Fatigue: A Cabin Crew old companion

I didn’t realise I was permanently fatigued until a fellow cabin crew who recognised the signs pointed it out to me somewhere across the Atlantic, during a harmless chat in the back galley at 4am: “Any plans for your days off?” Someone asked.  “To sleep.” I replied, as matter of fact, without not even a hint of irony. Then I added: “Lately I don’t seem to be able to do anything else but sleeping or staying in bed. This and feeling sorry for myself, for months at time. Even deciding what to buy for lunch, or if I should go to the supermarket at all, can throw me into a state of panic!”

I guess, over the years, I had grown so used to feeling a little more tired on every flight over a long period, that I missed the tipping point altogether. As result, sometimes during my fifth year of operating a long-haul, full-time roster as flight attendant, I went from practicing sports, planning my holidays and living life to its fullest to a moody, social recluse who had no interest in life and whose only priority was to rest and try to keep mentally alert. 

At my worst, I remember being down-route, waiting for the ‘wake-up call’ in my hotel room, sitting in bed in silence, petrified at the idea of having to wear my uniform and face the flight back home. By now, I was also using my annual leave to stay home and rest.

Sounds familiar? Please read on.

Most people experience different degrees of fatigue after landing back home from a transatlantic flight. Symptoms can go from light vertigo and a feeling of being spaced out to the inability to concentrate. This can lead to a confuse state of mind, where retaining any information becomes impossible. Some people become very forgetful and distracted, others are unable to articulate their thoughts. You may feel so exhausted that you may not even be able to drive back home, or worse still, you may fall asleep while driving. 

You may also feel emotionally drained, or extremely emotional in a way that anything could reduce you to tears. Above all, you may feel empty and generally unable to function and deal with everyday chores.

A good night’s sleep should be able to help you go back to your normal self. However, as the time goes by, especially if you are employed full-time, these side effects can become more severe or drag on until your next shift, becoming latently permanent. This is the time when fatigue starts to affect your personal life, firstly physically, and then mentally, in a domino effect able to knock down your whole self. Luckily, your employer can help you get better.

The first step to regain control of your life is to ask for a referral for Occupational Health. You can simply email your coordinator, who would sort this out for you. Some can find this daunting. It doesn’t have to be. You are not in trouble. What you need is help.

REMEMBER: no one can help you unless you talk about it and make the right people aware of your struggle.

Besides your need to have a meeting with OH, you don’t have to explain at this stage the reasons for your referral.

Understand that OH is an independent body, hired by your employer to give a factual and independent assessment. They are NOT there to catch you out. They are not there to judge you either. They are there to make sure you are ok and, if needs be, to take care of you and put you back on the path of recovery.

On the day of the assessment be candid about how you are doing. BE GENUINE. Tell them exactly how you feel and what you do, day in, day out. Ask yourself how the physical side of what you are experiencing is affecting your mental health and discuss this too. Honesty is key to this process, which is why you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to discuss things in detail.

Above all, embrace the whole process, because once you’ve talked about it with the right people you won’t feel alone and helpless anymore.

Right after the meeting, your assessor will write a factual report and a recommendation based on the findings. This will be done in front of you and then emailed jointly to yourself and your manager. Your manager will contact you in due course to arrange a meeting, preferably in person, and to discuss a course of action based on the recommendation given.

Almost three years ago, I admitted to myself that I wasn’t ok, I took actions and spoke about it. In hindsight, I now cherish the day I acknowledged and accepted that there is no shame in being vulnerable and in seeking help. If I hadn’t done so, I dread to think where I’d be by now. It takes guts to be honest about how we truly feel. 

Therefore, TAKE PRIDE in doing so. My advice is to never forget who you are; to love, respect and be kind to yourself in a way that will allow you not to lose sight of how relevant you truly are to the people who care for you. Above all, cut yourself some slack. After all, you can save lives, and that’s the simple, factual truth!

Mario Forgione


PS: Whilst the procedures described in this piece are pertinent to my employer, I believe that any airline operating a long-haul schedule has in place a similar point of contacts and structure.

