It was a difficult flight home from London, not because I was unhappy to leave, but because I was awake the whole time. Lucky me and the rest of British Airways that I slept the whole trip to London, however, the way back was quite different.
At some point I became aware I was floating in the clouds almost 30K feet above the planet, and then my ill temper set in...thankfully, only temporarily.
I thought of the PA I saw and asked for some benzos for the plane trip. I remembered her fearing that she would "get me started again" on drugs. Well, she may well have got me in real trouble on a 747 over the Atlantic had I not been stronger than I think I am.
My thoughts were reeling for no reason I could figure, but I had to handle the situation. There was no pill to pop or anything to calm my irritation, feeling cloistered in my seat, no where to run or hide. My OCD got a hold of me as I suddenly didn't like that we were all using the same small bathroom. One child across the aisle from me was obviously ill.
He had dark circles under his eyes, and I wondered why in the hell his parents decided to travel with him. I then decided the older man who kept using the bathroom, eying it suspiciously for ten fucking hours, had a prostrate problem--probably a dribbler.
It was all mean spirited my thoughts were, then I managed to settle the mess down.
I watched the sick boy and his family as if I were going to eat them for dinner. Staring at people isn't polite, but I did it anyway. I noted the sick boy's older brother was really hungry, scraping away at airplane food. I decided to give him my dessert. They were likely German, middle class, who were quite average. They were nice enough to simply accept my gesture and the older boy ate the lemon pudding or whatever happily. Then he went to sleep.
There were quite a few French this way around, coming to America. While in London a couple was chosen by the security to step aside and be frisked by a friendly face. I had to stop and watch as I wondered why security chose them as say, opposed to me. lol
To avoid thinking of the PA and her obvious dislike for us open, out and about, bi-polars, I focused on the people of my flight.
The older French couple sitting next to me were nothing but stoic, as they only used the bathroom once during our 10 plus hour long flight. I was holding down the aisle seat, going once an hour on the mark practically, when I would without words, offer them a path out of their seats.
Nope, they would wait.
I didn't sleep but I would dream of food, my food, the type my taste buds get happy about. I've never felt such a deep understanding of the connection of taste and location.
The Brits can keep their food, they can also keep big brother, though the specter of the oppressive government spreads across our American border.
There was a moment on the flight when we had to buckle up due to turbulence and I did not want to put my back pack or laptop up in the compartment. The steward came by and before he could look down below my feet, I made quick eye contact and stopped him from doing a visual sweep. It was easier than arguing.
I watched the clock the whole flight home. It was uncomfortable.
However, I was a proud bi-polar as I also managed my irritation which could have taken off on me causing all sorts of problems I don't even want to speculate about.
Instead of showing my initial discomfort, I switched to helpful and polite.
Oh yeah, I passed the food, gathered the trash, helped someone with his jacket, shared my dessert, directed the sick kid to pick up the things he was dropping, talked to a depressed steward and stewardess, and managed to be a real bitch when I landed and could not find my cousin.
There was hardly any wait into customs, and I was told after stamping my passport, "welcome home."
It struck me that I was home, and I could feel it. My dog, cat and parrot were on the forefront of my mind, my friends, my family, and of course, those irritable taste buds which were sated later at Taco Bell. Fucking I hate Taco Bell but on that day it was awesome.
My cousin was having her own bad day, she's young, in college, working, stressed, and she could not find me as she circled the arrival area. I was there fucking cussing up a storm, sweating in my London attire.
Finally, after a few abrupt phone calls, more swearing, she hailed me to her car. "Fuck you!" I greeted her.
"Shut the fuck up," she replied.
A few rounds of "fuck you" "no fuck you"--some door slamming--finally I'm in the car.
My cousin asks, did you see the English girls watching us with their jaws dropped?
We both laughed, "welcome to America mutherfuckers!"
I guess we couldn't explain to those girls that we were angry at the situation, not each other, and we weren't trying to make anyone frightened, that these sorts of displays are simply family I guess. They will have to process that scene any which way they can.
So, I made it. I'm home.
And now the fun begins...