The Not So Great Escape

Standing at London Bridge station, with my backpack filled with little more than my diary, notepad, wallet and a few hair grips rustling around at the bottom, I wanted out. The anxiety in my chest rippling up to the back of my throat. I stand so still and close my eyes whilst the workers and the commuters flit around me, they know where they are going, which is more than I can say for myself.

"Go home" I tell myself. "Just go home girl."

I am not a good decision maker. I mostly try to go with my gut on a lot of things. I knew what I wanted to do, but I worry a lot. My decision was a slight cop out, whichever tube arrived first would determine my route. Northbound taking me to Waterloo and inevitability to my hometown in Somerset, southbound taking me back to my own place  in South East London. At least that way I can call it fate, right? 

I stood there with my eyes still closed and wondered how I had let myself get so caught up. Striving for peace of mind is a funny thing. I try too hard with it all. I throw myself into work, into learning new things, into socialising. Keep busy, don't let life pass you by and all that. I want to be open to every single opportunity humanly possible. I want to inspire people an awful lot. But all I can do is be who I am, and I am always striving to be a better me. 

It is this enormous unnecessary pressure that I have bestowed upon myself that gets the best of me, and suddenly a getaway sounds more and more appealing, to become a renegade in my absence. My heart fell a little when the southbound tube came screeching in to a halt, but it had won, and so true to my word back to Etta street I went. London had me still for a little while. 

I met my sister the next day, we went to the Tate Modern in the heart of London, and sat ourselves down on the floor in an empty corner. We weren't here to take in the art, we didn't come to be tourists. We sat in our empty space and talked, talked until it felt okay again. Sometimes when you exhaust yourself with overthinking, you don't leave any energy to do it anymore, and you end up with a somewhat relieving feeling of nothingness. Numb. You just let yourself be. That's the point when you can pick yourself up and say "fuck this". 

I knew what I needed. With my new found clarity, it was time to make time for myself. My train is booked this time. I'm coming home.