A flying fear.

flight flying plane air travel
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‘You nervous dear?’

Sat next to Rio was an American lady. She looked to be in her 70’s, but her exact age had been externally distored by a Beverly Hills surgeon. Whereas her neck was shrivelled like a prune, her face was perfectly smooth, looking like it was being stretched by a thousand Lilliputians.

I’d never get plastic surgery, sod that.

The woman was elegant, her attire more suited to a first-class, rather than economy passenger.

Why can’t I be in first-class?

Her sleek, well fitted, black suit he guessed to be Chanel, and the womans shiny Rolex was certainly not one you’d pick up in Thai flea market.

Underneath her perfume was a hint of lemon sherbet. The sweet, sickly aroma reminded him of his beloved grandmother. How he wished to tell her that he was sorry.

‘Don’t worry, everybody’s got a little fear of flying.’ Her accent was like that of Dolly Parton, he half expected her to finish the sentence by shouting, ‘Yee harr,’ before slapping her thigh.

‘It certainly is.’

I hope she doesn’t talk the whole journey.

‘My granddaughter Taylor gets into a terrible state everytime she travels on a plane. You sure you’re ok sugar?’

The old lady was mistaken, his anguish had nothing to do with flying, it was owned by something far more sinister.

She placed a hand onto his arm, it was clammy.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied.

He was anything but fine. His whole existence was about to be twisted into the realms of no return. The brakes of life had been cut, he was now hurtling towards a wall at 100 miles per hour.

He turned his head, stared out of the window and began to cry.

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Detox Diary – No man’s land

It’s 5am and I’m trapped in no man’s land. It’s spikey, uninviting and painful.  My very essence has been torn to shreds like a Siamese twin sliced apart from its soulmate. Comfort has left me for someone who cares. I’d like to cut off my arms, morph into the statue of Aphrodite and never embrace another soul.

An African nurse with a soothing voice asks if I would like her to pray for me. The concerned frown upon her round face reminds me of a Parisian clown. She gently places a hand upon my shoulder then kneels beside me and recites the lord’s prayer. My mind struggles to accept her words. They sound distorted, like they’re coming from the mouth of Charlie Brown’s teacher.

My world churns eternal regret. I inhale every rancid odour in the room like a bloodhound trailing deer. My tears are sincere but too late. I’m about to be exposed for what I am. A vulnerable, scared, little boy who knows nothing.

My bones creak like an old man playing his last game of backgammon.  I don’t know if I can do this.  I look up, on the wall and spot the serenity prayer,

‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to accept the difference’.

Detox diary 2

 10th December 2015

Fear of detox lingers around like stale, second hand smoke. The change of environment on top of opiate withdrawal has confused my equilibrium ,making it quirky, like a goose that flies north for the winter.

 

I suspect what will come flying at me. A million regrets too strong to halt, my passage of time stuck in purgatory, lost in a game that I no longer wish to play. But as the Japanese writer

Haruki Murakami once said,

 

‘Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.’

 

I shall chant this mantra as my body sweats and screams. Preparing myself for when the life blood returns and I once more experiencing the intensity of myself.

I’m here to claim back my soul, give myself choices, take back my potential. I will slowly stomp through the storm with my head held high. Concentrate on the holy mission of recovery jihad and fight a good fight.