A matter of chemistry. A chemsex snapshot.

“I wish I was able to say no”, he muttered, while he hesitantly handed his pipe to me, the moment I said I wasn’t in the mood for drugs and that I had no desire to get high. I only wanted to meet him in person to establish if the connection we had was only virtual, or could translate into the real world. After all, we had been talking on and off for days and we appeared to have things in common. Meeting up was the natural thing to do.

Unconvinced, he looked at me with a lone sadness in his eyes that I couldn’t quite define. Then, he lit up again. We were in my living room, sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. I stared at the pipe, held in mid-air just a metre away from me. There I was, not for the first time, taking another alchemy’s class that I hadn’t signed up for. The chemistry of fire has always fascinated me. In fact, fire is something I have played with all my life, as my many scars would prove. I saw the smoke developing from a crystallised rock the moment the flame from his ‘crème brùlèe’ torch hit the glass, transforming its contents. I stared at the oily, white smoke, a fog for the senses, circling and speeding erratically inside the confined space of the pipe, the promise of oblivion so close I could taste it.

Years ago, I would have given in. A few days off ahead to recover, coupled with ‘that’ feeling of loneliness that I associate with the winter season and the idea of cozy nights in with someone special, who always seems to desert me. That would be too much to resist. These are powerful ingredients, able to brew a perfect storm and the days of stillness and misery that always follow a chemical high. 

Thankfully, these days I have acquired the ability to break down the whole, tempting picture into single individual frames and see them for what they truly are, a cover for self-loathing, a denial of my weakness and needs as a human being. I want company, therefore I compromise everything to get it or at least, I used to.

Now, I simply breathe in, deeply, allowing the oxygen to clear my head as the moment passes: detachment is a powerful instrument when used accordingly.

Marcelo stood by my side, facing me, his pipe loaded with smoke, still gesturing and offering with increased urgency. He was aware the drug would escape the pipe and dissolve in seconds. “No thanks. I am good as I am,” I said, without moving a muscle. Then I saw him take a deep inhale as he cleared the pipe of its contents. 

As his high kicked in and his inhibitions left the room, he offered me some GHB, in case I only had a problem with smoking Crystal Meth. I declined, for the third time: “I don’t think this is going to work; the sex or whatever we were both hoping for. We can talk for a little if you like, but then I will need you to go. I’d rather have dinner and an early night. You are probably not hungry, which is a shame. I can cook.”

Then I smiled. I looked outside the window, as the night was closing in, wondering if my Latino dream, morphed into a sad nightmare, was going to waste his high on me. We spoke a little. As it turned out, he had spent the night before with a MATE, which in ‘gay-land high’ means he hooked up with someone he’d never met before, someone whose name he couldn’t remember. He had moved from place to place for the last three days, until he finally landed in my living room, where he was hoping to ‘self-medicate’ some more with me. The longer he sat in close proximity to me, the more I could smell his chemical sweat. He was beautiful and lost, in an indefensible kind of way.

As I looked at him, I remembered the words of someone I know, someone who doesn’t believe that the gay community has a problem with drugs and chemsex. “It’s only a very small percentage of people who can’t handle it, spoiling it for ALL the others, who simply enjoy getting high over the weekend. It’s the gay media who is creating the hype,” he told me then, with contempt of the ones who can’t handle it.

I wished he was here now. Here it was, his alleged living ‘spoiler’. A human being; someone’s son, brother, friend or lover. Are we so jaded with ourselves that we don’t care anymore?

“I was able to control things, now not so much. I am always late for work,” Marcelo informed me, while standing up and reaching for his coat. As I led him to the door, I suggested that perhaps he should consider seeking help, if he was ready to admit he needed help, of course: “Go to 56 Dean Street in Soho. They won’t judge you, they won’t turn you away, and they won’t report you, regardless of your immigration status and personal circumstances.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said, as he walked out of my flat. Then, he disappeared down the stairs, in hyperactive speed. By the time he had made it down and out into the street, he was on Grindr again.