I Treat Anxiety Like My Personal Assistant — She’s Not the Boss of Me
Who am I kidding? I’ve officially lost control.
Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s the general M.O. of every panic attack I’ve ever had. But this one really caught me off guard. I’m usually a happy little traveler. I love flying and yet there I was in mid-flight, unable to catch my breath, head tucked between my knees. The cabin walls were slowly caving in.
I’m almost too embarrassed to explain the trigger of this unusual attack. It was a harmless moment. My partner had fallen asleep with his head against the plane window. But as I turned to admire his zen-state, I did not see Laurence sleeping peacefully.
Instead, I saw my soulmate — the man that took 28 years to find — ripped violently out the window like a ball of dust getting sucked up a vacuum. I watched as his body catapulted through the air, slamming against the wing of the plane before soaring through the gray Florida sky, never to be seen again.
It was a ridiculous daydream, a “daymare” actually, but it was so real that I nearly passed out at the thought of it.
Now I know what you’re thinking, you must be nuts! That could never happen. Except it did happen. In 2018. On a Southwest flight.
