I've thought I was over the plane crash for /years/ now. After all, I still fly, right? I don't freak out on the plane or grip the armrests until my knuckles are white or even get airsick. I don't sit in the airport with a sense of dread, nothing like that. But I always get sick and feel like I want to cancel and stay home to recover. It's not just a travel thing, because I don't get that way before going somewhere on a road-trip or a train, but airplanes prompt it.
I guess, at some much deeper level, I've never quite forgiven airplanes for that one crash I was in. I mean, yeah, we survived (people do on most minor crashes, like when an airplane crashes on takeoff like we did or when they overshoot the runway on landing and ditch into water or whatever), and I immediately got back on a different plane for an eleven-hour flight, so I figured I was over it. I was twelve, old enough to be mature so got no lasting scars, right? No fear, rawr! I mean, yah, I don't /like/ flying in jets (ironically, little Cessna-type planes don't bother me in the least, maybe because I can see what the pilot is doing) but I don't seem to have any travel problems.
...but I'm starting to realize, on some level I don't even admit they still terrify me. And so I make myself sick almost subconsciously, trying to get out of going on one of those damned metal deathtraps. Bleah.
Well, Austin, here I come tomorrow.