Plane Terror

Just to disambiguate that title, for starters: my  terror  is not of planes themselves, nor of flying in them (in fact I love air travel), but of being too late for the flight in the first place - something which has never yet happened despite my several hundred journeys by air over half a century on business or holiday trips.

That hasn't stopped it from being the drama of my worst and most frequent dream/nightmare, and the only thing guaranteed to wake me up in a cold sweat. The scenarios vary but the outcome is always terrifyingly the same. A plane is leaving without me. I was supposed to be on it - and for whatever reason, I'm not.

 

leaving without me...

It's pretty tame fare, I know, compared to people who suffer from life-inhibiting phobias, repeated physical or emotional abuse, political, religious or cultural persecution, financial worries or destitution - but I can only write in 'confessional' mode (as opposed to fiction) about what I know, about my plane terror. 

There's the driving variant. Sometimes I dream that I'm stuck in stationary or slow-moving traffic on a motorway, miles from the airport, no chance of getting there in time. I've witnessed the angst of people arriving too late at check-in because that has happened to them and it's not pleasant. At others I take a wrong turning, get lost, there are no road-signs or directions to the airport, no clue as to where it might be until a plane thunders overhead and I know it's my flight winging away.

There's the forgotten documentation version. In this one I manage to arrive on time at the airport but minus passport and/or tickets for the flight. Again I've seen the distress this causes. "I thought you had the passports." "No, I thought you brought them."  Amazing but true. And unless you're VERY famous (Paul McCartney allegedly was once let through without one), there's nothing to be done but to turn round and go home.

There's the wrong day script. "Mr Rowland your ticket is for a flight that left yesterday" or "Sorry sir, this ticket is valid for tomorrow's flight", the latter less taxing than the former, obviously. From all of my years sitting in departure lounges, I've seen both of these happen at least once.

Finally there's the 'Oh my God is it today?' frightener. This, for some reason, is the most popular. In this dream I wake up late, realise that I should be at the airport imminently but haven't showered, packed, arranged transport or anything. What to do? Scramble to go through the motions of trying to get there on time although I know it's hopeless? Or phone in with some fabricated excuse? I usually wake up for real at this point, in considerable anguish.

...in a version of my nightmare

As I said at the outset, none of these calamities has ever befallen me in the waking world, so I don't know why I dream about them happening so often, even now when I no longer work or (during the Covid years) go abroad on holiday. 

As an amusing aside, I did some online searching for reasons why people dream about missing flights and came across a very helpful website titled Biblical Meaning of Airplanes in Dreams. It dispensed the following words of wisdom: "He showed wasps that people who dream of airplanes have a unique character and live a particular lifestyle." Moreover, "Everyone who dreams of airplanes is on an academic path that will give them the strength to understand themselves and their surroundings better." And "It is well known that if you dream of a plane, it means you are looking for absolute freedom, both mentally and physically. If you do not have enough space in marriage, family or work, the plane will indeed appear to you in a dream." Now that is a terrifying thought! 😆

To conclude, here's a poem from my 'frequent flier' period. I did post it once before in an early blog back in 2014, but most of you will not have read it, or will have forgotten by now. It refers to a time when flights weren't allowed to land at Heathrow before a certain time of day because of noise concerns. I don't know if the rule still applies.

Holding Pattern
We bank, turn left once more,
circling the city,
Weird Summer in my headphones,
weary to the core.
We’ve made good time
on this moonlit night,
riding the curve of earth on a jetstream,
Hollywood to Cricklewood,
and I long to be home,
but we’re just too early to arrive.

We swing to the west,
winging over twinkling grids,
familiar patterns of bosky dark and sodium light,
Wembley stadium, Neasden mosque,
there’s Regents Park and London Zoo,
traffic building up at Hangar Lane,
North Circular already like a clogged up vein.

Down Euston Road, past Centrepoint,
we cross the Thames again
by Vauxhall bridge.
This city never sleeps.
Its avenues and streets, circuses and squares,
malls and mews, benighted thoroughfares
are all exactly where they ought to be,
shadowy but pulsing, a living Gazetteer.

