manchester

50-17 – Manchester

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​I thought I was just afraid to fly. I thought I was really afraid to fly. I had a talisman to hold onto from my friend, a bottle of Xanax from my doctor, and even then I wasn’t sure if I’d get on the plane or not. I’m wasn’t worried (and still not for the most part) about the plane crash landing, but the enclosed spaces get me. I want an aisle seat every time, and that doesn’t really help. It gives the illusion that I have an escape route.

Psychology. It’s mind-boggling.

I didn’t find out until about three years later, but that fear of flying wasn’t a fear – it was anxiety in the form of disorder. It was diagnosed when I was diagnosed with depression, but at the time of this transatlantic holiday, I thought I was afraid to fly.

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Manchester

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Manchester. Last day. The only day it really rained. The hostel is nice enough, but it’s upstairs – third floor – no elevator.

No elevator equals no suitcase; at least as far as I’m concerned. It’s been misty all week, so I left my umbrella in the rental. Of course.

It’s still misting, so it’s not too bad. I have to walk about two blocks to find something for dinner. Piccadilly’s just down there I’m told. Not the circus – that’s in London, but right around the uni.

It’s getting dark and with it comes the rain. It is cold and wet. The kind of wet that soaks through your clothes, through your skin – I imagine my bones rusting. They’re already creaking. I am clearly a tourist. No umbrella.

Little do they know, I always have an umbrella. Just not here.

I wander down the street, the rain slapping me in the face – the hood on my shirt up covering my hair. That’s just for show, though. It’s a jersey knit and I think it’s wetter than the puddles I sidestep.

I slide into a Tesco grabbing a soda and a snack for later – once I’m “home” I can’t go back out. One more night. Had it still been Wales, I wouldn’t want to leave, but Manchester.

Fuck. I hate Manchester. The driving. The roundabouts. The Ring Road. The Ring. The fucking ring. It is a cunting nightmare. That’s no exaggeration. Round and round and round and NO! Dammit! I do not want to go to fucking Leeds! Manchester. MANCHESTER!

I stop a van for hire. Can you get me to Newton St?

Nah. I can get there, but I can’t tell you how.

I burst into tears and I suppress the urge to grab this stranger and cling to him. I half reach out my hand, but stop, wiping away a tear.

He inhales and points to his van. Follow me. I’ll show you where to turn. Thank G-d. Thank you, thank you. I breathe in relief and gratitude that can never be truly expressed. The feeling of holding onto the log or driftwood and then seeing the rescue boat.

It still took two hours because of all the one way streets.

I will never go back there. Never.

At least, I will never drive there again.

I hate Manchester.