A Chrysalis Descent

Joy Division’s “Disorder” blares from Paul Barrett’s headphones drowning out the rumble of luggage wheels as he’s herded through the loading bridge at Heathrow Airport. His black hoodie tunnels his vision as he sees the attendant ahead greeting them all one by one.

He had been living in London for five years. He moved there with the hope that starting over in a new city and culture would cure his illness. At first, the halo of neomania gave him the fix he needed, but the novelty began to wear off around the two-year mark. The plummeting economy, scant work and the alluring pull of London’s pubs took their toll on his wallet and health. That was around the time the symptoms came back.

The subtle twitch of his right hand’s fifth finger flicks five times as he boards the 747. One of the countless pedantic tactics he adopted to cut off the projections looping like a broken film reel in the back of his mind. There once was a reason for all the convoluted parameters he had set, but he had forgotten, and they now just serve as fleeting pacification. Today’s trigger for the flare-up isn’t explicit to him as he searches the seat numbers, but under the surface, it’s his resistance to touching back down in Toronto tonight.

Paul stores his carry-on and settles into his window seat for flight AC355. Then buckles his seat belt five times. Boarding early gives him time to remove his shoes and watch the parade of passengers shuffle down the aircraft catwalk. He presses his toes into the cushioning of the carpet as he eyes them, guessing which will be his neighbour for the next eight hours. All part of his in-flight ritual. Finally, a short, plump George Castanza-looking lad not much older than Paul packs himself into the seat beside him. The man gives off the air that he’s deathly allergic to conversation. Paul reciprocates by putting his headphones back on, hoping he won’t wake up with George’s bald head on his shoulder.

Paul checks off another ritual by reviewing the laminated emergency landing protocol five times. It reminds him of the statistical odds of crashing, which he once googled as 1 in 11 million. Such a minuscule chance doesn’t ease the fear of flying for almost half of the people on the planet. They are somehow unable to ignore the dread of collectively nosediving into obliteration at any moment. For Paul, though, such irrational fear represents a typical day in his life on land. Thirty thousand feet up, soaring beyond the clouds, brings him a seldom solace. Few experiences for him beat the bliss of gliding through space and time in the cylinder steel death trap. The farther he ascends from the chaos below, the more the world’s weight melts away. It provides a special kind of mental stasis.

People may wonder about his thoughts on the piercing screams of infants, cramped seats, stale food, recycled air, and the odour. He prepares with earplugs, a pre-boarding stretch routine, and terminal tuna sandwiches; he accepts the smell like an old pair of slippers. Like anybody else, he opts for an aisle or window seat and would prefer to sit next to Margot Robbie than Yokozuna, but that’s all icing on the cake. No need for Valium, Xanax, Dramamine, or his Prozac; the sweet sense of passive motion offers a sedative in itself. It gives him a release that, on land, only sex, a bottle of whiskey, strong psychoactive meds, or a 30-minute wank can provide, sans the effort, withdrawals, comedown, or moral hangover. Besides, he’s sober now, and the tools are getting scarce.

The flight attendants hover over the hall like vultures, ready to swoop down on anyone whose seat isn’t in its full upright position. Then an overly enthusiastic flight attendant starts her choreographed instructions as the passengers avoid her direct eye contact. Paul wonders if she dropped some Molly before the flight.

His anticipation turns to a faint thrill when the wheels finally roll. The hum of the turbine builds as the plane taxis down the runway. Paul cues up the New Order’s “Ceremony” for the ascent. As speed picks up, he’s gently pushed back against the seat while the subtle vibration grows beneath him. Then, they are airborne. The force of the lift-off glues him back into his chair. He takes a deep breath, savouring the sensation of weightlessness as the plane soars higher and higher into the sky. As they climb, the view outside the window expands into a breathtaking vista of the world below. Once distant and indistinct, the clouds loom large and white against the deep blue sky. Blazing in its full glory, the sun cast a warm glow over his face. He relishes being suspended mid-air, surrounded by the engines’ quiet whirring and the plane’s gentle vibration. He watches as the world fades away.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and feels a trace of tranquillity as the plane levels off. The thrill of ascent dissipates as fast as it had arrived and dissolves into a calm wonder as he opens them back up. The sky is now painted a deep shade of blue, and the sun sits on the horizon.

Ding. Ding. They reach 10,000 feet. Some time goes by before a baritone voice finally crackles through the speaker, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We have reached our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. The weather conditions look favourable for the remainder of our flight, and we expect to arrive on schedule. I hope you enjoy your flight.”

As the flight attendants start their checks. Paul leans back in his seat, feeling the warm, comforting embrace of the cabin and carpet cushioning his feet. He peers out the window at the clear sky while his reflection stares back at him with rare serene clarity. He reflects on his life before leaving.

