This Is What Its Like To Fly Through

Turbulence With A Mild Anxiety Disorder

Apr. 26, 2013

By Tyler Wells Lynch

There is no logic to my fear, and even through the worst turbulence I understand this. But it
doesnt stop my palms from sweating, nor my head from spinning. If youve ever had a panic
attack you know: Vision dims like light through a shrinking aperture; sweat pours from your
forehead like you didnt know it could; something wet crawls over you, dancing its fingers
along the curve of your back, your shoulder, your neck, then its before you; and all you can
think is, what a shame to die so wet and sweaty. You begin thinking about the circumstances
of your death, how it will burden those around you, how it will look to the livingthe
funeral, will it be embarrassing? Probably. Even here, on this cross-country business flight,
something will unearth about which you are mortally ashamed: an unused condom, a snot-
filled rag, a trickle of piss down the right leg of your trousers. Can they identify these things
in a plane wreck? Of course not. The power of logic is selective, limited only to peripheral
musings, not ever the looming fear of deaththat one is embedded deep within the psyche. I
am by no means a religious man, but I find my hands clasped together in prayer each time the
flight gets especially rough. Blurry promises are made to blurry gods, none of whom I know
much aboutstill, I dont. I break promises to them, like Prometheusruing my mockery of
land-dwelling mortals and paying for it eternally. I think, at one point, if this thing goes down
will they at least be able to salvage my hard drive? Then, later: Are first-class passengers
prioritized for dental recognition? Are coach seats locked together, and, if they are, does that
mean Ill be hurled from this fiery aluminum cometjust one body in a trio of well postured
corpseslike some kind of catapulted rollercoaster car? Will I feel that stomach-dropping
sensation, or will the descent be more gradual? Some thoughts are without context, just
images: my severed feet landing among a pack of wild deer in rural Pennsylvania, brand new
Jack Purcells laced securely about; passengers being sucked through a hole in the cabin like
raisins to a vacuum; the curious desire to sneeze as the plane tailspins into the bright,
screaming hereafter. Are deer smart enough to recognize severed human feet? Okay, I tell
myself, youre being paranoid. Take a deep breath. Your brain needs some sweet, musty
oxygen. Suck that recycled, pressurized, flu-laced air into the nether of your lungs and
exhale, then do it again. Blast! Nasal obstruction; congestion like an oozing injection mold;
base lung matter apt to spark a coughing fit and the ire of snoozing, reading, headphone-
bobbing passengers. How are they not making their final arrangements? How are they not
sifting through packets of leaky memories? Youre too young for this kind of anxiety. Jessica,
your co-workerdidnt she pack some Xanax? No matter. Xanax wont shield you from the
vengeful wrath of spurned Appalachia. Maybe I should curl into a ball like Liam Neeson in
The Grey. Lucky bastard had a whole row to himself: an Irishman flung across the white
Alaskan azure in fetal position. Well, thats preferable to this: a triptych of perfectly postured
fares from worlds unknown. The man next to me is reading Sports Illustrated on his tablet,
probably trying to ignore my strange fidgeting. Three ski bros behind me are talking about
fresh powder. The turbulence pauses. We reach a plateau of smooth air and the pilot comes
through the speaker: Sorry about the ahhh bumpy ride folks. Were just trying to find
ahhh safe altitude. Itll be like this for a while. Please remain seated with your seatbelts
securely fastened at all times. I am desperate, sweating, pulsingthe screaming passenger
lunging over others in a futile vault from the avian prison. I am anxious.

My hatred of the winged aluminum can didnt always exist. As a child I looked forward to
flying almost as much as the trip itself. But as I settled into the anxious locket of adulthood
this enthusiasm gave way, rather quickly, to abject terror. I know all the logic: Youre more
likely to die on the way to the airport, youre more likely to win the lottery, flying is the
safest way to travel. I dont doubt any of that. In fact, I believe it both rationally and
intuitively. But for someone with anxiety this use of logic to overcome fear is like relying on
the cheer of a Hallmark card to pass a kidney stone. It just doesnt work. Its about instinct,
reallya primal dependence on the warm, soiled earth, and the visceral sensation that up
means death. But its not just a fear of flying; I believe my fear is actually quite tame
compared to most. Noits more about the toxic stew of anxiety, depression, and general
unease in the air. Throw in some bad turbulence and flu symptoms and you have the makings
for a stress cocktail fit to take years off a mans life. But such is the synesthetic tempest of
dread that was my recent flight from Las Vegas to Philadelphia. The turbulence, mind you,
was only mildly above-average according to other passengers. But for me, it was the worst
flight of my life.

Just a few days after landing I discovered this nightmarish video of a Turkish Airlines flight
which caught fire after being struck by lightning. Watching it, youll note the calm of
passengers as they sedentarily sail across the heavens with wings aflame. Note the quiet, the
composure, the fucking silence The fucking silence Amazing.