We round the kidney-shaped pond
in the park near where we live -
it shines like mercury in the dark.

At this turning point,
after six thousand miles of flight
I pass mere feet above your heads,
above the beds in which you sleep and dream
and yet it will be several hours still
until I finally reach home,
treading down the dawn to our door.
We bank, turn left once more…

Thanks for reading. I wish you a peaceful week, S ;-)

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Terror

Last week I had dinner at my mum's. After we had finished I called a taxi, and waited on her front step. I waited, and waited. It didn't arrive. Approximately half an hour later I had to call the company back and ask if it was still coming, and after I had hung up I turned around and my mum was smiling at me.

"You wouldn't have done that three years ago," she said. She was right.

Three years ago I would have sat frozen in my seat, wondering where the next emotional blow was coming from. Three years ago he took away my insulin. Three years ago he used to dress and undress me, and tell me what I could or could not eat.

Three years ago we went in the car to buy cigarettes. He had moved me to the middle of nowhere in East Lancashire, surrounded by fields with the only access to transport being the car that I could not drive. Sounds idyllic? It wasn't.

We drove to the Co-op, the roads were thick with at least a foot of snow with ice underneath. He was shouting, I don't recall what I had done wrong that day, perhaps I hadn't put my empty cup in the sink or similar. He shouted so much that the veins in his head started to stand up, and crusty white spittle gathered at the corners of his lips.

We turned out of the car park onto the main road through the village and he took his hands off the wheel and his foot off the brake. I could hear my own screams with a kind of dreamlike quality.

My name is Jessica and I was married to a narcissist. That is what terror looks like for me.

They said I could, but I didn't go. Or I would try but I always went back. The terror reeled me in with a razor sharp fish hook and the hook was embedded in my heart, my brain, my body, and my soul. I loved my husband, but he tried to kill me.

When I moved to Fleetwood, to be close to family, I was a shell. All I did was cry and shake, I don't think I spoke in sentences for a couple of weeks and I said sorry a lot. Maybe too much! I was so scared of everything, and I hated going into shops, cafes, supermarkets...

Healing was a grieving process, and it wasn't linear, I'd bounce from one stage to another with startling frequency, I still do. I still get scared, but I am learning to accept it, rather than fight it.

I think I have rambled enough. Besides, I have to go. I'm off to meet friends for coffee.

Sheepcountwolves

I stood in your lightbox,
You saw every part of me.
The past is passed
What will be,
Will be.

Don’t be scared, love.
We are two desperate sides
Wrapped around our truths, where we hide.

I still have nightmares,
I know you do.
And when they can’t sleep,
Sheep count wolves.

We’re years older, I have lines
On my skin
Still scared of the shadows, and
What they may bring,

BUT this I know,
(Now I’m firmly on the ground)
I'll still be singing
As the world falls down.

Jessica Lyon-Wall

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Not Such A Nice Surprise

Terror definition: extreme fear, dread, horror

And one of the worst feelings in the world.

I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve been terrified in my life. It might not be many, but every time was horrendous, some worse  - and more serious -than others.

The Lost Child Terror

Several times, I’ve lost my children in crowded places - only for seconds - but the terror that accompanies the realisation that you can’t spot your child is a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  I’m sure every parent knows the awful panic that hits you like a blow in the stomach, relief coming instantly that blue bobble hat is seen, or that familiar high pitched voice is heard. 

The Unavailable Meds Terror

A couple of years ago, I spent two weeks in a state of constant abject terror - which sounds like an exaggeration.  It’s not.  The medication I’ve been on for nearly 40 years was suddenly unavailable.  Stopping it abruptly could have caused untold damage, both physically and mentally. The terror I felt, before I finally managed to access a source, was off the scale. Thankfully the problem was resolved and my mood reverted to its usual state of moderate anxiety.

