Though the fact that this plane is bouncing about as it hangs in the sky does not make me feel too secure, I must admit I fear fear more than anything in the world. I have what is called “agoraphobia,” a byproduct of panic disorder, which means I avoid and get scared in places I have had panic before – whether the area is of any danger at all.

I get scared even in a safe place like this, five miles into the sky, as I sit, a sardine with just enough room to bounce and jiggle in “turbulence.” What is turbulence anyways? Why doesn’t the pilot say “nothing to worry about, folks, just some ‘whatever the heck is going on.’” Nope, we just hear “Please fasten your seatbelts.” This order is easy to follow; no need for worry!  After all, as I have been told umpteen times, “flying is the safest way to travel.” 

How hanging out in an oversized tin can above the clouds, going Lord knows how fast, can be safe, I don’t know. Anyway, to people with my problem, the assumption is that any stimuli that feels dangerous is dangerous. A bump in the night, which is most likely the dog, or a creak on the stairs, or your brother getting water, is an intruder; a simple cold is peneumonia or some weird harbinger of cancer, and yes, turbulence on the airplane is a sure sign we are about the plummet those 35,000 feet they always boast about once the plane is level.

Why do they always tell you how far up are are? Please explain.  So you can go home and say, “Hey Mom, I was five miles above terra firma today!” When  she investigates further to find out this trip involved breathing stale air, being shuttled about like cattle, etcetera, she is bound to be disappointed by the dullness of the experience.

When they say 35,000 feet,  I just start calculating how much time I’ll have to say the Act of Contrition and dedicate myself to God, grip my scapular, and have faith to end all faith, before we hit rock bottom, which if it happens right now, from looking out the window, would be in west Texas. Oh Lord, please don’t let me die here.

I find myself thinking that phrase often. “Not here, God, so far from home.” “Not in West Texas.”  “Not today – I have a test tomorrow.” You see how it goes. For someone such as myself, every day presents new doom and chances to end my poor life – and I’m so young! I haven’t even started my second semester of college yet! Which brings me to my favorite: “Please God, not yet. I haven’t lived yet! I’m not a doctor, I haven’t found the love of my life, I need to see Rome at least one more time! Please, passing in sleep at an age I wouldn’t feel like counting to would be so much more appropriate.”

Of course, here comes the other main force of my life: guilt. How could I complain so, be so self-righteous, when nice young people die all the time? And also, there is that guilt about smaller things: did I just get a plastic bag, instead of using a more environmentally-friendly tote, to lug home my milk? Did I skip a night of yoga? Did I watch too many movies? Forget to call my mother? I still haven’t signed up at the gym, started to go to daily Mass – don’t even say the rosary every day for crying out loud. Could I have recycled that canister I just chucked in a black trash bag? Am I not going to finish that food there are starving children in Africa for goodness sake.*

But back to fear, or rather, palm-sweating, overwhelming, sickening dread that comes with imminent doom that I am so familiar with.  It doesn’t actually put things in better perspective. Of all the people of the world I clearly lack perspective the most, at least in matters of fear.

There are drugs you can take that make it somewhat bearable, but I don’t want to become a drug addict! Desire to hide under bed a’la three year old also gets a negative vote. I can try to keep well hydrated  to counter all the palm sweating. I pray about this all right. “Please God, just let me get through this flight. Please. Come on. My perception is your reality, right, Big Man? You have control.”

And he’s looking down at this poor shmuck and thinking, “You are safe, can’t you tell? What do you think I invented the FAA for? How about pre-flight checks? The scientific method? You’re fine!’

“Yeah….see, I know that, just tell it to my legs, they keep shaking, and the cold sweat, and the difficulty moving. My palms have sweated so much I could water  one of those yellow fields we keep passing over. Come on, this bumpiness thing, it’s not cool.”

“My child” – and here he sighs – “I’d like you to rough it out. Builds character, puts hair on your chest. But, if you wish, I shall alter the atmosphere, disrupt up some ecysystem needlessly so your palms will be fine.” Eventually the bumping stops, and now we are about to start our descent, which is always not so bad because

• you are getting closer to the ground, always a plus, and
• it’s almost over, so even if the imminent doom feeling still lurks, in about thirty-five minutes you can give walk down the jetway, through the gate, slide through the revolving doors right there into the baggage claim, and, with a deep breath and a desire you wouldn’t share with *anyone* to kiss the ground, and finish up this hellish experience.Family faces will appear, hugs all around, then the drive home – at some point, I will see the Fort Worth skyline as I make the crest into Fort Worth while on the 121, and then, and only then, will I feel totally at ease. For when those buildings loom, I am home.

Ah, we are dropping through the clouds. The seatbest light is on again. End of flight, here we come. Also, me flipping off my laptop. Let us hope for calm landing. The tray table is going up. If you are reading this today, it shows that I have made it. Cheers!

*here I would like to take an aside and ask, unless the food scraps of a few limp pieces of lettuce, half a cucumber, and most of my serving of rice, could be redeemed for money to help those poor people, or even shipped over there, why should I care? Though I understand the need to appreciate our food, the whole starving child thing is a little ridiculous. Maybe everytime little Johnny doesn’t finish his lentils his mother can take away the fifteen cents  of his allowance to cover it and send it to “Feed a Child” or whatnot.