Vincent Fulham
By Emily Amanda-Belle
Trigger warning: story contains suicide
I was 17 when I left Hastings for the bright lights of London. It was never by choice, I was way too young, I just escaped a situation that has me in trauma therapy 16 years later… but of course at 17 I thought I was SO mature, having left home at 14 (again not by choice though that's what id tell people so they too thought I must be so worldly wise and ...capable I guess) It was all a lie…(turns out growing up in a wealthy white Boston suburb by an ex-marine turned cop and an aspiring middle classed narcissist mother shelters you beyond the acceptable level, Id never even met someone who wasn't straight, white and…..square) I was terrified, in survival mode, I didn't know it though, I mean Id snagged myself a boyfriend who was 14 years older than me, my boss, in fact (hello red flag) I had my own room in a flat share in the heart of Camden, was totally estranged from my family, and socialised with grown ups….. Like hello….I was totally ok.
I was 18 when I met you, I was giddy with nerves and awkward, that feeling when you meet your potential future in-laws for the first time…..you know the one. It was a very formal affair for no reason, I could see you were trying not to giggle, I was too. We kept the facade going, an in-joke between 2 people as lost as each other, just clutching at that feeling of a “normal” encounter, for once. Instantly, I got you, you got me too. I kept you close, I would never let you or anyone else know that I acknowledged a bond, that would be like...so cheesy. Over the next few years I told myself I only kept you close because well...you where hench….6.3’ solid, arms like tree trunks, covered in shitty tattoos, an accent my mother would have called “common” I heard you'd been to jail….I didn't care why, that was enough for me, I felt protected.
A loner by nature, and from the wrong side of London, your environment had shaped your body,...tall, stocky, intimidating, badly tattooed patriotic stamps all over your arms...a bulldog, the english flag, some football team I don't want to get wrong, and your face, chiseled, hard, intense blue eyes that felt like they were drilling into my head. You were 34...at my 18 years old, you were a proper grown up, you'd scare men one would usually cross the street to avoid away, It was all a perfectly designed mirage. You couldn't read...or write (although I didn't find this out for years later after you'd been and bought me a birthday card, like a little boy, a scrawl of misspelled sentiment, and in a world before iphones, my sole surviving physical memento of you), your eloquence and vocabulary barely stretched to that of a 10 year old…. So innocent, and so childlike. Sent by my abusive ex to chaperone me on nights out when he was presumably balls deep in another teenager…. You'd stand behind me and scare away any “unwanted” male attention. I could literally give you a side glance and you'd jump to attention, like a big dog. I thought I felt like a celebrity, powerful...safe, smug.
At 19 we ended up sharing a flat, my ex did all the grown up stuff and you and I paid the rent...you didnt work, you didn't need to, you had an inheritance, you never needed money. During this period it seemed that more and more frequently I'd need to escape my violent ex and find solace somewhere else in our little flat, I'd usually lock him in our bedroom knowing that the confusion of the lock would buy me until the next morning when hopefully he had sobered up enough to skulk off to work unnoticed. My memory of you was most clear from this time, I always found you sitting on our balcony overlooking the canal at Bethnal green, through my usually drunken and battered haze, I don't remember what was said between us, probably nothing, probably small talk… I was never good at letting anyone in. I do remember the sky was always a funny colour, the atmosphere dense and dead still, and everything was very quiet…. I never once questioned why you were sitting there alone when the sun had barely risen, you weren't a big drinker, nowhere near the amount I was guzzling morning noon and night at the time. Still unsure of how exactly to talk to an actual grown up, especially one so much……. bigger than me, I shrugged off any conversation deeper than chit chat….. I was good at playing the victim, and making you listen, I mean, I was 19… my troubles were absolute, you wouldnt understand them, your troubles were awkward…. “Weird” men aren't supposed to have emotional troubles, it made me uncomfortable, you were meant to be my protector. On one of these blurry, deranged times of day that you asked me if I came home and you weren't there, if I would know where you were? As confused as you are reading this, I asked what you meant, you told me that you had found a special space “our place” to meet up when the “world was too much” you pointed at a spot under a weeping willow on the canal opposite our flat ……. I recoiled, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and probably sniggered about it to my ex the next day…. I wonder how often you went there and waited for me.
2 years later, in our new place in Crouch End, and my ex had completely unraveled, he was unsafe, I found him one night after an evening out with my friends, house music full blast, upside-down hanging from an armchair smacking his chest with vigour and inviting me to his one man “paaarrtttiiieee” (the man looked like Eddie Large, scottish too, absolutely traumatising) I refused the beasts party as fun as it looked and as usual I came to find you. You were lying awake staring up at the ceiling, you looked so peaceful, and calm, in total contrast to the beast next door, you had clearly partaken in the beasts “parrtiiieee”, but a little less deranged than he was, got fed up and when to bed. I climbed in with you and had a little cry, you wrapped one massive arm around my neck and one around my waist and squeezed, it was a protective hug, you always made sure it was platonic, thank-you for that.
With hindsight it was a desperate embrace on your part, there's a very good chance you'd had no physical contact from anyone in years…. I didn't care, I took that hug selfishly, I needed that hug more than you.
3 days later, on a whim, and reeling from a particularly bad battering from the beast, I walked into an STA travel and bought a ticket to Australia, my fuck boy had gone out a few weeks earlier and I was feeling hard done by. A week later I got on the plane, it was a one way ticket, I didn't intend on coming back, i knew you couldn't afford the rent alone, I didn't care. Before I left I told the beast that you had tried it on with me that night and that you were so “like creepy” I don't know why I did that.
I did come back though, one year later, having cut contact from every person I had known during my 5 years in London, I came back even more lost than when I arrived, instinctively, I came to find you. With no way of contacting you, no address, phone number or social media, I found myself just sitting outside your favorite pub just waiting. 2 snakebites later, I had a feeling someone was watching me. I looked up from rolling my fag a few times but other than the hoards of tourists and a skinny little old guy, probably a tramp cycling back and forth, no one familiar. Then the old guy on the bike, dismounted and walked over to my table……..It was you, your shell at least. You looked at me for a solid 10 seconds with such disbelief that I felt like a celebrity again. I remember every word you said. You told me you were really well, you missed your mum, she'd hung herself on christmas day a few months ago, you missed the beast, he’d crawled back to scotland with his tail between his legs. You missed the flat, you were staying in a hotel until you “found your feet” I wanted to hug you but I couldn't ignore the big fat elephant in the room, Having left in such a shit storm, I was just too ashamed, embarrassed even to contribute anything other than chit chat…. I could tell you wanted to cry, so did I, but we kept the facade going… two people as lost as each other just clutching to that feeling of a “normal” encounter, for once, and then you cycled away on your own, the usual, I felt like running after you, or crying, but I mean dude...I was totally in public, and that would have been SO embarrassing. I really regret that…...
I'm sorry they wrote this about you, I'm sorry you went in such a horrific way, you had the mental age of a child, you would have been absolutely terrified. I'm sorry in your final moment of utter terror and desperation you were being judged, I'm sorry that in death you were just as stigmatized as in life. I'm sorry I didn't come to your funeral knowing no one else would, I'm sorry I let this article be your obituary. I'm sorry the system chewed you up, spit you out and then shat on your grave.
This is the mental health stigma you read about. They say we need to “talk” to raise awareness, its bullshit, we're all talking…. you talked...you never shut up…. It's just no one was listening.