This approach begins by explaining how anxiety, claustrophobia, and panic are caused when noises, motions—or even the thought of flying—trigger excessive stress hormones. Then, to stop this problem, Captain Bunn takes the reader step-by-step through exercises that permanently and automatically control these feelings. He also explains how flying works, why it is safe, and teaches flyers how to strategically plan their flight, choose the right airlines, meet the captain, and so on.
Through this program, Captain Bunn has helped thousands overcome their fear of flying. Now his book arms readers with the information they need to control their anxiety and fly comfortably. Fear of flying is a distressing condition that can have a devastating effect on your life.
Adrian Goodlove. They spend their whole lives trying to keep their bowels open in the name of the Queen. A losing battle too. Their assholes are permanently plugged. He grinned. I looked at him in utter amazement. Both of us knew I had finally met the real zipless fuck. So I admit my taste in men is questionable.
Plenty more evidence of that will follow. But who can debate taste anyway? And who can convey an infatuation? The smile, the shaggy hair, the smell of pipe tobacco and sweat, the cynical tongue, the beer spilling, the exuberant public farting. The first night I met him, he also grabbed for my ass while discussing new trends in psychotherapy. In general, I seem to like men who can make that quick transition from spirit to matter. Why waste time if the attraction is really there?
And who can explain why the same action disgusts you in one case and thrills you in another? And who can explain the basis for selection? Astrology nuts try. So do psychoanalysts. But their explanations always seem to lack something. As if the essential kernel had been left out. After the infatuation is over, you rationalize.
I once adored a conductor who never bathed, had stringy hair, and was a complete failure at wiping his ass. He always left shit stripes on my sheets. Hairless and he practically never sweats. In a way, that makes my infatuations even less explicable. But Bennett saw patterns in everything. I could tell he was turned on by the way Adrian had pursued me. So was I. Lucky Adrian. Fucked from the front by me, from the rear by Bennett.
The History of the World Through Fucking. The old dance. It would subsume everything. Bennett and I had not always made love to a phantom.
There was a time when we made love to each other. I was twenty-three when I met him and already divorced. He was thirty-one and never married. And the kindest. Or at least I thought he was kind. What do I know about silent people anyway? I come from a family where the decibel count at the dinner table could permanently damage your middle ear. And maybe did.
Bennett and I met at a party in the Village where neither of us knew the hostess. It was very mid-sixties chic. She was all gotten up in designer clothes and gold eye shadow. The place was filled with shrinks and advertising people and social workers and NYU professors who looked like shrinks.
The analysts and advertising men and professors still had short hair and tortoise-shell glasses. They still shaved. The token blacks still pressed their hair. O remembrance of things past! I was there through a friend and so was Bennett. Since my first husband had been psychotic, it seemed quite natural to want to marry a psychiatrist the second time around. As an antidote, say.
I was not going to let the same thing happen to me again. This time I was going to find someone who had the key to the unconscious. So I was hanging out with shrinks. They fascinated me because I assumed they knew everything worth knowing.
When I look back on my not yet thirty-year-old life, I see all my lovers sitting alternately back to back as if in a game of musical chairs. Each one an antidote to the one that went before.
Each one a reaction, an about-face, a rebound. Brian Stollerman my first lover and first husband was very short, inclined to paunchiness, hairy and dark. He was also a human cannonball and a nonstop talker. He was always in motion, always spewing out words of five syllables. Brian gave the impression of never shutting up. This was not quite true, though, because he did stop talking when he slept. But when he finally flipped his cookies as we politely said in my immediate family or showed symptoms of schizo-phrenia as one of his many psychiatrists put it or woke up to the real meaning of his life as he put it or had a nervous breakdown as his Ph.
He stopped sleeping, in fact, and he used to keep me up all night telling me about the Second Coming of Christ and how this time Jesus just might come back as a Jewish medievalist living on Riverside Drive.
Of course we were living on Riverside Drive, and Brian was a spellbinding talker. Nor did he take very kindly to my pointing out that this might be a delusion; he very nearly choked me to death for my contribution to the discussion. After I caught my breath I make it sound simpler than it was for the sake of getting on with the story , he attempted various things like flying through windows and walking on the water in Central Park Lake, and finally he had to be taken forcibly to the psycho ward and subdued with Thorazine, Compazine, Stelazine, and whatever else anyone could think of.
Exit husband numero uno. Enter a strange procession of opposite numbers. Bennett Wing appeared as in a dream. On the wing, you might say. Tall, good-looking, inscrutably Oriental. Long thin fingers, hairless balls, a lovely swivel to his hips when he screwed—at which he seemed to be absolutely indefatigable. But he was also mute and at that point his silence was music to my ears. And he was mercurial, too. Not wings on his heels but wings on his prick.
