Pilot: ’Cabin crew, seats for take-off’
Me: ‘Oh no oh no oh no oh no… oh no no no no no no no.’
From the time I pass through airport security, to the moment the plane is powering down the runway, about to leave the ground behind, I am gripped by a very determined conviction that this will be the day the engines fail or the wings snap or God smites the aircraft with a mighty lightning bolt and it plummets from the sky and we all scream and we all cry and we all die. Your safety routine isn’t saving anyone. Take-off for me is no bueno. At all.
Or maybe it is…good.
The last time I flew, I was feeling useless right up until the moment I passed through the body scanner when the familiar fear punched me in the throat and my disregard for life turned into the exact opposite. I really didn’t want to die. I kept repeating this until the plane was cruising. As the worry began to subside I compared how I was feeling when I arrived at the airport to how I felt during the horrific initial 2 minutes of the flight.I realised that if it wasn’t for those moments, I would have gone on thinking destructively. I might have been able to convince myself of not caring about my existence again had it not been for the severe turbulence and shaky landing which really drove a point home: I want to live.
That flight wasn’t just a trip from a geographical A to B but as cheesy as it may sound, it was a mental journey which revealed a part of me which is still very much concerned with my wellbeing. I guess, what I’m trying to express by using my flight-time melodrama as an example is that it’s moments like these-when you genuinely feel like your life is in danger-that make you realise you probably don’t want to give up on everything.
When you are feeling unbearably low and wishing everything would just stop, picture yourself dropping thousands of feet out of the sky in little more than a very smashable metal box . If this visualisation scares you even a little bit, you’re probably not as in favour of everything ending as you think.