Chapter 1

Dear Diary,

I write this with swollen eyes and short breath after an outbreak of constant crying, a flood of worries and a storm of blame. All feelings way too familiar from a not so far distant phase of life. Here I am once again, on the tip of the cliff called depression. I’m telling you now, this probably won’t make any sense, I’ll probably jump here, there, everywhere. I’m just trying to clear out some space in my head. It’s easy to tell you how I got here though, not very different from the first climb towards depression so here it begins…

I’ve been 21 for a month a bit now and not much in life has changed, I didn’t get the big hall party I dreamed of and to be honest didn’t get very much at all. My biggest birthday in my life dragged and on the day, I came to realise how little people really cared for me with fake wishes or even no wish at all. But at 21, nobody tells you how subtly things start to change, or maybe it was my new environment that was making me feel this way, who knows?

Cat-calling and stares of lust are normal for any woman, and I no different, since turning 21, I feel as if I have literally become a piece of meat. Feminists are forever trying to fight against it, all to no prevail. How do you make a man feel the same way a woman feels when cat called? You can’t, they just don’t get it. The sick feeling in your stomach when you notice someone watching you intently, with eyes of desire, failing to realise or not caring how uncomfortable you suddenly feel. The sheer cause of terror when someone gets a little too close or touches you for a little too long.  Pestering someone for their number isn’t flattering at all, it’s not chivalry and it’s not charming. I can tell you what it is, for someone who has always been soft, meek and polite, it’s awkward, terrifying and triggering.

Yup, that’s right triggering. The first time I got ill, I was triggered by someone asking for my number, walking straight towards me and suddenly standing a little too close in a darkly lit road on my way home. To be exact about my so called reaction, I was paralysed in fear and shock until I eventually started crying and screaming claiming this could not happen to me again.

Shall we take a quick rewind? Being sexually abused from the age 4, is a sensitive and taboo subject for anyone to talk about. Simply nobody wants to hear it probably including you. Maybe I should of been too young to remember, however much I wish I was, unfortunately I wasn’t. With such a grey past, that I don’t wear with a clear sign above my head, people don’t understand why cat-calling and staring can make me feel so alone and scared. Sadly not even my mum. She doesn’t understand the reasons I’m hurting or crying myself to sleep. She doesn’t understand I’m still not over my abuse. Ultimately she just doesn’t understand me. She blames herself for my completely unrelated sadness and then guilt-trips me over it. It’s said the love of a mother is unconditional, and it is something I can clearly see. But how do I unconditionally love a mother back who doesn’t understand the way I feel? Maybe I’m spoilt and am being ungrateful, maybe she deserves having a daughter better than me, someone who would never get sad or upset, who was stronger, maybe she’d understand her better.

Love, that hoe x