I wasn’t going to write about this. ‘Stay positive,’ I thought. ‘Don’t dwell on the tricky things. It’s not as if you want anyone to know. You don’t want sympathy or advice. You’re not asking people for their tips on how to fly when you are bonkers. Just keep quiet. Pretend it never happened. Pretend you are completely sane.’
Then I thought that was duplicitous. I have written about PTSD and being fixed and maybe if someone was reading that and the following blogs, they would think any treatment hadn’t worked for them. If you are my friend and are reading this then I don’t want you to panic and think I don’t have things quite as together as you thought I had (although if you are my friend you’ve probably always thought I was bonkers and ‘together’ is never a word you’d use to describe me). I’ve also decided to tell you the story of my flight home from Japan because it is actually funny.
So, if you don’t know, when my mum died last year (yes, it is nearly a year) it was traumatic and I caught myself a bad case of PTSD. Luckily, I found an excellent therapist and managed to get back to work and living a normal life. That doesn’t mean that everything is easy. There’s lots I have to work on.
PTSD is an anxiety disorder that stems from a traumatic incident. At first, I couldn’t close my eyes without that incident replaying in my head, like a horror movie stuck on a loop of the worst part. This movie came in full 5D effect: sight, sound, touch, smell and taste. This caused panic attacks and, for me, claustrophobia. I wanted to manage the panic by having a small ordered life; being outdoors, walking and being in control of everything helped. Then I had EMDR and the videos stopped playing. I was given some CBT tools to help manage any panic that happened and normal life could resume. I was different - my brain forever changed but not so different from anyone else.
The Long Suffering Husband has always wanted to go to Japan. We had intended to go last year but Mum was dying, so we didn’t. You can imagine that this trip pushed all my buttons. It’s difficult to stay in control when you have no idea what to expect and very difficult on an 11 hour flight. The journey out wasn’t too bad. I had an aisle seat next to the toilet with a wall behind me and if I felt wobbly and none of the sitting-still-CBT-mind-games worked I went to the toilet and ran on the spot for a few minutes, pretending to be at the sea wall with geese flying overhead. I might have done that about a dozen times. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I stared back at the LSH with my saucer-wide eyes, “It’s just that anxiety is a bitch.”
Coming home was different.
Our seats were in a group of three with our two closest to the window. You don’t get a choice when you check-in online. A teenage boy sat next to us. Japan attracts sensitive, studious misfit boys. He was reading Victor Hugo’s Hunchback and I wanted to ask him if he had started it before the fire but I didn’t. The LSH asked him if he would prefer a window seat and I told him that I was a fidget but he thought he’d be ok where he was.
Three hours in and I had only made the boy move four times. It was ok: I’d eaten the meal, read lots of my book, I was still breathing. Then they turn the lights off and hope that everyone goes to sleep. The boy next to me obliged. I thought I’d try to watch a film (which, looking back was probably a mistake, as my brain hasn’t coped with that much sensory input for a while). The man in front of me reclined his seat (just know, that if you ever do this on a flight then it’s a dick move - no excuses - it’s just rude) and the LSH started to snore. Sleeping is not something I’m very good at and it was only lunchtime.
It started to rise. That feeling was in my chest. I was hot, sweaty. I tried to think of the sea wall but when I closed my eyes I saw something else - the last time I was trapped in a situation I wanted to get out of. My mouth was dry so I finished my 5th bottle of water. My head was pounding. A crying sound was trying to escape from my throat despite the fact I had firmly clamped my lips together. My knees were banging together hard enough to cause tiny bruises. I needed to get out. I tapped the boy on the knee but he was sound asleep, so I knelt up on the seat. That was better. I could try to get back in control. Five things I could see, four I could hear, three I could touch, two I could smell and one I could taste. Okay. I could breath again. Crisis averted. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but it worked. Then the fifth bottle of water made its way to my bladder and I started to think that I had to get out again. The thought washed over me like a wave and I punched the boy in the arm, shouted, “I’ve got to get out, I’ve got to get out,” and leaped over the top of him. He came round, groggy and confused, rubbing his arm apologetically. I picked myself up from the aisle and ran to the toilet, where I sobbed, breathed, used every technique I’d been taught until I was able to splash my face with water and emerge from the brightly lit toilet cubical back into the dark of the cabin, blinking as though I had gone the other way.
