Blog post #7

I have flown a total of three times in my life.  I hate it.  I hate everything about it.  Each time reaffirms even more why I hate.  I think I am going to die every time I fly.  My first experience flying was a work related trip to Florida.  My phobia at this time was not near as strong as it is now.  I think it is stronger due to the fact I know what to expect and back then I did not.  We recently took a trip to Disney World.  I had the bright idea to fly out of Weyers Cave airport so we would get free parking (inside joke) and be just fifteen minutes away from home.  I knew it was going to be a smaller plane and I was ok with that.  I had ridden a similar one on my first trip.  I should have known what to expect by the writing on the side of the plane.  “Begin with the end in mind” was scrawled beautifully across the front side of the plane so as you entered you could not miss it.  Not the sort of thing you want to read on the side of your plane, it might be ok if you are reading the Stephen Covey book on the plane.  But, not on the plane that is carrying my body.  It was a horrible ride with what my husband called “mild turbulence.”  I told him if that was mild I don’t want to ever feel major turbulence.  I thought for sure I was going to have a panic attack.  The stewardess kept coming back to check on me, I must have been as white as a sheet.  I know my knuckles were white as I was digging into the chair arms and holding on for dear life.  The book says generalized anxiety disorders mellow around age 50, I don’t see that happening.