The Horror Film Terror

I used to think I didn’t mind a horror film.  I’ve realised, after practically gouging a hole in my husband’s arm, that I really can’t deal with them.  Any tension whilst waiting for something awful to happen, I find unbearable.  I jump easily so have been known to emit a loud scream at a crucial point in the film - bad enough at home, as I dig my nails into my husband, but worse when we’re in a crowded cinema.  These days, I won’t watch anything mildly scary. Which leads me on to…..

The Shining Game Terror

My husband thinks it’s hilarious to make me jump.  To be honest, it doesn’t take much.  I once returned home, thinking nobody was in, and opened the lounge door to unexpectedly find my teenage son and his friend (who I’d never met) sitting on the floor.  I screamed so loudly and so long that I honestly think my son thought I was going mad.  I don’t know how he explained it to his friend, but I never saw him again (that’s the friend, not the son).  In the past, my husband has turned all the lights off and told me he was going to hide upstairs and jump out on me like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’  I told him, in no uncertain terms that if he did that, it would be the last thing he ever did.  He couldn’t understand my terror.  ‘But you know it’s only me,’ he said, looking puzzled.  It was the anticipation of the jumping out that sent me over the edge of terror. He doesn’t even suggest it now, although I’ve noticed he and the grandchildren seem to love a similar game that half scares them to death.

And finally…..

The Theme Park Ride Terror

I know many people love the adrenaline rush that comes from an extreme theme park ride or from watching a horror film. I’m game for many things but putting myself into a state of terror isn’t one of them. I can have enough terror in my life without seeking it out. Anything that involves climbing into a seat with a metal bar or an industrial type belt in preparation to fly up in the air or career down a steep, winding track is to avoided at all costs. 

Years ago I went to euro Disney with my mum, my children and their cousins. They all knew how much I hated any sort of theme park rides and were quite happy to go off on their own and frighten themselves to death, leaving me to sit quietly with the bags and coats and a nice hot brew.  However….. after a while one of the children came to tell me how much I would love a ride on some monstrosity called Space Mountain.  I assured them I was quite happy sitting drinking coffee. Another child came, then another, until I was pinned to the table by six excited children, desperate to get me on a ride. My daughter assured me it wasn’t scary, in fact, I would like it. I didn’t believe that for one minute, but stupidly I began to weaken. ‘How bad could it be?’ I asked myself. However bad it was, it would be over in seconds, surely? 

I allowed myself to be accompanied, or more accurately, frogmarched, towards Space Mountain, an innocuous-looking structure from the outside.  I began to relax a little.  Inside, in the dim light, still surrounded by my bodyguards, I realised there was quite a queue - and plenty of time to get nervous again.  The first waves of panic hit me as I saw a large sign on the wall, warning that this wasn’t the ride for anybody who was pregnant (no), had a heart condition (no, but I was beginning to feel that I might have a heart attack any minute) or ‘of a nervous disposition’ (yes, YES!)  I think I might have whimpered at that point. My daughter assured me that they only put up those notices to cover themselves. I wasn’t convinced.  The loudspeaker was now reiterating the warning messages.  I needed to turn back but there was a long queue behind us and the entrance was blocked. My daughter took my hand. 

‘You’ll be fine, mum,’ she said, ‘granddad went on it and he’s old. He loved it.’ 

I plodded on towards my fate, heart pumping, stomach churning, mouth dry, fear in my eyes. All classic symptoms of terror. It’s the fight or flight syndrome. I felt unable to do either. 

Eventually we reached the front of the queue and I was half pushed, half lifted into the seat next to my daughter. The whole thing tipped back so that our backs were parallel with the ground and our legs in the air. I gave a little involuntary scream. ‘Mum, it’s fine!’ My daughter hissed, ‘we haven’t started yet!’ 

The lights went out. It was pitch black. I groaned resignedly, and clutched the bar pinning me in.  Without warning, we shot up in the air at the speed of light! I screamed. Very very loudly. Possibly the loudest scream I’d ever emitted. We continued to shoot straight up, my scream accompanying us in one long wail. My daughter sought out my hand and held onto it.  My mind tried to process what was happening. All I could think was, ‘this is worse than childbirth,’ which at the time was probably one of the worst experiences I’d ever endured.  I stopped screaming. This experience was so horrendous it had actually silenced me.  I could hear my daughter’s voice, sounding worried but I couldn’t answer. ‘Mum? MUM??’ 