There was a lady outside, waiting for me.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I saw everything,” she said, “Are you really sure you are alright.”
I blinked back the threatening tears, mortified. Then another two passengers appeared. One had fetched a stewardess on his way.
“I feel such an idiot,” I said.
“She fell over,” one of the passengers explained to the stewardess.
“No, I think she was tripped. Someone stuck their foot out,” said the one who had seen everything.
“No, no, I just got a bit panicky,” I whispered.
The stewardess thanked everybody and sent them back to their seats even though they were still muttering about how people should keep their feet in and pulled me into the galley, where I promptly burst into ugly tears and explained everything. Well, not the stuff about PTSD and my mum and the year of my life I can't remember but enough so that she knew that I hadn't physically fallen.
I can't tell you how kind and wonderful these two British Airways cabin crew were. There was absolutely no pressure for me to be normal and back in my seat.
"Are you travelling with your husband? What seat are you in? I'll go and let him know."
I explained that he was asleep and that he would be fine. They told me off and said that they weren't worried about him. It was me that wasn't fine! They were really upset that the aircraft was full and they couldn't even move me to first class. "Oh, I don't think I deserve that!" I said. They disagreed. They reassured me that I wasn't the worst and that it 'happens to all of us'. I was sceptical about that.
"It doesn't happen to you, does it? You wouldn't be able to do this job if it did."
"Oh no, not at work but I'm terribly panicky in situations where I have to speak. I'm not married because I don't want all that speech stuff and have people looking at you all day."
We talked about her anxiety and I wondered if there was any way round it. I suddenly realised that everyone has mental health. There are times when we are depressed or anxious and the trick is to deal with it.
I had just stopped shaking when it was time for them to do another drinks round.
"If I'm going to stay in here, can I be of some use?" I asked, "Honestly, it would really help me if I was busy."
I spent the next hour pouring juice into plastic cups and finding out all about the life of BA cabin crew. Soon, it was time for their break (They go upstairs in the tail of the plane and sleep for a couple of hours) but reassured me that I was welcome to stay and the other two crew members would be more than glad of my company. Apparently, I'm funny! I thought I had overstayed my welcome and would try to get back to my seat.
I was told that the 'cabin crew seats for landing' were mine if I needed them for the rest of the trip. I lasted about ten minutes back in my seat when the LSH suggested I go and use them.
One of the problems, for me, was that people fart in aeroplanes. They fart a lot. The smell of the toilets and the rotting food and the pot noodles that they make up in the galley for people who need to eat all the time all smell like something I remember, so that even in my less claustrophobic seat the anxiety was difficult to manage. Eventually, I was sick and by the time the crew came back from their break to serve the last meal I didn't look well at all but it was a bit busy and crowded at the back so I went back to my seat.
"Beef or Pasta?" the stewardess said to the man in front. "And can you put your seat up for the lady behind!" she snapped, catching my eye, in solidarity. He had annoyed her earlier anyway when he'd demanded to know what the meal was going to be so that he could decided if he wanted red or white wine. Then she tried to offer extra drinks to the poor boy with the bruised arm but he was too nice and polite to accept and she stumbled over her words. "Oooh, sorry, I've gone into full-on fight mode," she said.
The flight was over. I thanked the staff for all their kindness and left, grateful to have made it.
"So, where are you going next?" asked the LSH's friend who picked us up from the airport.
"Errm. I think we might leave it for a while," the LSH said, squeezing my hand nervously.
It will be fine though. I'm not going to let this thing beat me. We all have mental health but the trick is to not let it stop you living a life.
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