#16 Airplane Anxiety

May, 2023 | Yerevan – Philadelphia

The first few hours passed just fine, or as fine as they could pass in a fully seated Boeing plane, a cramped and crowded box floating in the sky. I slipped in and out of consciousness, resurfacing only to bend my sore neck, readjust my papery airplane pillow, and try (in vain) to find a comfortable position. I’d taken this route many times before – Yerevan to Doha, Doha to Philadelphia. 

I knew exactly when I should try to sleep and for how long, in order to minimize the jet lag as much as possible. I prepared books for myself, planned out a list of things I could write, identified a few movies from the airline selection that I could watch on the flight. I did this every time.

The trouble with long flights is that there’s just too much idle time, time for thinking, if you can’t find other things to occupy your mind. I have always thought too much. I take to ruminating, letting those thoughts circle and simmer and burn, boring holes into my head. They find loose threads – an unhappy memory, a decision shakily made, and they pull at them until they unravel, until I unravel.

Long flights can be hell, even when your state of mind is sound. And I knew what I needed to do to keep busy.

But my state of mind was far from sound. 

I was leaving Armenia, the country I had called home for almost four years. I was leaving behind the people I loved, the apartment I loved, the lifestyle I loved. I was leaving for something new, something that was supposed to be exciting. But all I felt for my future was fear, and dread. 

It was a terrible time to be getting on a plane, especially when it was the very vessel taking me away from all that love. 

I tried to choose a movie that was lighthearted and fun. Taika Waititi’s newest iteration of Thor seemed like a good idea, until I realized ten minutes in that its whole plot revolved around love and loss.

Halfway through I felt it, the anxiety that I had set loose on myself the moment I decided to take the new job, and move back to America. My anxiety had been tormenting me for years, but this was a different breed, a particularly potent strain.

It tickled at me, made my throat itch, and then it clawed. And my mind bled too, stumbling from its wounds, trying to escape. Until it could run no longer. 

The anxiety was accompanied by a sadness so heavy I thought my mind might collapse under its weight. Back when I lived in Spain, I would spend time reading books to expand my vocabulary. A friend of mine lent me the memoir of artist Miguel Delibes, which laments the death of his beloved wife. That was where I learned the word pesadumbre, or grief – within it the word peso, or weight. And I understood that my sadness, weighty as it was, was more than sadness; it was grief.

The itching in my throat seemed to make it swell, and frantically, I rose from my seat and stepped into the aisle, legs shaky. I began to walk – past the first bathroom, trying not to trip onto blankets and headphones that had fallen into the aisle. Past a second bathroom, until I reached the back of the plane. I entered the tiny little room, harshly lit, and began to pace what little floor space it afforded, and talk to myself, remind myself aloud why I had made this decision, why it made sense, tried to assure myself that these feelings would pass.

But I was still scared, and so so sad.  

I sat back down and looked at the screen. 9 hours and 43 minutes left.

What was I going to do? Writing was off the table. People like to say that the best writers were troubled, depressed, that it fed their work, but I was too fragile, and not at all interested in shattering.

Movies should have been the answer, but if Thor wasn’t light enough for me, I’m not sure what would be. There was Encanto, but Disney movies made me cry even when I was happy. And if I recalled correctly, there were at least three scenes in that particular film that had made my cry before.

If I couldn’t write, then perhaps I could find another way to be productive. I needed to work on my languages, so I began to search for movies I’d already seen, that I could try watching in Russian. The only one available was Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

I was so focused on making sure I understood what was being said that the sadness and anxiety began to lift. It didn’t disappear though. 

It manifested in a sudden lack of appetite, which would last for the rest of the flight. And a fear of sleep so palpable that even when I felt the fatigue set in, I could not bring myself to close my eyes. Because in the minutes before sleep comes, there is thought. And I was desperate to escape my thoughts. 

So I watched Harry Potter in Russian (all the voiceover actors sounded the same), followed by some random Turkish romcom (the English subtitles were autogenerated and thus terrible), followed by Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in Spanish (the humor really did get lost in translation). 

When we landed, I hastily made my way out of the plane and into the terminal. And I cried like a baby. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, but at least I was out of that godforsaken plane.

“What would make you feel better?” my mom asked as I burst into tears.

“Going back to Armenia.”

If you’d like to go back and read my past musings and meltdowns, hit this link.