My eyes were firmly clenched together, as were my teeth. My knuckles must have been white. Every muscle in my body was tensed with terrified anticipation, every nerve screeched ‘abort abort!!’  We continued upwards, my thoughts still on the horrors of childbirth, and how it would be a blessed relief to be in labour right now.  If I remember rightly (I’ve blanked much of it out), we flew in every direction, rising and plummeting, twisting and turning, and all at a speed I could never have contemplated. I honestly thought I was about to suffer a heart attack. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, we began to slow. We came to a halt by a wooden platform, where an assistant raised the bar, grabbed my hand and pulled me out. He looked at me worriedly and asked if I was all right. I still couldn’t speak, but in answer, shook my head. I walked, like a zombie, towards the exit, my daughter running to keep up behind me.  Mum? Mum? Are you ok? Your face is green! Mum?’ 

I turned and stared at her, ‘Don’t you ever - EVER - try and get me on anything like this again.’  I said through gritted teeth. She nodded sheepishly.  ‘That was the worst experience of my life.’  I didn’t mention childbirth - she’d find out for herself one day. 

‘The worst,’ she said quietly, ‘was when you stopped screaming. I honestly thought you were dead.’ 

‘So did I,’ I replied, heading for the nearest cafe. 

This week’s poem is partly based on an incident with my grandson when he was younger.  He’s always had issues and phobias around certain foods.  As he’s got older and I’ve discussed it with him, I’ve realised that he experiences true terror even being in the vicinity of foods with specific textures. So this is for Rio, who is a lot better than he used to be, but still has to leave the room whilst I eat a yogurt. 

 Not Such a Nice Surprise by Jill Reidy

Grandma checks the texture

Pops a plate atop the mould 

In one swift move

Turns the whole lot upside down

Gives a shake  

That sends ripples down her body

Grandchild waiting for the great reveal 

Stands on tiptoe,  

Watches grandma’s fleshy under arms 

Swing back and forth   

He laughs

Anticipation mounts  

Grandma said a nice surprise

She places plate with mould upon the table

stands back 

Smiles at grandchild

And with a flourish

Removes the mould 

Pink blancmange in blurred bunny shape 

sits proudly on the plate 

Still shaking from the exit from it’s casing 

perhaps two seconds pass

Whilst grandma glances back and forth 

‘Tween child’s and bunny’s eyes

She smiles 

Grandchild gives a piercing scream

Runs from the room 

Sobbing loudly 

Mum says later, 

you know he has all these funny things with food? 

All these phobias 

With terrified reactions? 

He’s scared to death - 

Grandma stifles a sigh 

It’s a rabbit 

A pink blancmange rabbit - 

I don’t care what it is, says mum

He’s scared stiff of blancmange 

Or anything that texture

Custard, mayonnaise, yogurt, tomato sauce 

Even, sometimes, ice cream 

Remember that time, in Sainsbury’s? 

Where the yogurt spilt 

All down his trainers 

And I had to take him out? 

Calm him down? 

Grandma rolls her eyes and starts to speak

Mum stops her with a look 

She watches grandma scrape the rabbit

Still quivering, into the bin

It’s ok You can come back now 

She shouts into the hall

It’s safe 

Thanks for reading…….Jill 

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Terror - Ghostly Happenings

 

There’s something scary about looking up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. It started at my great-grandmother’s house when I was a little girl. Nothing happened, I was just spooked and the feeling has always been with me. Our landing light stays on through the night. My bedtime reading can’t be anything jumpy or thought provoking since ‘The Amityville Horror’ years ago – the film was bland compared to the book – such stories, and I enjoy reading them, are good for the afternoon. I accompanied my daughter to see ‘The Woman In Black’ at the cinema. This film absolutely terrifies me. I like the story, but I can’t watch it properly, not even on television at home.

“Tell me when this bit’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking,” I whispered back, face covered with hands.

