Dear Man in Seat 28D

;

If there’s only one thing I want you to take away from “Dear Man in Seat 28D” it’s this;

RUN TOWARDS YOUR PAIN.

I want us to run towards our pain so we stop our suffering.

Because when you don’t face it two things happen.

1. You suffer.

2. You hot potato your pain onto someone else.

I don’t believe avoiding pain is possible.

I believe in its purpose and power — for both healing and progress.

But I believe suffering is different. Suffering happens when we don’t face our pain.

It takes feeling the hurt to heal.

Me? I’m beyond okay. This though? Was not okay.

Someone other than me might not have been okay.
Someone other than him might have wanted more than he did.
I’ve heard stories of both.

And because of that, I wrote this.

It’s time, humans.

RUN TOWARDS YOUR PAIN.

As always, my inbox is open. Just like I (try to keep) my brain and heart.

Dear Man in Seat 28D,

I chose seat 28F because 28 is the day of the month I was born and F because I love looking out the window and not being disturbed.

There was a gap between us which meant you put your bag under the middle seat while I was content to put my bag under my own so I could rest with my feet on it, shoes off, and sleep on a quick overnight flight.

When I closed my eyes to sleep with my jacket as a blanket I heard you open your duty free 26er of vodka and pour yourself glass after empty glass with the plastic one the flight attendants gave you for orange juice.

I must’ve dozed off. But when I awoke you had moved over into the gap to occupy seat 28E, upright and looking at me.

I knew I wasn’t going to go back to sleep for the rest of the flight.

You talked to me, sharing stories. You wanted to share your blanket with me but I was already hot, and growing hotter.

Even though I didn’t understand all your slurred words I picked up on your loneliness, listened to the sadness behind your held back tears, and in the silences could hear the thinking that drove you to drinking.

I could tell you may have satisfied your thirst but you were starving for love.

When you firmly grasped my left hand in your right, I felt your calluses against my small hand and wished I could smooth the solitude you felt. A part of me, conditioned, was afraid to say no — not knowing what could happen, what might escalate in a small, contained space flying above the Atlantic ocean. The grip of your hand squeezed my stomach and it took a couple of seconds to realize I was holding my breath.

I used my right hand to pull my left hand from your tight fingers.

I said, “No thank you. I don’t think I’m comfortable.”

You didn’t hear me.

“I’m not comfortable,” I stated clearly. The truth clearly out of my mouth said by my body before my mind knew it.

I can no longer ease your discomfort at the sacrifice of my own.

You looked at me in such a way that I felt bad. *I* felt bad. As though I should apologize for my body being my own and not taking responsibility for your feelings.

You assumed with an upturned statement as though it was a question, “You have a lover at home?”

An assumption that my no to your hand grab could only be because I, and my body, belonged to another man. You could squeeze my hand easily but couldn’t grasp that I could be travelling alone, my body being my own, sovereign as my own being.

The flight attendant came by and with the quick eyes of a fellow woman she knew and in turn, asked if I knew him. I said no, firmly. She, strong she, said to return to your seat, sir. You obliged.

I tried to pretend to be asleep, but was only alert.

I remember how in one of my first sessions with my therapist two years ago she observed how I didn’t like to have my eyes closed. I didn’t want to miss anything, I said. But really, the truth was that only with select few I let myself close my eyes, let my guard down. I used to not feel safe enough to let go.

I once again found that I didn’t like to have my eyes closed on that plane because of you, Man in Seat 28F.

You would scoot over, try again. And I tried to talk to you instead, maintaining distance and detachment. You tried holding my hand, you tried pushing your head against my shoulder. And I tried to say no in such a way you would hear.

The flight attendant came by to say, once again, “Back to your seat, sir.”

I checked to see how much longer the flight was, counting down the minutes until the wheels touched down and I could put my alertness down.

I don’t know how many times this repeated. but then you held my hand so tightly and brought the back of my hand to your lips and kissed it. A movement that normally makes me crumble, made me cringe before I realized what was happening.

I took my hand back and tried to hide the fact that I wiped it off — not wanting to hurt your feelings, knowing how much pain you were already in.

Back to your seat, Man in Seat 28D.

32 min left.

As you got up to slide over again, the man in the aisle across stopped you.

I was worried about it turning into “something”. I didn’t want a fight, it wasn’t that bad, he was harmless, “I was fine — really!”, all the while simply willing the plane to go faster.

You abated and there was silence.

And I hoped that it was enough; another man, if not me, saying to stop and it wasn’t okay. But as you got up to slide next to me once again, the man behind you put his arm between you and me to stop you from moving over.

Before I knew it, the Man in Seat 29D behind you climbed over you to sit next to me, between you and I.

I introduced myself quickly with apologetic eyes and he said his name, “Stefan.”

You tried to reason with him, then provoke him. Stefan was present, grounded, and sure.

“I’m not going to punch you. I don’t do violence,” he said to your testing.

Stefan turned to me and we talked. I liked him instantly. Easygoing, quick-witted, confident.

You finally fell asleep, Man in Seat 28D. And I learned about Stefan from Germany, his year in Canada with his fiancé who was sitting behind us, and how he meditates and does math. We connected, he got it.

You didn’t understand while everyone else on the plane did. It was clear, but you weren’t coherent. I set my boundary firmly, the flight attendant established the same, the man in the aisle across then tried to communicate to you, but it took Stefan with his physical presence for you to stop.

When we landed Stefan helped you pack up your bag, bottle of vodka included, and you put the airplane blanket in with it.

You stumbled off the plane without a second thought or backwards glance at me — and I hate that that was the only part that hurt. And then I left with what I boarded the plane with and made my way to the bathroom to wash my hands, face, and brush my teeth.

Stefan and the man across the aisle are the humans I choose to remember and men I believe in even though you shoved yourself continually beside me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

Me? I’m beyond okay. This though? Was not okay.

Someone other than me might not have been okay.

Someone other than you might have wanted more than you did.

I’ve heard stories of both.

And because of that, I wrote this.

And if you read this… I don’t want your “I’m so sorry”, I don’t want your sympathy, I don’t want any pity. I am full, I am more than fine.

(So don’t you dare comment with a heart emoji.)

But I don’t know if you will be fine, Man in Seat 28D. I know you hurt and I don’t know how long you will run from the pain and how many others you will leave in your wake. I know all you want to do is love and be loved, we all do, and it’s possible for you.

I share for this reason and this reason alone — I have only one ask of you…

RUN TOWARDS YOUR PAIN.

I want us to run towards our pain so we stop our suffering.

Because when you don’t face it two things happen.