It ran on a cocktail of fear and adrenaline. Depression, generalized anxiety and Obsessive-compulsive disorder scaffolded most of 25 years. His OCD was not the cute variety you see on bad sitcoms, where they highlight the character's quirky side. His was the somatic type that turns life into a living hell of neurotic ticks and 3 AM battles against the relentless barrage of intrusive thoughts that spread like wildfire through his central nervous system. The only transient relief is another spastic head nod, eye roll, or erratic hand gesture that builds to a crescendo of convulsions. Each time reinforcing and wiring the movements deeper into his being. Growing up, the compulsions manifested in milder forms like hand washing, flicking lights, vocal hums or reciting the odd mantra to himself, but as life's tragic inevitable bore down, they grew like vines rooted in his soul.

The few who know Paul have no clue what lies beneath his outward composure and stoic demeanour. He’s a grandmaster in the art of suppression. In public, he walks around with an itch he can’t scratch. Besides the stealth rituals he concocts to conceal it all, he functions throughout the day by distracting himself with full-blown workaholism and copious coffee consumption. It’s a vicious cycle. He runs on empty. Though he keeps up appearances during the cold light of day, at night, when lying naked in the still solitude of his empty apartment, under the repetitive spin of a fan, he’s utterly vulnerable to the sinister depths of his mind. He lies helpless on edge with nowhere to turn but into the abyss, and then the war breaks. The war between his body and mind. He can only wait until exhaustion hits, and they both fizzle out. Paul’s existence on land was a lonely, white-knuckle ride, but as he sits in the sky, surrounded by strangers, he’s filled with a sense of connection. It could be the possibility of them all being 1 in 11 million or the interim feeling of motion providing an escape from facing the shadows of stillness.

Paul drifts in and out of zen as Lost in Translation plays on the screen ahead when, a jolt startles him awake. The jarring of the plane is fierce, and the cabin shakes violently. He had experienced turbulence before, but this felt different. It is ruthless.

The pilot comes back through the speaker, trying to calm everyone aboard, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have experienced some turbulence, but everything is under control. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened.”

The flight attendant’s faces tip Paul off. The pilot was hiding the magnitude of the situation. Panic is in the air. Paul takes deep breaths to calm himself down, but his mind spirals. He thinks of how often he had imagined going down in a plane crash and how weak of a substitute imagination is for the millions of years of sensory evolution encoded in our bodies. It’s now visceral. While strapped in like Hannibal Lecter, he can't stop highlighting how “fight or flight” fails to consider how far humanity has come from its natural habitat.

The pilot comes on again, “Flight Attendants, please be seated.” Paul feels his suspicion coming to fruition. The turbulence intensifies, then they drop. It isn’t long before the blaring cacophony of hysterical screams and cries becomes deafening. Paul’s heart pounds harder as he’s seized by the horror. As the plane pulls back up, it banks a hard right, and George’s broad, plump shoulder sandwiches him with the window. This time, there’s a brief suspension in mid-air before gravity disappears, and it falls like a roller coaster drop from Mars. He feels his nuts ascend to his throat, and a lightning bolt shoots up his ass. The butterflies in his gut are now dragons, and he thinks he may shit himself soon. Oxygen masks drop from the ceiling in sync like a suicidal puppet show as the stench of burning chemicals fills the air. He braces himself for the worst. His midnight negotiation with death has come to life, but now God has joined the chat.

As he sits sucking oxygen, it dawns on him. He is looking back at a life trapped in a prison of his own making. A numb cynical shell, blind to all the beauty the world offered around him. His walls of resistance start to crumble, and a flood of consciousness pours forth, cascading through time and space in a torrent of unbridled emotion and insight. Aghast, he becomes acutely aware that he had been holding his life hostage, clinging to arbitrary patterns of thought and behaviour that had squandered so many gifts. Tears stream down his face as childhood memories flood his mind. He vividly feels the warmth and safety of his parents’ unconditional loving embrace as he wonders how the once iridescent beauty of his youth ended up so dim and disfigured.

Like seeing the world for the first time, his eyes open wide to all that had been before him. Drenched in a cold sweat, his terror morphs into fierce seething anger. Not at the airline, the pilot, or George beside him, now barfing in a petite paper bag, but something deeper, something more fundamental, stoked the flames. A deep sense of regret. It is the realization of all the precious time he had squandered, the countless moments he had allowed to slip away, lost forever in the yawning chasm of his detached bitterness. Regret for all the things he had failed to appreciate, all the experiences he had missed out on, all the people he pushed away or was too apathetic to connect with. And then he saw the ceaseless forces of bullshit that had stolen his salience; mindless television, fake news, influencer frauds, political rhetoric, shallow dreams, quick dopamine dumps and the tyrannical sovereign bureaucracies of corruption and lies. He saw his essence crippled and bare.

