Fear of Flying

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Getting Over a Fear of Flying

The Andy Bush Column: Combatting My Fear of Flying

Andy Bush
The night before, I'll lie awake in bed wondering if my 'estate is in order'. By this, of course, I mean mentally checking whether all of my pornography is either hidden or destroyed so as not to disappoint my grieving parents.

In a few days time I have to fly to Ireland to do my radio show from Dublin. This on the surface should be pure heaven — an adventure to the home of Guinness, a stay in a nice hotel, a chance to explore one of the most iconic cities in Europe. But there's a problem. And that problem is my fear of flying. By that I don't just mean ‘not keen’, I mean sweaty arsed, rosary bead thumbing terrified.

In the 37 years I’ve inhabited this planet, my over-active imagination has served me pretty well. It helps to come up with ideas for stupid stuff to do on the radio and it greatly increases my enjoyment of playing video games like FIFA 14 because when I’m at work in meetings, I pretend I’m still the manager of Everton. However, the main drawback of a vivid imagination is that it presents you with a terrifying array of nightmare scenarios on an almost daily basis. No matter what I’m doing or where I am, the creative bit of my brain will magic up a suitably gory death plot. On the train: What if the driver crashes? Just heard an ambulance: Is someone I love seriously injured?  A cute squirrel appears: could it be diseased?

It's absurd and I find it hard to comprehend that the bit of my brain that is responsible for nice stuff like drawing and painting can be behind such malevolence. Much like the dramatic reveal at the end of a good murder mystery, no one ever suspects that the gentle, bespectacled artistic guy next door was capable of such a crime.

I take solace from the fact that I’m not alone in suffering with this neurosis. Everyone’s got a jumpy mate that acts like a sketchy cat, and if you’re scared of flying you’ll be more than familiar with the build up to the day of a flight itself.

It goes a little something like this...

As the days, hours and minutes tick down until the dreaded event, I generally feel like I’m being followed around by a military drummer from the English Civil War who ,maintains an ominous beat as I do simple things like searching for my passport and packing clothes. The night before, I'll lie awake in bed wondering if my 'estate is in order'. By this, of course, I mean mentally checking whether all of my pornography is either hidden or destroyed so as not to disappoint my grieving parents. And after my death, will friends understand that I was only keeping White Dwarf magazines as a fond memory of my school days rather than an indicator of any real desire to play with miniature orcs and elves?

By the time I’m clipping in my seat belt on the plane I’m already sweaty and scared. I look around at those smug, calm people who snuggle back into their seat, closing their eyes getting ready for a sleep and, frankly, I hate them. I wish I could be doing the crossword on the back of the complementary Times, but instead I'm fixated on the little Super Mario engineer dude by the wing who’s fiddling with something. What’s he doing out there? Why is he required to perform this last minute maintenance? Go away if there's nothing wrong, Mario! Once he's finally cleared off, my hushed, solemn prayers soundtrack the terror of actual take-off. Somehow, I've survived.

On a long flight most people watch a movie. I don’t. I tend to scan the stewardesses faces for any sign of panic, especially when they have a go on that phone by the cockpit. Frequently, I have convinced myself their grim faces mean they've just received word from the pilot that the plane is doomed. Logical, grounded me will know that they're just a bit concerned because the veggie lasagnes supplies are low.

I’ve tried all sorts of different ways to cure myself. I’ve had NLP, hypnotherapy and I've even been on a special flying course where proper pilots placate you by promising you that you aren’t going to die and there's nothing to worry yourself with. But nothing has worked so far. I always end up at the same place: Self-medication. I mean ‘self-medication’ in the Edgar Allan Poe sense, a planned intoxication through whatever means to reach a higher state of understanding. Most of the time when I fly I’ll be off my head on Valium or if I haven’t got any I’ll sink some sneaky breakfast double whiskies at the airport bar before I board. This of course isn’t ideal as it means that whoever's unfortunate enough to fly with me is forced to to turn into Clint Eastwood in Any Which Way But Loose and has to lead me off the plane by the hand after landing like an orangutan in a nappy.

However, I am determined to beat this phobia. The last thing I want to do is pass it onto my little girl who loves going on a plane. Her airport excitement reminds me of the fearless innocence of youth before adulthood wraps its sinister, messed up tentacles around you. So I’ll keep saying my prayers and doing my stupid little rituals that in my weird world keep me alive. But the most important thing of all is that I don’t give up trying.


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