For those who know me, they know that I am absolutely terrified of flight. Terrorism? I'm not scared of some nutjob trying to take over or blow apart my aircraft; heck, take one look at what scared passengers can do to a person like that in the example of the attempted shoe bomber.
No my fear is one far more primal than that. It's the fear of flight itself. I know intellectually that more people die driving than by airplane crashes. I know intellectually that flying is safer than any other mode of transportation. However, that's the gap between what my mind knows, and what my instincts scream out against...albeit, that being in a puddle jumper caught in a 747's wake once did not help.
Yet, as I prepare to leave behind the internet for a week and embark on a 3,000 miles journey, I find I'm not afraid of flying this time, not like I used to be. Not like I usually am.
I'm not complaining about it. It's good not to feel my primal fear. It's good not to have my thanatophobia popping up in my face as I prepare to leave.
Perhaps I have the Bitch to thank for this...after all, psychological thrillers, horror films, survival shooters, and the like have never scared me after her. I laughed my way through things that scared me into nightmares before Her in recent months. Everything happens for a reason I suppose, and if not, I have darn good luck to make the best of my dumb mistakes.
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