Little did I realize that when I was encouraging my kids to express themselves verbally that I would end up with people who have actual opinions inhabiting my home. Opinions that they are not afraid to use.
We discuss everything around here from books to music, politics to comedy, and most topics in between. We have lively debates that usually end peacefully and without tears.
Thus, recently overhearing heated discourse was not all that surprising. What struck me as bothersome, however, was the fact that they were trying to decide who had to sit next to me on the flight that we will take to Florida for the holidays. Not, I hasten to point out, who would have the privilege of sitting beside me, but who would have to sacrifice one for the sake of family unity and be within arms' reach of me while on a jetliner.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have long held a deeply rooted fear of flying. I am not talking about a few jitters. I am talking about bona fide panic attacks, blind groping in the dark for someone's hand to grasp as the plane careens down the runway and takes flight. I am talking about a phobia that rears its head when I simply drive past an airport.
I am not generally a fearful person. I'm not afraid of spiders, snakes or any other creepy crawlies. Dark rooms and horror movies evoke no fear. I can comfortably speak to a large group, and the sight of blood only causes me to review all of my first aid training. I value bravery, and try to live it whenever possible.
Flying, though. Ah, flying. I hate flying with all my heart and soul. I hate flying to the tune of "sure, that European vacation sounds great, but can't we drive?"
Listening to my family have this conversation, though, caused me to finally take some action. I decided to consult a professional to get over my fears.
So I recently had a session with a zen-like therapist, who has a voice like liquid valium, and who is herself not afraid of flying. She actually falls asleep as soon as the plane takes off.
"Imagine," she said at the beginning of our session, "you are walking down the ramp onto the plane. You are taking your seat. The plane begins to taxi down the runway. How do you feel?"
"You mean apart from the fact that my throat is closing up and my heart rate is exceeding 250 beats per minute?" I asked.
"Let's reframe this," she said quietly. "Think about being in the air and enjoying how safe you are. There are people whose job it is to watch JUST YOUR PLANE. Think of how safe that is."
"You mean apart from the fact that only six inches of steel separate my flesh from plummeting to the earth below?"
"Let's try something different," she said, refusing to give up. "Let's try some cleansing breaths. Think of getting on the plane and how excited you'll be about your upcoming vacation. Imagine looking out the window."
"Look out the window? Are you crazy?"
My poor therapist. I could see that her unflappable, zen-like style was becoming dangerously close be being flapped.
What finally got me over the hump, though, was my admission that I often dreamed about flying. In my dreams, I got on a plane and actually enjoyed it.
"That's exciting!" zen-like therapist exclaimed. "Your subconscious is so ready to get over this fear."
This, more than anything else, suddenly made me feel more confident about my ability to conquer my terror. So I have been practicing deep cleansing breaths, and re-framing my thoughts, and being the change I want to see.
I've also secretly gotten a prescription for Xanax. Wish me luck!
