𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐮𝐲 ➺ 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓎 & 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃

34. Stains and Manual Labour

The tears subsided later on into the day, after Brian left. I had no choice but to suppress my disappointment and the creeping onset of depression that threatened to consume my mind. At that moment, Brian and his presence were the only things that kept me grounded. It may sound regressive, I was fully aware of that, but I trusted that feminism could understand my need to lean on my boyfriend when I teetered on the precipice of slipping back into my depression. Slipping back. The mere thought of relapsing terrified me as I sat on the floor in front of the living room mirror, applying my make up. My eyes froze, fixating on my half-lined eye, my hand hovering aimlessly in the air. Reflecting on those dark times wasn't healthy, but when you sense its return, a touch of PTSD lingers if the experience was severe enough.

September 1963

Once again, I had messed up. I couldn't help but speak my mind, and I shut my eyes as I walked down the leafy path, feeling the coldness of the autumn air prick my tights-clad legs. Perhaps I would accidentally wander onto the road and get hit by a passing vehicle going eighty miles. Maybe I'd open my eyes and realize that today was just a horrid dream, and I'd wake up and vow to myself not to do the same thing again. Maybe, just maybe, I could trick myself and those following me into believing that I wasn't actually there and that I had never existed in the first place.

"Awww, is the little fatty going home to mummy and daddy?"

"Maybe she should eat more, all she does is talk."

"One little joke, and she acts like you've murdered your entire family."

"She was staring at me in the changing rooms again. Dyke..."

When I opened my eyes, I found my vision to be hazy and unfocused. Taking a deep breath, I hoisted my bag higher up on my shoulder in an effort to speed up the journey home and clung tightly to the strap with determination. With each passing step, I held onto the hope that the harder I gripped, the chances of getting home sooner would be greater.

As a child, I absolutely detested wearing a school uniform; it felt so constricting and uncomfortable. Even worse, at my school, girls weren't even permitted to wear trousers, which was absolutely infuriating! It wasn't officially against the rules, but it was made clear that any girl who did so would be frowned upon. It was widely frowned upon if a female dared to wear something that was historically created to keep boys' genitals from poking someone's eye. Not only that but my mother was always concerned with me looking my best. However, I never felt comfortable in those forty-denier tights and that flowy black skirt that stopped just above my knees. Every time I walked past a car, a window, or any reflective surface, I felt sheer disgust at the sight of my legs. It felt exposing, revealing a part of me that I was insecure about, and more kids could make fun of.

They followed me home. Right to my front gate. And they stayed there until I gathered up the courage to tell my dad. Some nights, they stayed out there for hours, sometimes throwing rocks at my windows. Any other girl would get dainty pebbles gently tossed at their boudoir, and it would be a cute guy with a leather jacket and slicked back hair – cuffed blue jeans and a cigarette hanging from his lips, even at the age of thirteen. Not me. It was the same guys, simply doing whatever they could just because they knew I was agitated easily.

Whenever I actually snapped back, it amused them even more. I hated conflict because of those times. And it happened every single day.

It was a regular occurrence for me to make my way upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom, hidden razors behind the toilet. And... It doesn't take a genius to figure out what I did.

As I carved into my left forearm, I sat on the closed toilet lid, sniffly nose, and puffy eyes. I was angry. Angry at the world for letting me feel this way. Angry at the people who made me feel this way. Angry at myself for feeding into it. Let me describe the feeling.