This is not an inspirational legend. “Thats really not” a narrative of someone overcoming their suspicions and facing their anxieties head-on. This is a narration on the feeling of pending doom. On battling a ogre that has always been there, but has powered up for the Boss Fight. This is a story about scarcely hanging onto sanity while doubting that I have, in fact, hung on.

As I write this, I fly to Germany from the US in less than four daytimes. As I write this, I feel my life will be over in less than four days. I am not afraid of flying. I am terrified . I am morbidly and paralyzingly panicked about everything that could go wrong. An engine could go out. A rocket could thump the plane. A terrorist could be on board. A panic attack could justification a heart attack. Anything, really. My anxiety is not picky.

I am an emotionally smart party, and rational enough to know that I will most likely be fine. My biggest problem will probably be along the lines of an annoying bench neighbor or the lack of healthy food choices at international airports. I know the stats and cannot count the amount of periods someone has reminded me that more beings die in auto disintegrates than in plane accidents. I dislike that statistic . First off, more people are in automobiles at any given time. Secondly, more beings too survive auto disintegrates than airplane disintegrates. But I ramble. Logically, I know the chances of something happening to me on this business trip are slim, but they’re not zero, and I cannot focus on anything other than the clock that is counting down to my seen demise.

Anxiety is a bitch . Remedies, meditations, and positive affirmations be damned, my nervousnes is a fighter. You make she’ll wear out over day? No direction. She only goes stronger over long periods. Think I can distract her by focusing on happy thoughts and doing things that realize me feel good? Think again. She’ll sneak up on me in the middle of a fit of laugh to remind me that this might be the last time I giggle like this . And then I cry and conceal the fact that I’m crying because what kind of person merely starts crying in the middle of laugh ? My fiance does something nice? Tears. The “cat-o-nine-tail” snuggles me? Tears. Conceiving about leaving those two behind to take care of each other? Rivers of tears.

I’ve known this trip was coming for approximately three months. I accepted the position of running the US division of my German company’s supply chain department knowing that I had to go to Germany. Three months ago, I knew I didn’t like run, but I had no impression it would turn into this. I do not have the words to adequately excuse my suspicion. It is a gravity blanket from hell comprising every inch of my figure. It is a constant reminder of repent. It is a ghostly hand grabbing at my throat, choking me with such thrust that inevitable demise virtually seems welcomed just so I don’t have to feel like this anymore. It has expended me, and is all I can think about.

In preparation for my errand, I have paid off credit cards, have written goodbye letters, have cleansed the house, and speak today endlessly to the unlucky few who continue to listen. I likewise did a spooky thing where I bought a bunch of toilet tissue because at least he won’t have to worry about that for a while if I die? Look, I already admitted that I am playing irrationally. Cease judging me. Grasping at the shred of humor aside, I can feel myself behaving in an irrational way. I meet and hear myself, but I cannot stop. Self-diagnosed as Aerophobic, I have reached out to holistic practitioners to try to get on the schedule for hypnosis, or acupuncture, or Reiki. What I’ve not done is reach out to a medical professional because…reasons. I don’t have time to be “cured” of this, and I don’t want to increase my anti-anxiety meds. Is that stupid? Maybe, but let me remind you that I am aware of how I am acting. I simply can’t stop.

In all of this, I have come to realize something unexpected. I’m afraid of flying because I’m afraid of dying, sure. But I’m afraid of dying because I’m joyou . Or at least about so pleased to see you both as I can be. For the first time in my adult life, I feel relatively comfy said today. Obviously you know nothing of me, other than the fact that I’ve prepared for my own demise by buying toilet tissue in majority, but this is a big deal. I never reckoned I’d get here again. Are there bad days? Perfectly. I don’t suppose anyone ever really gets “over” depression. It’s always there. Ever ready to surround you in its vacant. But for the most part? I’m okay. Y’know, other than the fact that I am convinced I’m going to die in four days.

So if these are my last few days on earth, I will go out with some sadness. I’d regret not marrying my fiance in time. I’d regret go this position for obvious grounds. I’d regret not telling everyone that I cherish them enough, because it’s never enough. And I’d regret spend my meter locked in fear instead of trying to live. But these are the mental placards I’ve been dealt, and it is my reality, as irrational as it is. What’s going to happen? Only time will tell.

It would be unwelcomed but poetic incongruity to survive the plane journeys, only to die in a auto disintegrate on the way home, though, wouldn’t it?



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