He soared and glided when he screwed. He made marvelous dipping and corkscrewing motions. I would come and come and come and each orgasm seemed to be made of ice.
Was it different in the beginning? I think so. Right before Bennett, there had been that conductor who loved his baton but never wiped his behind , a Florentine philanderer Alessandro the Gross , an incestuous Arab brother-in-law later, later , a professor of philosophy U. So I had been wounded by music, madness, and miscellaneousness. And silent Bennett was my healer. A physician for my head and a psychoanalyst for my cunt. He fucked and fucked in ear-splitting silence.
He listened. He was a good analyst. And most astonishing of all—he still wanted to marry me after I told him about myself. Such permanence terrified me. Even the first time, with Brian, it had terrified me, and I had married against my better judgment. He was all hung up on Jewish girls. Men like that seem to be my fate.
I was really grateful. At what point had I started pretending Bennett was somebody else? Somewhere around the end of the third year of our marriage. And why? Nobody had been able to tell me that. Reuben: Why does the fucking always become like processed cheese? Have you ever considered seeking professional help?
I transformed B into A. We came—first me, then Bennett—and lay there sweating on the awful hotel bed. Bennett smiled. I was miserable. What a fraud I was! It was as bad as any betrayal I could think of. You are what you dream. You are what you daydream. Because sex is all in the head. Pulse rates and secretions have nothing to do with it.
They teach people how to fuck with their pelvises, not with their heads. I was unfaithful to him at least ten times a week in my thoughts—and at least five of those times I was unfaithful to him while he and I were screwing. Maybe Bennett was pretending I was someone else, too. But so what? That was his problem. And doubtless 99 percent of the people in the world were fucking phantoms.
They probably were. I despised my own deceitfulness and I despised myself. I was already an adulteress, and was only holding off the actual consummation out of cowardice. That made me an adulteress and a coward cowardess?
From the long-range point of view, which we must always consider, procreation is by far the most important, since without procreation there could be no continuation of the race. It may be thought of as a sort of pleasure-prize like a prize that comes with a box of cereal. It is all to the good if the prize is there, but the cereal is valuable and nourishing if it is not.
Stop it! I was terrified that Adrian was going to bounce Bennett to the ground and break his back. I had awakened him. I always talked in my sleep, and he always answered. I got scared.
Normally Bennett would have put his arms around me, but we were in narrow beds on opposite sides of the room and instead he went back to sleep. I was wide awake now and could hear birds making a racket in the garden behind the hotel.
At first they comforted me. Then I remembered that they were German birds and I got depressed. Secretly, I hate traveling. Why had I come back to Europe anyway? My whole life was in pieces. For two years I had lain in bed with Bennett and thought of other men. For two years I had debated whether to get pregnant or strike out on my own and see some more of the world before settling down to anything that permanent. How did people decide to get pregnant, I wondered.
It was such an awesome decision. In a way, it was such an arrogant decision. To undertake responsibility for a new life when you had no way of knowing what it would be like. I assumed that most women got pregnant without thinking about it because if they ever once considered what it really meant, they would surely be overwhelmed with doubt.
I had none of that blind faith in chance which other women seemed to have. I always wanted to be in control of my fate. Pregnancy seemed like a tremendous abdication of control.
Something growing inside you which would eventually usurp your life. I had been compulsively using a diaphragm for so long that pregnancy could never be accidental for me. Even during the two years I took the pill, I never missed a day. Slob that I was about everything else, I had never messed up on that score. What was wrong with me? Was I unnatural? All I could think of was me with my restlessness, with my longings for zipless fucks and strangers on trains—being tied down with a baby.
How could I wish that on a baby? She had studied art in Paris, learned anatomy and cast-drawing, water color and graphics, and even how to grind her own pigments. She had met famous artists and famous writers and famous musicians and famous hangers-on she said. She had danced naked in the Bois de Boulogne she said , sat in Les Deux Magots in a black velvet cloak she said , driven through the streets of Paris on the fenders of Bugattis she said , gone to the Greek islands three and a half decades before Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis she said , and then she had come home, married a Catskill Mountains comedian who was about to make a killing in the tzatzka business, and had had four daughters all of whom received the most poetic names: Gundra Miranda, Isadora Zelda, Lalah Justine, and Chloe Camille.
