There's Nowhere To Scream In London
Bit dramatic, isn’t it?
Now I don’t often give human personality theories an authoritative soapbox from which to characterise from and I’ve rejected the lure of online Myers Briggs tests many times but as concepts go I am, undeniably, an extrovert. I’m your part infuriating, part social-saving friend who ‘books you in’ for distant dinner dates but will always organise your birthday/leaving/engagement parties. I invite 10+ friends over as a form of rest and relaxation and my average survival rate of a quiet night-in totals at around 1 hour before I admit defeat and reach for an “anyone out?” broadcast message.
That is, obviously, until I was sent kicking and screaming to 2020’s isle of introversion with the rest of you. Some, I imagine, didn’t protest the downtime quite so hard and in some ways I’ve also welcomed the space. But, as time goes on, I’m realising that my need for release in the light of cabin fever is growing with no real obvious outlet to fulfil me. Do you feel it too?
And so I bring you to the title of my third newsletter – ‘There’s Nowhere To Scream In London’. Bit dramatic, isn’t it? But there’s genuine tension sitting within those words. This restlessness is, of course and like everything, heightened by a year of isolation but I’m sure these muted practices have puppeteered us long before: it’s the societal etiquettes that box us into certain behaviours, the distant hangover of the silent generation and our steady yet somewhat slow understanding of the fragile human mind.
I’ve often fantasised about satisfying the itch of out-of-control shouting while waiting in a supermarket queue, walking on Hampstead Heath, smiling in the crux of a work call or sitting at the dinner table. I’ve even found myself daydreaming of receiving bad news so that the sudden release would cross the line over to socially acceptable – that’s a bit messed up, but I think you’ve thought about it too.
I wonder whether it’s an increase in silence, voluntary or involuntary, that triggers it. The need to hear yourself audibly isn’t something I’ve considered as a necessity before, but when the dial is turned down – through working at home alone, or being quieted by a traumatic experience, or as a result of less face-to-face interactions – we feel it.
There’s something refreshing about catching yourself off-guard when unexpectedly laughing out loud, instinctively gasping, squealing with excitement or even hearing a thought accidentally escape the safety of your mind into vocal existence. It’s like checking-in on a friend who you haven’t heard from for a while, except that friend is you and you know exactly how they’re doing: fine thanks, but also desperate for an open space to scream, protest and feel outside of the parameters of public approval.
Maybe this year is one where we’ve become less worried about saving face. With the usual trajectories of career, relationships, home-owning and social-climbing taking an undeniable hit, a universal unity has formed. I know that you’ve been figuratively and literally living in your loungewear and you know I have, too. I know that things have been strange and hard for you, and you know they have been for me. I know that it’s unlikely you’re sad for the year to be ending, and you know I’ll be joining you in that celebration. I know that there’s a part of you that longs to temporarily lose it, and – as of today – you know that I’m definitely and unashamedly feeling the same.
In these small musings, I hope that if nothing else, I’ve provided an opportunity for collective, cathartic purging and an answer to your internal questions of “Is it just me?”. Maybe the next time you’re in a queue, walking in the park, on a work call or sitting at the dinner table, you’ll catch the eye of another and manage to telepathically communicate – “It’s okay, I want to scream too”.