Recently, the stage play was on at The Grand Theatre. I’m told it’s very good and scary. My daughter asked me to go and I would have done if not for the covid situation, even if I was to spend two hours staring at my knees in the darkness.

One of the pubs our family had on the front was a former hotel, full of empty rooms. Most of these rooms were on the floor above our living accommodation and was out of bounds to me and my friends for safety reasons. On the same floor as us but separate to our flat was a corridor of about six former hotel rooms. Two of them were empty until my paternal grandfather moved in with us for a while and made one a lounge and another his bedroom. My dad used one for a spirit store (drinks, not ghosts), one was a guest room where my other grandparents stayed on their frequent visits and one was Joe’s room. Joe came with the pub. He was a live-in member of staff, of some very senior years, and when not working, kept himself to himself apart from watching the Saturday afternoon horse racing on our television, full volume due to his impaired hearing. Once a week my mother or Kathy who looked after us all, made him his favourite steak and cow-heel pie. He was a lovely man and we were sad when he died. I believe he was ninety, or thereabouts. I would guess it was a couple of years after Joe had passed when someone played a trick and scared the living daylights out of me. At some point, I moved into what used to be Joe’s room. The corridor was always a bit dark, but enough to see my way. One afternoon, as I came out of the room, there was a white, waiter’s coat floating in the air.  I screamed as terror gripped me and my dad came running from the nearby kitchen. It was all supposed to be in good fun. It might even have been Halloween. The jacket was on a wire hanger hooked on to a light-fitting. I recovered, eventually.

For a short time, my father took over The Old Hall at Sandbach and we moved to live there. I mention it by name because it was featured on the TV programme ‘Most Haunted’. We were aware of a ghost. Nothing scary, just a woman in a crinoline dress with her hair piled high. She vanished as soon as she appeared and always in the restaurant at night. She wasn’t mentioned in ‘Most Haunted’ but Derek Acorah and his team found plenty of other paranormal activity that we weren’t aware of or been told about.

When our son was about three years old, he had what we recognised as night terrors. The first time it happened I was terrified. It was the middle of the night and his screaming woke me up suddenly. I was out of bed and in his room in a nano-second, heart pounding. He was sitting up, unaware of me, staring ahead, screaming and crying. I rocked him, calmed him down and settled him back to sleep, somehow, while filled with terror myself. The look of fear in his face unnerved me more than anything, like he could see something I couldn’t. Luckily, there weren’t many episodes.

With all this in mind, I suppose it’s odd that I would happily spend a couple of evenings on ghost hunting tours with my friend. We had a fascinating time at The Grand Theatre in the dark and the talk from the organiser explained things that had happened to both of us at separate times on visits to see productions. When the opportunity to do something similar at the Spanish Hall came up, I was full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, some of it was so scary, the experience was overwhelming fear.

My poem, which features in The Dead Good Poets Haunted Blackpool,

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

An evening in the Spanish Hall
Fun-time promised for one and all.
Exciting times for you and me,
Paranormal activity!
Hopes and desires, all are risen,
Someone’s speaking, we must listen.
“Enter the rooms with open mind,
And be prepared for what you find.”
The semi-darkness of torch-light,
Anticipation of the night;
Wondering what there might be here
To chill us with delight or fear
We heard a strange and weird sound,
Quiet growling from underground.
Distant laughter, joyful patter,
Ghostly party fun and chatter.
Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,
Passing orb gives us a twinkle.
We crept across the ballroom floor
To where we hadn’t been before.
A woman beckoned from her chair.
As we approached, she wasn’t there,
Just vanished, like she’d never been
But we both knew what we had seen.
And later, on the wide stair case
I froze as something touched my face.
I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;
Someone was with me, there’s no doubt
When we sat in the back-stage room
We both smelt dated perfume
Like musky lavender and rose
Stagnant, lingering in repose.
And that mirror! I dared not see
The presence sitting next to me.
I felt their breath upon my cheek
And could not move, too scared to speak!
I must now be most explicit,
Show respect to restless spirits.
Never ridicule, tease or taunt.
It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

PMW 2012
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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