Fuck. That.

Raise your feeble hands to the aluminum ceiling and make a god damn scene, is what I say.
Jettison the chance for prayers in exchange for a few moments of desperate, fiendish hope!
Fools! Thats what I would do. Id be a total dick.

Or would I? The apparent calm of passengers on this Turkish flight got me thinking about my
own experiences. Would I really be that guy? Would I really be that asshole shamelessly
flailing about during his final moments? Or would I be that zen motherfucker, muttering
poetry and closing his eyes to preserve the sanctity of fond memories? I like to think Id be
the latter, but I cant say for sure. What I do know is this: Flying sucks not because of the
danger, but because of the nature of that danger. I dont care what you think about high-speed
trains or life in the fast lane; flying is unlike any other mode of transportation. Youre
hopeless, powerless, sweaty, cramped, sedentary, sick, moody, hungry, thirsty, depressed,
stressed, panickingand in a few minutes your organs are going be cleaved from the tissues
that hinge them to your body cavity and spat upon a blas rural hillside that otherwise might
have passed as a choice picnic spot.

When a plane starts going down, there is no chance. Its not like a slow death, or a shark
attack, or even a car crashyou know, for however long it takes for the plane to reunite with
mother earth, that this is it. Theres no chance. And you have to spend these final noisy
moments in whatever sort of aimless plea for peace and understanding that you can muster.

Fuck. That. Id rather go down in a hail of gunfire.

Dont assume that my fear of this scenario trumps all else; it doesnt. Id much rather plunge
into a mountain in an aluminum tube than be mauled by a grizzly bear. Id much rather
tailspin into the ocean strapped to an upright gurney than be tortured by John Bunting. The
difference is this: I dont often come in contact with grizzly bears, and Ive never been
kidnapped by a serial killerthese are scenarios that are extremely difficult to imagine. A
plane crash, on the other hand, is very easy to imagine when youre a writer with anxiety on a
highly turbulent cross-country flighttoo easy, it seems.

Soldiers, criminals, police officers, morticiansyou know, people who live in close
proximity to deathsometimes speak of a feeling that washes over you when death is near.
They claim an ability to sense it, almost before it even occurs. Perhaps it goes without saying,
but I havent seen a whole lot of death, so I cant claim ownership to this particular skill. But
I have lived long enough to respect death, to (occasionally) laugh at it, and perhaps even
question it. Said another way, I often wonder: What was the closest I ever came to death?
What moment was it? Did it pass without my knowing, like a narrowly avoided freeway
accident? Or was it more obvious, like during a particular fever or sickness? Maybe it was,
indeed, during some bumpy, cross-country flight when I was younger. For most people,
theres simply no way of knowing this. But you have to be crazy not to wonder.

I mention it because this pressing, unanswerable curiosity is tightly linked to fear and anxiety.
The feeling it stirs is magnified during panic attackswhether they occur on an airplane or in
the middle of the ocean. It takes on weight, like a rolling snowball, and soon consumes
everything (those who have taken hallucinogenic drugs can relate to this chain-linking
effect on your thinking). But whereas in a sober state of mind this curiosity is merely
contemplative, it becomes a vicious, self-feeding cycle during periods of intense anxiety. It
becomes everything, and its inescapable. Its almost as if the mere questioning of death is an
affront to your subconscious, so much so that it punishes your conscious mind by forcing it to
think way too deeply about death, and your own unmatured standing with it.

Flying forces this in me. Its not the turbulence or the claustrophobia or the helplessness. Its
not the lack of proper explanation; Im well aware of the logic (you have a 1 in 7,178 lifetime
chance of dying in a plane crash, compared to 1 in 98 for a car crash; the last commercial
flight disaster in the U.S. was nearly four years ago; turbulence doesnt cause crashes; flight
regulations are mint; blah, blah, brouhaha). But thats all irrelevant when youre in this state
of mind. Its like Bruce Willis in Looper, smashing his fist on the table when pressed to
explain the logic of time travel: It doesnt matter!

Why does it not matter? Well, in the case of Looper, theres a story to be told; you cant waste
precious screen time elucidating something that cannot be elucidated. And when it comes to
fear and anxiety, its similar: Your agitated brain, no matter how large and capable, has no
room for appeasement based on logic alone. You need something more. You need drugs.
Really, really good drugs. And thats what I learned on this most recent flight.

Im sorry if thats not the wholesome, organic dnouement you were looking for in a piece
about fear, anxiety, and flying. But thats the truthat least, for me it is. Nothing has
changed. Nothing is fixed. When it comes to flying, Im as guided by fear as ever, and
reading and writing about it is not going to change that. Which is why I plan to secure a
certain prescription from my doctor the next time Im beckoned to the skies. You should too.
Mortal.