Remember, Remember the 5th of November
Is there such a thing as oversharing? I don't know, let's find out.
On Sunday 5th November, I went to the Victoria Park fireworks alone. It's one of the biggest firework displays in London, the event attracts around 70,000 people every year. The park is only a five minute walk from my flat and I know it well, so despite expecting a crowd, I felt fairly comfortable going. However, I was in an emotionally vulnerable state beforehand, and became disorientated and upset as I tried to leave. I ended up being forced along in the direction of the crowd, and out of the gate leading towards Hackney, rather than towards Mile End and home. I was on residential streets, surrounded by people on all sides, most of whom were taller than me and as I tried to push to the non-existent edge of the crowd to get out, I was met by pavement barriers. I couldn't see where I was going, all that I knew was that at that moment I had no choice about going there.
I felt my legs starting to give way, I was hugely overheating and hyperventilating, but I pushed into somebody's front garden looking for the space to pass out. The irrational part of my brain thought that I was dying. I lay below the wall, trying to hide from the thousands of people on the other side, and keeping my face and arms as close to the cold ground as I could. A hi-vis person found me - I couldn't tell you if it was a police officer or a security guard - but as they tried to talk to me, I got myself onto the closed road, and ran the mile and a bit home. I packed a bag, and then ran again, only stopping when I'd made it on the first train home that I could find. I haven't yet made it back to London.
What follows is what I wrote at around 21:30 on Sunday evening on the London to Leicester train. I didn't initially intended to post this, it was just an instant form of therapy that went some way to calming me down on the train. I'd been thinking about writing something retrospectively about Sunday night, but this probably says a lot more than anything that I could write now.
This has been edited for spelling mistakes only; swears and badly formed sentences have made the final cut.
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I need to go home, there are too many fucking people here. There are too many people everywhere with pushchairs and moving too quickly and all of them know what they're doing and know who they want to talk to. I need to go back to the shit place where nothing happens because I can keep up with the shit place where nothing happens because there are no mice in the cupboards and I can drive not get on the Tube. I want to sit in Bernadette's kitchen and sit with my dog and stop breathing quickly and keep my legs working and stop missing the first four trains because they're too full.
Good stuff happens here and I want to do good stuff but I can't do good stuff yet because to do the good stuff every day I need to do the shit stuff too and the shit stuff is still too shit.
On Sunday 5th November, I went to the Victoria Park fireworks alone. It's one of the biggest firework displays in London, the event attracts around 70,000 people every year. The park is only a five minute walk from my flat and I know it well, so despite expecting a crowd, I felt fairly comfortable going. However, I was in an emotionally vulnerable state beforehand, and became disorientated and upset as I tried to leave. I ended up being forced along in the direction of the crowd, and out of the gate leading towards Hackney, rather than towards Mile End and home. I was on residential streets, surrounded by people on all sides, most of whom were taller than me and as I tried to push to the non-existent edge of the crowd to get out, I was met by pavement barriers. I couldn't see where I was going, all that I knew was that at that moment I had no choice about going there.
I felt my legs starting to give way, I was hugely overheating and hyperventilating, but I pushed into somebody's front garden looking for the space to pass out. The irrational part of my brain thought that I was dying. I lay below the wall, trying to hide from the thousands of people on the other side, and keeping my face and arms as close to the cold ground as I could. A hi-vis person found me - I couldn't tell you if it was a police officer or a security guard - but as they tried to talk to me, I got myself onto the closed road, and ran the mile and a bit home. I packed a bag, and then ran again, only stopping when I'd made it on the first train home that I could find. I haven't yet made it back to London.
What follows is what I wrote at around 21:30 on Sunday evening on the London to Leicester train. I didn't initially intended to post this, it was just an instant form of therapy that went some way to calming me down on the train. I'd been thinking about writing something retrospectively about Sunday night, but this probably says a lot more than anything that I could write now.
This has been edited for spelling mistakes only; swears and badly formed sentences have made the final cut.
—–———————————————————
I need to go home, there are too many fucking people here. There are too many people everywhere with pushchairs and moving too quickly and all of them know what they're doing and know who they want to talk to. I need to go back to the shit place where nothing happens because I can keep up with the shit place where nothing happens because there are no mice in the cupboards and I can drive not get on the Tube. I want to sit in Bernadette's kitchen and sit with my dog and stop breathing quickly and keep my legs working and stop missing the first four trains because they're too full.
Good stuff happens here and I want to do good stuff but I can't do good stuff yet because to do the good stuff every day I need to do the shit stuff too and the shit stuff is still too shit.
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