Was any of that my fault? I had spent my whole life feeling that it was. And maybe I was responsible, in a way. Parents and children are umbili-cally attached and not only in the womb. Mysterious forces bind them. If my generation is going to spend its time denouncing our parents, then maybe we should allow our parents equal time. And for a long time I believed it. There was always, of course, the problem of her own father: an artist too and fanatically jealous of her talent.
She had gone to Paris to escape him, so why did she come back to New York, move in with him, and live with him until she was forty? They shared a studio, and from time to time he painted over her canvases only, of course, when he had no clean canvas. She had become a cubist in Paris and was on her way to developing a style of her own in some contemporary vein, but Papa, for whom painting began and ended with Rembrandt, mocked her until she gave up trying; she just kept getting pregnant.
I say this with the full weight of ambivalence behind it, knowing that then I might never have been born. We grew up in a sprawling fourteen-room apartment on Central Park West. Gold leaf. I imagined a maple leaf which was made of gold. But how did they stick the leaves on the ceiling? Maybe they ground them up and made them into paint? Did they grow on real gold trees? On real gold boughs? Those were also the days when I used to hide Love Without Fear in my dresser drawer—beneath my undershirts.
And meanwhile my father traveled around the world for his tzatzka business and my mother stayed home and had babies and screamed at her mother and father.
My father was designing ice buckets which looked like beer steins and beer steins which looked like ice buckets. He was designing families of ceramic animals chained together with tiny gold chains.
And he was making quite a fortune at it—amazingly enough. We could easily have moved away, but obviously my mother would not or could not. A little gold chain chained my mother to her mother, and me to my mother. All our un-happiness was strung along the same rapidly tarnishing gold chain. Of course my mother had a rationalization for it all—a patriarchal rationalization, the age-old rationalization of women seething with talent and ambition who keep getting knocked up. Either be an artist or have children.
How could I possibly take off my diaphragm and get pregnant? What other women do without half thinking was for me a great and momentous act. It was a denial of my name, my destiny, my mother. My sisters were different. She married a Lebanese physicist at Berkeley, had four sons in California, and then moved her family to Beirut where she proceeded to have five daughters.
Despite the seeming rebelliousness of a nice Jewish girl from Central Park West marrying an A-Rab, she led the most ordinary family life imaginable in Beirut.
Not, of course, that they liked Catholicism that much, but it was better than the other alternative. And meanwhile, they just kept on breeding. Lalah the other middle daughter after me was four years younger and had married a Negro.
Lalah went to Oberlin where she met Robert Goddard, easily the whitest white Negro in the history of the phrase. How he got to a school like Oberlin rather perplexes me, as it perhaps perplexed him.
And I have never had one. Jong goes on to explain that it is 'zipless' because 'when you came together, zippers fell away like rose petals, underwear blew off in one breath like dandelion fluff. For the true ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never got to know the man very well. Fear of Flying was written in the throes of the Sexual Revolution of the s, as associated with second-wave feminism. Finally it was acknowledged that desire and fantasy are a good thing and not entirely condemnable in women, and Jong wanted to harness that newfound respect for desire into a piece of art that brought the intersections of sexual and nonsexual life together, something she felt was missing in literature.
Instead, she sees that book mirrors the lack of pleasure that many young women experience in sexual interactions. She cites the TV show Girls as an example of media that is depicting sexually liberated women but without attention to female pleasure.
Just like Isadora, the women on television and alive today struggle to reconcile the empowerment of sexual freedom with the disempowerment of sex without pleasure. In particular, her Jewish heritage is invoked through her constant awareness of the history of her people and the trials and tribulations that the Jewish people have gone through not only in recent decades but over the course of their long history.
This is a theory that Freud, a frequently referenced figure throughout and raised as a Reform Jew himself , explored in his work to understand the persecution of Jews. Jewishness is constituted by the biological inheritance of an archaic memory that Jewish people are inexorably compelled to transmit to future generations, whether consciously or unconsciously.
She does, however, fit the mold of the Jewish Mother stereotype as a martyr and constantly seeking to guilt her children - she tells Isadora repeatedly throughout her childhood that Isadora is the entire reason that she is not a famous artist, as she had to give up her artistic career when she became a mother and could never return to her former glories or passion.
This places a distance between mother and daughter. Jong has denied that the novel is autobiographical but admits that it has autobiographical elements.
Daou angrily denounced the book, linking its characters to people in her own life and taking her sister to task for taking cruel liberties with them, especially Daou's husband. In the book, Isadora Wing's sister Randy is married to Pierre, who makes a pass at both Wing and her two other sisters. Jong dismissed her sister's claim, saying instead that 'every intelligent family has an insane member'.
