Sobbing on a plane: Mary Gaitskill and mid-air therapy

Over the years, I’ve attended a handful of unconventional therapies. I tend to gravitate towards unorthodox methods for dealing with tumultuous emotions. Rather than speaking to a licensed psychologist (which I’ve tried in the past, only to abandon for various boring reasons), I find myself drawn to dubious crystal healers, puppy yoga sessions, flower oil hand massages, Reiki recalibration, and strange pottery and mountain sound bath retreats.

It’s hard to say whether these practices truly work, as I’m not trying to "fix" myself. I believe that emotions should be embraced with open arms. One should swim in them as if in the ocean, accepting any waves that come—happy or sad, it’s all the same water in the end.

I suspect the real reason I indulge in these sometimes bizarre activities is for the fun, curiosity, and the search for release. Release, to me, is more important than "happiness." I don’t believe one should aim to be happy all the time; I find that notion both impossible and borderline undesirable, as negative feelings also deserve a place in our complexity as human beings.

Release, on the other hand, is essential—it’s the purging of all spiritual toxins from the body. As someone who, not too many years ago, had to look up how to cry on WikiHow, I place immense value on it.

After spending a small fortune on these unconventional treatments, it’s almost comical that one of the most therapeutic moments of my life cost only a basic flight fare and £8 at Daunt Books. It was the day I sobbed uncontrollably on a plane while reading Mary Gaitskill’s brilliant essay, Lost Cat.

I chose it because of its cover design—after all, I am an editorial girl at heart. The beautiful little book struck me with its minimalist white cover and the black-and-white picture of a striped cat. I had to have it.

I was not familiar with her work, so I had no expectations. I thought it would be a good companion for my cheap trip to Dublin, packed with Ryanair clichés: screaming babies and snoring lads in sweatpants. Any annoyance from that flight vanished instantly as I became completely immersed in my reading.

Without giving too much away, Lost Cat is about how Gaitskill rescued a stray cat in Italy and brought him to live with her in the US, where he went missing. As she explores the unexpected trauma of losing Gattino, she describes how she came to foster two siblings who spent summers and holidays in her home. The joys and ultimate difficulties of this relationship examine loss and love in a way I had never encountered before.

Within ten pages, I was already tearing up, and by mid-flight, I was full-on ugly crying in my seat. The flight attendant rushed over, panic on her face, as I tried to explain between sobs that I was reading a really good essay and that all was fine—really, absolutely great, in fact.

By the time we were about to land, I had devoured the book and was probably dehydrated from all the crying. I felt as though there was not one bit of pressure left in my body. As I washed my red, teary face at the airport, I clasped the small book close to my chest in a silent thank-you embrace.

Although I did not fully understand at the time why Lost Cat had such an impact on me, I suspect now it has to do with its beautiful universality—how we have all experienced loss and love, and how sometimes memories or realisations slap you (soft and hard) when you least expect them. It is as if a simple experience becomes an archaeologist’s brush, gently lifting dirt from something precious, buried and ancient.

There is also something special about crying on a plane, travelling through the air, departing one way and arriving at the destination transformed. If you can, I recommend it.