On Progress and Planes

At 3AM I recieved confirmation from my recruiter, Steven, that after spending another $50 to ship my Suffolk transcripts to Korea that I finally was the proud owner of a visa confirmation number.  That's one step closer to getting on the thousand ton, magical flying machine.  Tomorrow I must call the Korean consol and arrange an appointment, after which I will have a new sticker in my passport saying that I am allowed to work in the country.  Missing the point, I know, but I hope this is one bad-ass sticker.

So, one step closer to leaving everything and everyone I know for a whole year.  I began this process as a scared little Kid.  Larry, my friend from Suffolk and long-standing drinking buddy convinced me that teaching in South Korea was the thing to do.  Two weeks later he was in Cheonan, telling me about the adventure of it all, and how I had to come and do it. 

I started the process a long time ago with little hope that I would actually finish it, but here I am.

This process has taken me so much longer than I was expecting that my fears have begun to calm down a bit.  I am still scared, mind you, but I am no longer completely mortified of the prospect of spending a year abroad. 
This sounds stupid, but the part that I was (and to a certain extent still am) fearing the most was the airplane.  To say that I dislike planes would be an understatement.  Here is an example: I drove to Florida with my old roomate Hadley.  The way down was one of the funnest things I have ever done.  I had the option to fly back home but I turned it down and took a train.  That is right: I took a 27 hour train to avoid 3 hours in an airplane. 

I went to Mexico to do a workcamp once and it ended badly.  For those of you who follow the link i want you to know that the vast majority of workcamps work out fine and that this was a fluke.  To make a long story that will be told elsewhere very short: I arrived in Mexico City, took an 8 hour bus to a place called Tecpan de Galeana, spent the night watching heavily armed men drive around in trucks and fending off cockroaches while trying to conceal $1000+ worth of camera equipment.  Nobody ever picked me up.  When the sun came out I hopped the first bus that came and ended up in Acapulco.  I salvaged the week or so I was there, but there was a certain stress that was building in my mind that I didn't even notice.  After I made my way back to Mexico City and got into the plane I was so happy it was over.  I was seated next to a couple of kids on their way to Chicago, where I would be put on a plane home to Boston.  I smiled and drifted to sleep.

I woke up to what I now know to be a full blown panic attack.  I couldn't breathe but in gasps.  My arms and legs were tingling and felt as though novacaine was being pumped through my veins.  My vision was jumping as though there was a very powerful strobe light infront of my face.  And my mind.  I was sure I was dying.  I was having a heart attack.  I was accepting this but my thoughts became so irrational.  I was positive that I could feel the back of the plane beginning to fall from the sky.  I looked at the kids and wondered how much their parents would have to pay for therapy when this was over.  It passed in a few moments but came back again and again.  It took all my might not to scream and cry.  To be sure, that moment is and will remain the worst experience that I have ever had.

I passed out as soon as I hit the bench of my connecting airport and I walked onto the next airplane as though I were walking down that last grey mile to the gas chamber. 

I was happy to be home, but something was horribly wrong.  I kept having panic attacks.  I had trouble driving or being in a small room, or anywhere with quiet.  I couldn't go out to eat at a restaurant.  The only time I didn't feel on edge was at the place I worked at.  Finally the doctor gave me some pills and I googled the hell out of what was happenning to me.  Knowing what happens physiologically during a panic attack is more helpful than any medication.

In the end, I don't think a plane caused what happened; it must have been the stress I kept bottled up, but it left me with a foul taste for flying. 

That was a long way for me to say that I really do not like flying.  I don't like taking off, I don't like descending, and I certainly hate turning.  If I had my way the pilot would inform us of EVERY move he or she made. 

But I am ready for this flight, or at least I am as ready as I can be courtesy of a hefty bottle of Lorazepam.