Many attempts to adapt this property for Hollywood have been made, starting with Julia Phillips, who fantasized that it would be her debut as a director. The deal fell through and Erica Jong litigated, unsuccessfully. Search for:. If you read it intensively and work through it, you can even gradually reduce your existing fear of flying and even overcome it completely.
This eBook gives them step by step help. It takes away your fear of flying by describing airplanes, their structure and function, explaining something about weather and turbulence and analyzing many of the factors that trigger fear of flying. Now sit back and relax and start a relaxed flight through the world of jets, airs and clouds with this eBook. Ready for Take off? Fasten your Seat belt and off you go! In this new book, Neil Shearing Ph. Having already written two successful books, "Fear of Turbulence" and "Fear of Take-Off", Neil has drawn on his knowledge of anxieties, fears and phobias as well as his Ph.
Firstly, the knowledge that we are only ever afraid of things that are unknown and "potentially dangerous". We don't fear things that are normal and present in our everyday lives. When we make every aspect of flying as normal as our everyday lives, we substantially reduce the anxiety we experience when flying.
To accomplish this, Neil includes comprehensive training on all things flight-related. Secondly, there's a method to turn off the "fear response" which involves you actively using your imagination to release a little-known neuro-transmitter. At any time the neuro-transmitter will stop the fear response and thereby eliminate your flight-related anxiety.
There's also a way to burn off any stress hormones that may still be released and return you back to balance instead of the usual "anxiety escalation" which leaves you totally stressed-out, scared and panicky.
By using the DOCTOR program to reduce your baseline anxiety and the "short circuit" method of preventing stress hormones being released, you'll be better able to cope with flying and may even enjoy it!
After reading this book, you'll be in control of your emotions and will face plane trips with no more anxiety than the pilots! This book teaches how to work constructively with your brain so you can address your anxiety in different ways that truly help you let go of the fear. If you're ready to overcome your fear of flying, then this book is for you!
Flying is a great way to get from point A to point B. It is very safe and time-efficient, but there are still many who have flight anxiety or a fear of flying, or aviophobia. Many of these people respond to this fear by not flying at all, which limits them in various ways. Some of these individuals have had flight anxiety for most of their lives, while others have been flying comfortable for a long time, and suddenly develop this condition due to unexpected factors. Sadly, a lot of people who experience flight anxiety resort to pharmaceutical or alcoholic means just to be able to fly.
While most people who are afraid of flying are most fearful of the plane crashing, others actually suffer from claustrophobia, where being "trapped" in a flying "bus" feels like too much to handle.
There are certain steps that can be taken to completely overcome aviophobia. While the fear might currently be a challenge to for those suffering from it, it doesn't need to continue to be. A stunning success. Does the thought of flying fill you with dread? Do panic attacks leave you feeling scared and vulnerable? If so, this book could change your life. In easy-to-follow sections, you'll learn how to recognise cabin noises, manage turbulence and fly in bad weather conditions. As your knowledge grows, so will your confidence, with the fear of the unknown removed.
The first edition of Flying Without Fear helped thousands of people overcome debilitating aerophobia. Since that time, the experience of flying has changed dramatically. Concerns about terrorism have resulted in heightened airport security and, for many people, a new justification for their fear of flying. Flying Without Fear, Second Edition, offers readers all the tools they need to confront their fear of flying and stop letting it constrict their lives.
Readers will learn how fear affects their body and practice techniques for coping with these physical and mental symptoms of anxiety. Based in cognitive behavioral therapy CBT , this book helps readers prevent fearful responses by preparing them for the sights, sounds, and sensations of airports and airplane travel.
This book teaches how to work constructively with your brain so you can address your anxiety in different ways that truly help you let go of the fear. This is the first authoritative work to examine the psychological determinants and effects associated with the 'fear of flying'. It is an up-to-date and wide-ranging handbook, covering theory, research and practice. The international panel of authors are all experienced researchers and clinicians, and are leaders in their respective fields.
The book is intended for those who work professionally in commercial and military aviation. Those who have a fear of flying themselves will also find the contents of interest. This ground-breaking novel of self-discovery, freedom, and womanhood records the erotic fantasies and outrageous adventures of Isadora Wing who travels constantly in spite of her phobia of flight, accompanied by a new introduction by the author.
Research indicates about 35 of every people develop a fear of flying at some point in their life. Almost everyone knows someone who has it. If you've ever mentioned to others that you aren't comfortable with air travel, you've probably already discovered just how common is the fear of flying.
Fear of flying is a condition that merits proper attention, and which we are increasingly in a better position to deal with, particularly thanks to clinical research.
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