Flying

It is hard to imagine being one of those people who wishes to fly. I am reluctant to go up in an unfamiliar elevator or step out onto a balcony or walk across a bridge, too close to the guard rail. I am wary of small spaces with only one way out. Of malfunctioning doors or windows.  Is this a fear of heights or flights?  Or both.

I am okay in an airplane hermetically sealed from whatever lingers in the great beyond. I wish I could surrender these  fears and unpack whatever psychology lurks behind. What happened was when I was 3 or 4, so my mother recalled over the years, I locked myself in the bathroom. I wasn’t occupying the space voluntarily. I had gone inside to undress or impress with my mastery of using the toilet. But for some reason I locked the door to the outside world. And what happened was I did not know how to unlock the door to get out.

 I still wonder if the lock was some sort of 50s version of childproof, but from the wrong side. Or if I was particularly clumsy with fingers unable to unpack the design and free myself. My mother recalled that she soothed me through the closed door. As meanwhile she had called the fire department who arrived with long ladders to rescue me from within. Climbing up the side of our house to the small, bathroom window. I certainly didn’t fly from the now open window into my mother’s arms. Like a wee one returning to her nest. Hardly a flicker of tiny wings. But happy I am sure, returning to safety, and relieved.

Over the years this memory of disorientation has repeated itself. I read the Fear Of Flying when I was in college. Erica Jong and memories of a story in which there was much undressing and lots of sex. Long about the time I was surrendering to urges not present when locked in a bathroom. But the literary flying was not what scared me.

Was it the being out of control? I wasn’t in control much of the time as I flew through years of doubt and insecurity. Do the pilots of these airplanes always feel in control? They always seem to be tall with good teeth, in shape with good posture. Looking self-assured in a way which only flickers occasionally.

What happened was that over the years I became less and less interested in small spaces, in high spaces, the airplane being a notable exception. On a family trip to Portland I requested nothing higher than the third floor. And I would not sleep next to the window. The men were bemused, but agreed. I was willing to travel to the top of the World Trade Center and the Empire State Building. But only to stay a distance from the guard rail, even with glass surrounding. Was this a fear of jumping? Did I ever wonder what it would be like to take a leap? Would I float or sink?

What happened was my father was depressed. When I was in high school he unpacked his mood. “Elizabeth, when you get to be my age, you should take a big leap off of a tall building!” Was he contemplating suicide or a wish to fly? I have recalled this undressing of mood, his sadness and  his fears as inappropriate sharing to his oldest daughter who could occupy the role of caretaker when so moved. Perhaps his fear of flying, of death, of being out of control is rooted inside of me. When a little girl found herself in a tiny bathroom she was rescued by tall, handsome and capable. My father was all of these things, but he was better at nurturing his own fears than helping me to unpack mine. Mom got me out of the bathroom. Where was my father? Probably drinking skim milk.