Going off on one at a gig

I've not been to many gigs, but seeing My Chem at the O2 in London was one of those unforgettable experiences due to the pain factor involved. Thinking about it brings about an involuntary shudder, but I'm smiling all at the same time. One friend described it as "brutal" and she wasn't wrong because at one point, I thought I was going to die. I was drowning in people and couldn't keep my feet, totally grateful I don't have a panic disorder like my dad does.

The best way of describing it is likening it to being at sea with wave after wave crashing against the shore and my feet being lifted with each wave, ever stronger. I was scared at one point, dripping with sweat, couldn't see anything unless I stood on my toes. All in all a recipe for disaster, but I felt powerful for once. I stank on leaving... I stank of sex because it was orgiastic amongst all those bodies in close proximity. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't actively thinking of sex, but my body was responding to all the pressing bodies and the band on the stage.

I'd been through six months of hell previously with threat of the sack hanging over hubby and the threat of being "homeless" hanging over us. There was no-one for me to fight against and nothing I could make a stand against, so I was stuck for the whole six months in a kind of angry limbo, not knowing whether we had a financial future. I even wrote a huge letter to Gerard telling him about it and how My Chem's lyrics were keeping me going. My friend gave it, and other heartfelt writings from our little group to him at the signing he did at Forbidden Planet.

So, being at the gig and fighting my way through something physically traumatic was incredible. I'm torn between thinking it was horrible and fright-making and thinking it the best thing ever. I always tend to fall down on the "best thing" side because there, I had something real to fight and beat. I could get through the pain by staying afloat despite being 5'2" in my Converse and hardly able to see anything.

I came out with a feeling of "I'm alive!!!" and to hubby's boss, "You're not going to beat me! You're not going to bring me down motherfucker!" (it's a handy word is that!). I narrowly staved off a nervous breakdown over all of that and my mother still wonders how I did it even though I told her straight. I survived that painful time because I had a place to go where I was accepted.

I had a place where I could belong, even if it was just for a few hours. I hated it and loved it and hated it by turn, but the pathetic little loser (outcast amongst the outcasts) had somewhere to go. When a big beefy bloke patted me on the back and said "that was really fucking cool", I thought, "Yes... yes it was."