Unbuckling the Imaginary Seatbelt

“Do people die on these rides?” I ask my sister Presley, and she smiles, unsurprised. We’re standing in line for Space Mountain and I crack my knuckles over and over again as I watch people exit the ride looking for this? Better yet, why have I paid for should refrain from voluntarily waiting in line for a mechanical death trap, but what can I say—it’s Disney World. I try to take a deep breath and count to four. Doesn’t work— never does. My heart keeps a fast pace as I watch a young kid start off the ride with his hands already above his head. Bold move. The woman working the ride is dressed as some sort of space cadet, and she gives us instructions as we move closer to the front of the line, which seem useless to me. Your turn is almost next. Keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle in case they get chopped off during the ride, and oh, watch your step as you exit and try not to vomit. I look around the room, which is full of people snaked around the metal railings that divide up the line we’re waiting in. My friend notices “There’s a strap to keep you safe.” Jill says to comfort me. “You’re not gonna fall out and die. And look at all the little kids going on.” I glare at any child under the age of seven for their bravery, although I pride myself after remembering that they probably don’t even know the danger they’re in line for. What ignorance. slamming his hand down on my shoulder, secretly excited to watch me squirm. I bob my head around trying to see what sort of strap they’re talking about, and I’m disappointed when I see a skinny little silver rod that the employees push down over the those things will work? Sure they test it, but how do they know something isn’t going to malfunction and the whole machine isn’t children wearing fake Mickey Mouse ears and holding lightsabers aren’t going to slip right out of their chairs and plummet to their death at the bottom of the ride? Wouldn’t that make for a disappointing trip to the happiest place on earth? A bead of sweat traces its way from my underarm down to my wrist, and I slide my forearm against my top to dry it off. My sister watches over my shoulder as I open Safari on my phone and begin typing into the search bar: Disney World in Florida lawsuits death on roller coasters. Enter. Nothing here— must be lawyers covering this stuff up. I begin to try again, this time substituting the word death for lost limbs when Prelsey looks at me, laughing sympathetically, bringing to my attention that most people in line aren’t worrying about the same things I am. “Carly, you can’t be afraid of dying on a roller coaster,” she says to me. “You could die in a car crash tomorrow or slip and fall and crack your skull open. You can’t worry about those things.” At this point I have surpassed the roller coaster, and I start frantically planning a way to make our way out of Magic Kingdom and back to the hotel with our skulls intact. Nevertheless, here I am, in line for a ride where I’m either going to fall out of the little fake rocketship cart, vomit everywhere, or, best case scenario, scream as if I’m being straight. Sounds lovely—I hope the line moves fast.

I know it would probably make more sense to avoid the torture and stop going to amusement parks altogether, or at least sit

the rides out, hold everyone’s bags, and meet them in the gift shop. But by that logic, I would also have to avoid driving on the highway, traveling on airplanes, and being in any public space where a germ could latch on to me. I could, I guess technically, live my life without ever straying from the comfort of my home and not have to face the crack in my driveway that is just waiting to break my ankle, but even then, Iiving a lonesome life could drive me to binge eat, clog my arteries and develop heart disease. I guess I could stay away from sodium and saturated fats, but I do love french fries, and I have to admit, I really do love Disney World. I slide my clammy hands down the railing as I make Jill and Presley give me the details of what the inside of the ride looks like for the 4th time. “Exactly how many drops are there?” I ask, which they laugh at, so I keep my mouth shut and do my best to swallow the vomit building up in my throat. I look over at my mom, who is also apprehensive about going on. I think about asking her to ditch with me, chicken out, do the walk of shame back through the line, and grab a pretzel, but decide against it because I want her to enjoy herself. But what if she hates the ride, or what if she screams so much she loses her oxygen supply and faints while we’re in there? What if her limp body just swings around and the twists and turns of the ride break her neck? Is that even physically possible? I’ll google it later. I tell myself to stop doing the worrying thing, but what about my dad? He’s afraid of rides, but goes on anyways rather than admitting to his lifelong fear of heights. What if the ride catches him so off-guard that he goes into cardiac arrest? I think he has high cholesterol and I’m not sure if he takes medication for it. I saw him take two aspirin this morning, and I think he takes too many of those, what if his stomach starts bleeding? Or what if he dies on the ride and his last moments were spent in fear on this stupid fake space ride? The poor guy probably thought this was going to be a relaxing vacation, and this

godforsaken park doesn’t even sell alcohol, although maybe that’s a good thing because drinking too much beer can lead do—okay, now I’m getting carried away. Do I sound irrational? Maybe, but then again, the people in these lines are waiting for hours just to purposely get jerked around in a mechanical cart and raise their adrenaline levels all for fun, and they say I’m crazy? I do have to admit though, it amuses me when people call me the c-word, because they don’t even know the half of it. Besides, these types of thoughts aren’t so unusual for me. According to my relentless Google searches, I have been self-diagnosed with agoraphobia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and on some days, schizophrenia, which I show no signs of. The licensed psychologist I talk to, however, would probably prefer to call it generalized anxiety disorder. I usually believe her, mostly because my method of diagnosis would also leave me with a brain tumor, three different types of cancer, and about 6 weeks to live. “You need to enjoy your life. Stop worrying about every bad thing happening. Just live day by day.” My mom has said these words to me a million times in my life. She calls me the “worrier,” since I stand out amongst my siblings as the one with the inability to choose a middle seat, because the front seats feel like they’re going the fastest and the back seats could dismember and fall off of the rest of the cart and drop into the vortex that is the bottom of the ride. Okay, so maybe that can’t happen, but the middle seat just feels the safest. The ride begins and I don’t scream because there’s no air. I keep an eye on my parents, and I even crack a smile when I hear my sister laughing. I’m on for dear life, and try my best to enjoy the ride, loops and all.

By Carly Silva Carly Silva is an undergraduate student studying writing and communications in Boston, MA. She has never before had her work published, but she is excited about the opportunity for others to read her work.

one who can’t jump on an airplane without listening to the safety brief at the beginning note of the barf bag. Maybe also because I buy bottles of immune boosting gummies in bulk, and I obsessively do jigsaw puzzles to lower my chances of degenerative brain disorders. But still, I listen to her, and I live a happy and functional life. I laugh, I marvel at sunsets, I eat my favorite foods, I watch reruns of Gilmore Girls to take my mind off of the impending doom of the world around me, and I usually don’t go on roller coasters. Most days, that is. When we get to the front of the line, it’s our