Thought Catalog

On Saturday 29th March 2003, I decided to die. I was 19 years old.

I was living in the town I was born in, a violent, Mad Max, post-industrial wasteland. Coventry had its guts blown out during the war, and was then economically coventrated during the Thatcher years, as factory after factory was shipped overseas. All that was left, by the time I left school, was low-level service jobs and temporary work through parasitic agencies; sling pallets around in a warehouse for six weeks, then get laid off and rot away on meagre unemployment — if you could get it, which I never did — for six months. Empty factories with shattered windows collapsed around us, and we shuffled from one desperate situation to another with the grim wordlessness of the damned. We’d roam the streets in packs with nothing better to do, occasionally being stopped and searched by aggressive…

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