A box of tissues sits in the center of the table like a warning.
This is a waste of time.
I drop into one of the chairs, crossing my arms over my chest. The defensive posture is obvious even to me, but I can’t seem to make myself relax. Every muscle in my body wants to be somewhere else.
In this moment, the thought of getting back on a plane is less terrifying than having a conversation about why I’m so afraid of it.
Anywhere but here, about to talk about my feelings with a stranger.
The silence stretches.
“So,” I finally say, unable to stand it any longer, “is this the part where you ask me to lie down and tell you about my mother?”
Melanie gives a rueful shake of her head. “I don’t think we have time to delve that deep, but do you think your relationship with your mother is related to the anxiety about flying?”
“My mother can probably be blamed for a lot of things, but not that.”
“Okay. Then why don’t you tell me how it started?”
God, I hate this.
“Look, I appreciate the thought but I don’t think any of this is necessary.” I slide to the edge of my seat, muscles flexing, because I’m just waiting for her permission to rocket out of the room. “I’ve been dealing with the flying thing for years. It’s just—it’s a thing. Everyone has things.”
“They do,” Melanie agrees mildly. “What kind of thing is it for you?”
With an exaggerated sigh, I consider the question.
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid.” I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, needing something to do with my hands. “I’ve flown hundreds of times. I know planes are safe. I know the statistics. I know all of it. It just doesn’t help.”
“Knowing something intellectually and believing it emotionally are different things.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “The emotional part doesn’t seem to care what the intellectual part thinks.”
She nods like this is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said. “When did the anxiety around flying start? Do you remember?”
“I’ve always needed medication for flights,” I say slowly. “From the beginning. My first flight was when I was six, for a commercial shoot. My mom was terrified. She spent the whole time telling me everything that could go wrong.”
“That sounds frightening for a six-year-old.”
“I didn’t know any different.” Another shrug, but this one feels heavier. “I thought everyone’s mom rambled about aviation disasters during takeoff.”
“But your anxiety response has only continued to get worse?”
“Not if I take my medication.”
“Until this last time, you mean.”
“To be fair, most people would have a panic attack if they think they’re aboutto die…”
I stop. My chest has gone tight, and I realize with distant alarm that I’m demonstrating the very thing I’m describing.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “You’re safe. You’re on the ground.”
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth until I think again.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter when I can speak again.
“It’s very human,” Melanie corrects gently. “Fear responses aren’t rational. They don’t respond to logic. They respond to perceived threats. And flying has become something that your mind perceives as a threat.”
