I'm afraid of flying. There, I said it. This isn't exactly a convenient fear to have, being that two days from this writing, I'll be flying about seven hours to Portland (Well, five hours to Phoenix, then maybe another two and a half to Portland), and next semester, I'll be flying maybe seven hours to London.
Why is this? It could be my fear of heights, and the fact that 9/11 happened connected to my anxiety adhering strictly to Murphy's Law: Anything can go wrong and it will. Yes, it's mainly irrational, being that strict security exists, but one can't help but worry. I have been on a plane once before and probably embarrassed myself thoroughly to the other passengers. This is the story of my first flight ever.
This was back in 2016 when I was looking at colleges. One of the colleges I applied to was Canisius College, which is in Buffalo, and I wanted to go to their accepted students day to check it out. There were a few problems: It was late February, so there were no long weekends in sight, plus Buffalo is an eight-hour drive from Annapolis.
There was no rational way we were going to drive up, attend the accepted students day on Sunday, then drive back home without me and/or a parental companion being pooped. So, my dad resolved that we were going to fly up on Saturday. I was not pumped. My fear of flying existed prior to the experience, and all the irrational thoughts along with it. Nevertheless, if I wanted to go to the accepted students day, it was the only option.
I should note that a flight from Baltimore to Buffalo is NOTHING compared to my upcoming trips (Maybe 45 minutes), so logically, there was nothing to worry about, and my dad kept reassuring me that. Plus, there was free soda on the plane. Still, that didn't soothe my anxiety. After baggage check, it was maybe about 20 minutes before we actually got on the plane, and that only made things worse.
I would have rather had the band-aid ripped off than have a slow burn. By the time we lined up for the flight, I was on the verge of tears. Then it was another agonizing MAYBE 15 minutes before actually taking off. That time was all a blur... I think I may have crossed myself twice and was shaking and staring straight ahead. Then, finally, after the flight attendant reviewed the safety stuff (Which again reminded me of what could go wrong), the plane FINALLY took off.
I was hyperventilating, basically death-gripping my dad's hand, and probably mentally praying. I bet people were staring, but I was too busy having an anxiety attack to notice anyone looking, or probably pointing and laughing. I calmed down a little bit, although the landing riled me up a bit. And while I didn't have a full-on mental breakdown during the flight home, the fear was still present.
By the time this has been published, I will have been on my trip to Portland, and hopefully taken a step toward conquering my fear in time for my semester abroad.
