I always get depressed in the summer holidays.
This year, I am sicker than ever.
When I was a child, summer meant my stepdad took time off work. Summer meant being move around adults who would have me.
Summer was so long.
If I was with my mother, we often went to Norfolk for a few weeks.
Norfolk in my head was my stepdad’s land.
Norfolk was fields where he could bury me. Norfolk was long stretches of roads leading to no escape. Norfolk was yellow fields named rape.
I try not to think of Norfolk much, as all I knew was fear and dreams of suicide.
If I was having a good summer, I went with my Dad’s family to Cornwall.
There I was so happy, but as I grow I could not cope with so much happiness. Not when always I knew I would always go back to abuse.
The days before leaving Cornwall, before going back inside my stepdad’s gaze, I would dream again of suicide.
I would stand on the cliffs, seeing nothing, just so terrified of how much I needed to die. I did not jump, I said nothing to nobody.
But, still I wake in a sweat at night with dreams of killing myself.
Every summer death follows me.
As I grow, away from family and into prostitution, summer had no meaning to me. Every season was the same.
Men would fuck me whatever the weather. Maybe in the summer it may slightly slow down, as students had left, as family men could not find excuses to not be at home. But there were always tourists, language students, and men who were addicted to prostitution.
Summer when you are a fuck-object is pointless.
Though with some men, who wanted girlfriend experience, I was taken out and notice it was meant to a time of relaxation, notice others were happy, I even notice that as I young I should enjoying this time.
I hated summer because I was not happy. I hated that everyone was awake so long, I resented that they were happy.
My dreams of suicide became practical. I cut myself on a regular basis. I drunk not from pleasure, but hoping it would kill me. I took overdoses.
I so angry that I stay alive.
I stay alive and stay being brutally fucked.
In summer, as I saw happiness, I felt that I was dirt.
Now, I have changed my life around, now I should be happy in summer – still I dread summer.
I feel so isolated in summer. Not because most of my friends go away for ages, not because being unemployed summer is no holiday for me.
No, because death still follows me. I still want to kill myself in the summer so much.
Last night, I fought those thoughts so hard. Yes, I did nothing, but I was sick this morning waking at 5.30.
Now, I am sick that every summer my sister goes with her family to stay with my mum and stepdad. Sick that they have the right to be grandparents after the hell they put me through.
Now, in the summer my body memories of the tortures I survived during prostitution are intense.
Now, as I hear noises at night, I want to hurt myself by prostituting myself to deaden my brain, to stop pain from the past and replace with present pain.
God, last night when I wasn’t planning my suicide, I was stopping myself from getting dressed and going out looking to be picked up by some bastard.
This is where my mind goes in the summer.