mortal danger after all, and will feedback that information to your brain, which will send out nice chilled signals in response and so on. You can intervene in your body’s bio- feedback mechanism; it doesn’t have to be in control.
None of the above has completely taken away my fear, but it has enabled me to control it. And that, I have come to realise, is almost exactly the same thing.
It does seem that nothing is holding the plane us. Here's an answer to that. http://www.fearofflying.com/free-video/jello-exercise.shtml
ReplyDeleteCertainly useful for turbulance jitters- thanks! I just had a look and downloaded your book.
ReplyDeleteGreat post.Thanks for stopping by my blog :)
ReplyDelete