Catherine Deveney: Flying in the face of fear

SO MANY poignant images in the aftermath of the Madrid air crash: a giant crane lifting a section of wreckage, the plane's livery still visible on the dented remnants; the bruised hand of a corpse protruding from a blanket on the ground; the vapour of smoke rising terribly, silently, like misplaced sea haar from the dry scrubland round Barajas airport.

Worst of all, perhaps, those expressions of horror on relatives' faces, the frozen recognition that life has changed irrevocably: there will simply be no going back. We both empathise with, and turn from, those expressions because they remind us of our own vulnerability. The seeming invincibility of our lives is a shimmering mirage that can end in a twist of metal, a bruised hand clasping scorched earth.

It was news clips of relatives saying tearfully: "They killed them," that highlighted the psychology of 21st-century living in the affluent West. They were understandable words, borne of grief and anguish. If Spanair was shown to be negligent in any way it would deserve the world's wrath. But the plane, it was confirmed, had passed annual safety checks. So perhaps those words were more about the way we trick ourselves into believing we are powerful enough to control the uncontrollable.

In our minds, we sanitise every danger of the modern world, make ourselves rulers of our environment. In other parts of the world, people die of starvation and neglect, of disease and poverty, of flood and earthquake and tsunami. But in our lives, accidents shouldn't happen.

Those of us frightened of flying don't think that way. Generally, I've always felt like a scurrying insect about to be flattened by life's big, black boot – not even maliciously, just randomly. So flying elicits a feral kind of fear. True, it's statistically the safest form of travel. Driving to the airport is the most dangerous part of the journey. But in planes, accidents are usually cataclysmic. I'd rather pass on dying. But if I have to, I do not want to die in the sky, my remains scattered to the winds like insubstantial dandelion chaff.

In my job, I have to fly regularly. I go from one end of the country to the other and cannot afford the time, professionally or domestically, to take several days going by train. For a while, my fear spiralled out of control. Every time the plane thundered down the runway I would be overcome with panic, hands gripping the armrest, sweat glistening on my back.

I listened to each change in engine tone like I was listening to my own car engine, every whine and moan interpreted as impending engine failure. I always thought of my family. Sitting beside me must have been like sitting next to a pressure cooker. Sometimes, I would close my eyes and feel silent tears trickle into my hairline. I did not wipe them in case anyone noticed.

One day, somebody did notice. I got off feeling the usual nausea, my hands shaking slightly like some old drunk awaiting their liquid breakfast. Still, I'd done it, hadn't I? Outside, a stranger ran up and handed me a card. "There's no need to suffer," she said, and disappeared into the crowd. I looked at her retreating back and then down at the card, torn between gratitude, horrified laughter and humiliation. Psychotherapist and hypnotherapist, it said. Psychotherapist! Did she think I was some kind of nut?

I considered it. People – including myself – have irrational fears. Spiders. Snakes. Things that can't hurt them. I've even heard of a plastic button phobia. But being in the sky in a metal box does hold danger. What's the point of trying to rationalise a fear that isn't irrational?

There is something slightly absurd about our attempts to draw our lives on some kind of wipe-clean plastic from which we eradicate all fear and accidents, a world we can always control.

Flying is about surrender, about powerlessness. I knew I had to give in or give up. Reading about people in captivity, I had always been struck by the idea that a person can be imprisoned but not owned, that nobody can ever possess your mind unless you surrender it to them. So I could be controlled by fear, or control it.

I decided I could create whatever person I wanted to be. Sitting on the runway, I told myself that I was a woman who did not mind flying. This woman did not grip the seat; she wasn't frightened. I stuck a book in front of her face and she read the same lines repeatedly as the plane lifted into the sky. It sounds facile. But over a period, mind games helped. I recognised danger, but didn't let it dominate.

Luck played a part. I always choose an aisle seat, hating to be hemmed in. I never look out and pretend I am on a bus. Once, the man at the window next to me spoke. Turned out he was a pilot on this very route. Ray was calm, quietly spoken, controlled. He explained aircraft safety features (after listening to him I think I should avoid some of Eastern Europe), and described how pilots simply laugh at turbulence. Knowledge is useful. So is putting a face to the person you surrender your life to in the cockpit.

Of course, putting a face to the dead in the Madrid air crash also humanises the abstract danger. We can minimise threat. But we cannot eradicate it. It's simply part of the human condition.

I know I will never be on a flight without a moment of panic at take off. The day may come when I simply cannot do it any more and give up. Or go on a course. In the meantime, tension eases when a familiar voice makes the captain's announcement. "It's okay," I tell myself. "Ray's driving."