As he looks around the cabin at the pale, panicking faces, he waits for some answer, some simple truth to emerge from the depths of his consciousness. But there was no great epiphany, no sudden realization that would make sense of his life. Instead, a labyrinth of fragmented memories, each adding to the desolation he felt in the face of life’s finitude.

Looking out the window, as they bounced back through the clouds, the world appeared again, but in a new light. Now hurtling back for one last glimpse of life on earth, he felt a sense of overwhelming insignificance as the sky floats aloof around him, starkly juxtaposing the rocketing speed of descent. He questions if anyone will notice him gone. His mind races beyond his life, through the ages, and into eternity. He accepted his new place as nothing more than dust in the universe. Tomorrow, the world will continue like it had for over five billion years, and he will no longer be a part of it. It all left him with a deep yearning for connection. He now prayed for the stillness he’d been evading all this time.

He takes a deep breath of oxygen and feels his heartbeat decelerate. As he finally feels himself let go into the hands of fate, as if by some miracle, he hears the engines roar to life with renewed power. He feels the aircraft’s trajectory regained, surging forward with renewed determination. The doom of spiralling descent is lifted. The turbulence settles, and he feels the plane level out. They were coasting again.

The speaker’s sound crackles to life. The pilot’s voice is strained this time, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain - I do apologize. As you may have expected, we have been experiencing a technical difficulty; nothing to worry about now. Everything seems to be working properly again and under control. When we arrive at our destination, you will notice several ambulances and fire engines as we land. Please seek assistance if you have sustained any injury during the flight.”

Cheers erupt throughout the cabin, and he feels the people embrace around him. The relief is palpable as if the world’s weight had been lifted from their collective shoulders. But amidst the cheers and celebrations, George’s head remains between his knees, and the stench of vomit still permeates the air, reminding him of how close they had come to death.

As the plane hurtles back through the endless sky, the feeling of grace envelops him, a deep sense of peace and serenity that he had long been gone. It leaves him with a startling clarity and a renewed sense of purpose and meaning. Frantically, he reaches for his pen and notebook, eager to capture the thoughts and ideas pouring out of him with overwhelming intensity. Words and phrases spilt forth from his mind, tumbling onto the page in a dizzying array of inspiration. All the untapped potential imprisoned inside him for those years floods out. As he writes, time falls away, and the remaining hours slip by as he pours himself into his work, his heart and soul laid bare on the page before him. As the plane finally descends, he knows something fundamental has shifted within him; it was like a gift.

The now nonchalant voice from the speaker comes back on, “We will be beginning our descent. In approximately 15 minutes, we will be landing in Toronto, where the weather is a comfortable 15 degrees Celsius. Please ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened and all carry-on items are stowed away. Once again, I apologize for your experience today and hope everyone was unharmed.”

The wheels thud onto solid ground as the plane smoothly touches down and dithers to a stop. A symphony of staccato clinks celebrates liberation as the seatbelts unbuckle. Paul looks out to an army of ambulances, fire trucks and paramedics waiting outside. While he stays patiently seated, the other passengers franticly exit. George, still shaken, nearly pushes them out of his way to escape. Paul sits last, and time slows. Eventually, he exits, taking in the wind of fresh air circulating through the loading bridge. Each breath feels like a thousand smiles beaming in his soul. He steps out of the bridge and is met with a heavenly commotion.

People are bustling around him. Each engaged in their unique, fragile lives. He stands, scanning the crowds, his eyes tracing the contours of each face, searching for something he could not name. And as he looks, he finds himself drawn to the wrinkles and lines etched into the faces of the elderly, each crease telling a story of a life well-lived, joys and sorrows, triumphs and defeats. And in those wrinkles, he saw glimpses of his parents, their faces etched forever in his memory. His eyes meet an infant, wide-eyed and innocent, and he feels something stir within him, a stirring of hope and possibility that he had not felt since he was not much older than the child. In that child’s face, he saw a world of wonder and discovery, endless opportunity and potential. He hears children’s laughter ringing in his ears, and joy fills him with promise. All the while standing idle in awe as the slow, endless conveyor belt of baggage circles around, each carrying the pieces of lives whose journey brought them there, and as each is picked off, he feels lighter. His own baggage finally comes around. He picks it out and walks towards the exit, noticing the gentle stride of his feet and the slow depth of his breath. Sauntering into the crisp night air, his sensations are bombarded, illuminating the embers inside him. He hails a cab. Unable to restrain his longing, he sparks a conversation like an atomic blast.

The driver is puzzled and slightly alarmed by Pauls’s enthusiasm and wide, dilated eyes, thinking he must be high before Paul explains the events that preceded hours before. The cab picks up momentum, and they turn to the driver’s story. Paul gazes outside at the cityscape and watches the city life as it flows alive and connected. They finally pull up to his childhood home. He steps out into the silence of the street. The driver pulls away, leaving Paul with the stillness he had been running from. He looks up into the infinite night sky sprinkled with ancient stars and feels surrender. Paul dances.