I am Meg Ryan

new fear of flying

Nervous flyer.

The phrase conjures up images of a neurotic, jittery, scatter-brained, Meg Ryan-type character dramatically clutching the hand of the stranger next to them on a plane while popping a Xanax (or two). In the 90’s this almost became a stock character in movies and TV. An archetype that was easy to recognize and easy to play. The audience knew exactly what to think about that character: a basket case who doesn’t have their shit together. They’re an easy target for a quick laugh. The butt of a reliable joke.*

I have become exactly that. A nervous flyer. As much as I hate to claim it, I fear it’s true. I’m not sure exactly when the transition happened but I’d guesstimate within the last 2 to 3 years. Somehow I am now the jittery one. Somehow my heart races during take off and landing, turbulence and smooth air. Somehow my mind wanders to the unthinkable and insane. Somehow every feeling of movement while in the air feels like a jolt of lightning through my body. It’s unpleasant. It makes an already uncomfortable situation even more so.

I am Meg Ryan.

She is I and I is she.

I do not remember the first time I flew. When I was very, very little we visited my grandparents in California. I would have been about 3, maybe 4. Flashes of memories from that trip - riding a city bus with my mom, playing with the door handle of a white sedan - are some of the earliest my brain has recorded. But not the flight. I can imagine it though. All 5 Donohues making their way through St. Louis Lambert Airport in our 1990’s Midwestern glory. Fanny packs, neon t-shirts, and flat pillows abound. I’m sure my father threatened violence if we weren’t behaved on the plane. I’m sure my mom brought an abundance of bizarre snacks. I’m sure I was annoying and my sisters were annoyed. It’s speculation rooted in historical evidence.

It would be another decade before I was on a plane again. This time it was an 8th grade graduation trip to New York City, care of my aunt and grandparents. My sister was graduating high school and together we flew into Laguardia from St. Louis. I read the entirety of the safety card while the flight attendants instructed us on how a seatbelt works and water landing policy. I was a little nervous but mostly just vibrating with excitement. My first time to New York and my first “real” time on a plane. The metropolis below was gray and rainy when as we descended. My heart was beating out of my chest. What a wild ride.

Since then I’ve flown a lot, though I suppose it’s all relative. I’ve flown to St. Louis countless times. To New York a bunch. Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, New Orleans, Miami, Kansas City, Mexico, Italy, France, Germany, Spain, Switzerland, Iceland, England, and Scotland. I’ve done my fair share of flying. And until recently I never thought twice about getting on a plane.

Sure, I never loved turbulence but who does. Plane sleep has always eluded me but that wasn’t my anxiety’s fault. That’s just the byproduct of being a 6’0” and 225-pound body crammed into a seat meant for a child. The food isn’t great. The snacks have gotten smaller. It’s become wildly expensive. Nevertheless flying was always just…flying. It was a quick way to get from Point A to Point B. If nothing else, it provided a chunk of time to read or daydream.

Since the transition to Meg Ryan, the feeling in my body mid-air is drastically different. My heart starts to race leading up to take off. Landing isn’t much better. Each bump of turbulence feels existential. I’m jittery. I want to crawl out of my skin and put my feet back on the earth. My brain gets commandeered by thoughts of crashes and faulty engines and communication blackouts. My whole system is overtaken by fear, by anxiety. I hate it.

And not a single person looking at me would know it. I keep cool, calm, and collected on the outside while my insides are melting down. I stare into into the TV screen or stare into my phone. I wear headphones in order to appear normal. I talk to the flight attendants and stand up for my aisle mates. Sometimes I go to the restroom, even if I don’t have to. I play a lot of sudoku. I’ve been on hours-long flights where I do nothing other than play sudoku. Start to finish. Something about that Japanese puzzle, with its origins actually in France, brings my nervous system a tiny bit closer to equilibrium. But mostly I’m an internal mess with a neutral (and fake) exterior.

Recent aviation headlines certainly aren’t helping my problem. Perhaps we’ve been bombarded with bad plane stories or perhaps the algorithm knows what I fear most deep down. In any case it seems like there’s one thing after another. Crashes. Near misses. Overturned planes. Planes on fire. Air traffic controller shortages. And literally everything happening at Newark. It all adds fuel to a pre-existing fire. It gives my brain, already a playground of reckless imagination, specific images to use. Specific fears to ruminate over. These stories turn the what-if's into a has-happened-before’s.

Last month when I flew to Chicago for a bachelor weekend, I decided to try something different. Instead of leaning into the fear and anxiety, instead of white knuckle-ing both flights, I attempted to get curious. I figured this would be, at the very least, a different way to pass the time. If I was going to be scared either way, why not learn a few things. What makes this thing tic? When does my anxiety peak? When is it lowest? What helps? What makes it worse?

The results were interesting, albeit inconclusive.

Things That Made My Flying Nerves Better -

• Having a window seat

• Looking out the window (especially as we ascend)

• Having the wing in my eye line

• TV shows (got really into Couples Therapy)

• Sudoku

• Staying in my body

Things That Made My Flying Nerves Worse -

• Having an aisle seat

• Not being able to see out the window

• Podcasts

• Reading

• Reminding myself that I’m safer in a plane than a car

• Thinking about all the things that could happen on the plane

I’m sure there are a lot of other things that could make the experience worse. I’m sure there are some that could make it better - flying in first class, for one. Booze and drugs for another. I’m not opposed to either. I’ve considered talking to my doctor about getting a prescription just for flying, something to take the edge off without making me into a zombie. It could be nice to have a chemical aid.

There are some take-aways from this experiment/observation. 1) we have the capacity to change and change quickly. Or, at least, I do. Seemingly overnight I became Meg Ryan after two decades of being not Meg Ryan. The environment didn’t really change. I did. If negative change can be that dramatic and fast, then maybe positive change can too. Maybe I can go back to a not Meg Ryan existence just ask quickly. Maybe I can make lots of other changes too.

And 2) curiosity bears more fruit than wallowing. This is something I need to learn over and over. While my Chicago air travel wasn’t much more pleasant than others, it did give me some intel. I learned a few things about this anxiety. I walked away with a few tools in my tool belt that I can use when booking future travel. I have something. And something is better than nothing when it comes to quelling anxiety. This intel might curb my brain’s tendency to wander down dark and scary lanes. Ruminations that have zero effect on any outcome. Curiosity, if nothing else, seems like a more fun way to live. At least when compared to wallowing.

So there we have it. Meg Ryan, anxiety, and some tools in the tool belt.

Safe travels, y’all.

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*It’s worth nothing that they are also, almost always, a woman. An interesting fact and one that I could explore in greater depth if that’s what this post were actually about.