I don't know when it happened or why. It just did. One day I was afraid of flying. No terrified. The fear was there before 9/11, though that definitely didn't help. I can't place a time or an event when my thinking shifted from being okay with flying to being afraid. It tiptoed and overtook me gradually like an afternoon shadow into dark night. It became so life-altering that it impaired—no prevented me from taking a trip anywhere. If I couldn't drive to the destination then I didn't want to there, ever!

A few years ago, at the height of my insanity, I couldn't bear to board a plane to California for a family Disneyland vacation. My dog got sick last minute, necessitating a change in my train reservations. The schedule change meant I would join my family much later than planned. Catching a plane would have made this a non-issue but, even Mickey Mouse wasn't alluring enough to get me to fly the "friendly skies." I elected to drive from Seattle to Anaheim alone. I got as far as Vancouver, Washington, when I turned around to head back home. I didn't make the trip at all. This left me with my dog and two elderly cats for company and a lot of time to think.

The New Year approached, and I recognized anxiety was permeating my life. Fueling this was the fact that my grandmother was urging me to come visit her in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. This equated to a three-day train ride, one way. I won't lie. I considered it. My grandmother wasn't getting any younger and her health wasn't the best. So I decided I needed to address this flying phobia and made a resolution. If an opportunity to fly presented itself, I would — with the help of some medication, of course.

Not even a month later, I was given my chance. My employer asked me to fly to Los Angeles, California. Temporarily made brave by a prescription for Xanax, I boarded the plane. It was a short flight, I reminded myself. My expectations were small considering my past experience. Previously, as soon as I scheduled a flight the craziness would begin. I would begin looking for "signs" of my imminent misfortune. I learned from my family that there are omens everywhere and most people miss them. Superstitions akin to black cats, the number 13 (my mother was born on Friday June 13th and felt she was cursed) and broken mirrors were rooted deep in my Southern-Catholic, Czech family. Symbols were to be respected and taken seriously even if they didn't make sense. Everyday events would become larger than life. A friendly wave to my neighbor triggered the thought "that may be the last time I see old Lee." And the worst of all omens: the Breaking News report of a plane mishap—usually a crash. You know the drill: no reported survivors, and pictures of couples and families, the unfortuante passengers shown over and over on the television.

All the applied nervous rituals plus my sworn abstinence from air travel did not liberate me from the panic that began take on a huge presence in my life so that there was little room for much else. Instead of fending off my flying phobia, I fed it. It virulently spread and morphed into other fears. Driving at night would put me in a panic. I felt I couldn't breathe and was going to have a heart attack. I experienced terrifying bouts of vertigo. Yes, anxiety was taking me on a whole different kind of ride.

Many therapy appointments later, I concluded that I couldn't afford to let worry be in the driver's seat much longer. Ever had a taxi driver get lost while driving you the long way home and have the nerve to charge you for it? I was pissed and resolved to ride the "soda can" three miles above the ground, and hurtle through the air at 300+ miles an hour. I was going to appear calm; chat with those sitting next to me (even if we were all doomed). I would enjoy the flight!

All I remember about the flight was getting on the plane and enjoying a Double Double from my favorite burger place In ‘N' Out Burger when I landed. Other business trips followed including a return trip to Los Angeles and Austin, Texas. Later, I traveled to Maui for vacation and yes, even to my grandmother's.

In fact I wound up flying well over 20,000 miles. My last trip to Las Vegas was completed without the aid of prescription drugs. Drugs were no longer the crutch they had been in the past—although I had some handy just in case.

I flew to Mississippi again in January; unfortunately, this time it was for my grandmother's funeral. I was so glad that I had seen her in June just seven months before her passing. This time, instead of flying into New Orleans, I opted to fly into Gulfport, Mississippi, on a smaller business jet. (The aisle to my left had only one seat!) I was amazed at how far I had come from last year's Disneyland fiasco. I wish my grandmother were here to see this!