I still have nightmares, just this time, they're of horrible things - things I'm doing to people. In my dreams I put fear in people's eyes. I set them alight. Some dreams it's me who's the victim. Everything is normal and dream-like at first then things change for the worst. I'm being chased by horrible, frightening things. These things have no face but the noise they make leaves my skeleton shivering. It makes my spine crawl.

I don't know what it is, my psychiatrist says I show no sign of a mental illness. I think that's complete rubbish. Yeah, I'm not as bad as I was before but I still have periods where I'm so low suicide is all I've got.

The simplest things are beginning to irritate me seriously badly. Like my friend who swears in his every day vocabulary, it never used to bother me but now it's so annoying I want to scream at him whenever I hear the word "fucking". It's always "fucking this, fucking that, ken?" and it drives me insane. I've been living in my flat for three days now and so far it's great, I love having my own space but the thing is, I've had one night just me and my boyfriend and even that was only from 3am onwards. I don't mind having my friends over but they make so much noise especially if they're drinking. I allow people to smoke in my flat but only the living room because I don't want my bedroom to smell like cigarettes. Even I only smoke in the living room. Everyone leaves the doors open so I'm constantly having to get up and close things and in my anger I slam them.

The living room door jams because the actual door is too wide at the bottom to fit securely into the frame so you have to slam it to close it properly then it gets stuck and you have to yank it open which makes a tonne of noise in the middle of the night. Back at my parents it was fine because their house is a detached one, I have people live right above me and I wouldn't like it if they were crashing about their flat in the middle of the night keeping me awake so why should I do it to them? I don't, THEY do. I guess they're less respectful of my neighbours because that's exactly what they are - they're my neighbours; not theirs.

I was trying to watch The X-Factor on TV earlier because I like the show and I've missed every episode from the beginning this year. I got about five minutes into it and my friend started moaning because he doesn't like it. I've spent the past two days watching programmes that they want to watch, I've not and I just wanted half an hour to watch the rest of the show and he kept saying he hated it and had to go into another room if it was going to be on. I eventually got fed up, threw the remote at the table, grabbed my laptop and basically stormed off into the bedroom which is where I sit now. Wayne asked me where I was going and I basically spat out at him my reasoning. I hate when I do that - he never did anything.

I hate my mood swings, one minutes I'm fine the next I'm suicidal or raging. There's no happy medium for me. I've had myself checked for manic depression but they say I'm not so then, what the fuck am I?! I'm going to push everyone away because I can't keep my temper down. I snap at people and I scream and shout and throw things and slam doors. It's getting worse. I can take so much annoyance and then I just snap, I guess like everyone but I'm snapping at seconds. I used to have an implosive anger and now it's explosive. I nearly threw a plate earlier. I've become a psycho bitch.

Even sitting in my room listening to music I enjoy, it's making me want to get out my pyjamas and go out looking for trouble. Actually, no, I want vodka.

Sometimes I don't know what's wrong with me. I never feel alright any more. My doctor has taken me off my anti-depressants, she says I should just get councilling instead as it will be more "beneficial". In a way I'm glad as I don't want a fake happiness brought on by drugs. If I'm to feel happy I want it to be my brain fixing the chemical imbalance itself not some pill making counterfeit emotions. I just want to be normal again. I'm sick of this depression pulling me down. I'm scared to show anyone exactly how I'm feeling especially Wayne. Don't get me wrong, I love Wayne. I know I'm always saying I'm in love and everyone must be sick of hearing about it but even if this isn't love, I like the feeling. When I'm with Wayne I feel secure, I feel safe and I no longer feel alone. Back to my original point. My depression is getting worse. I'm slowly sinking deeper and deeper. Sure, I can laugh and enjoy being out but it doesn't last very long. I thrive off making people laugh. It's a little glimpse of what I've been missing for so long. I keep getting diagnosed by my friends and people I know. Telling me I've got this that, and the next thing. I'm tired of being called a hypochondriac. I get sad sometimes and it comes and goes. My mood swings more than a teenager going through puberty. Some minutes I'm up, the next I'm down. They can last for a period of several hours at a time but they change from one opposite the the other instantly. One minute I'll feel happy, the next I'll be angry, the next I'll be suicidal. There's nothing in the middle. Just the extremes. I know I'm not bipolar because I've been tested. I've been told I'm autistic, that I'm bipolar, that I have manic depression. Hell, I've even been told I'm schizophrenic. Fuck that shit.

I'm sick of taking medication. I'm sick of my emotions coming from fucking pills. I've stopped everything. I'm doing it all naturally. I'm suffering because my depression's going out of control. My mood swings are uncontrollable but I'm hoping the real emotions will come flooding through. I want my brain to conjure up emptions like everyone else's. I want to feel normal. Right now I feel like a medicated zombie. I can't feel anything, everything is superficial and I want it to stop. Now.

I hate Wayne seeing me the way I am just now. He's suffered it too though, everyone in his family has. For him it's hereditary but for me. I'm the only one in my family to have ever been diagnosed. Does that mean there's something wrong with me?

"And so the lion fell in love with the lamb."

"What a stupid lamb."

"What a sick, masochistic lion."

You are my Edward Cullen; just in my Twilight Bella remains alone. And Edward never comes back, and there is no Jacob.

I miss the days when I'd wake up and be happy. I've been thinking a lot about "him" lately. I dreamt about him not last night but the night before. I kissed him in my dream. I cried about it last night. God, I miss him. Ever since him and I broke up, almost a year ago... nothing has been the same, my mood plumeted. I cry more now. Fuck, I even miss him screaming at me and him making me cry. It's better than this. Any relationship I've tried out was always a way to replace him, but no-one was ever good enough. God, he was perfect to me. Talk about a story of a teeange girl with a broken heart. I'm a prime example. The entire time I was dating Dale again I felt guilty, every second of every day. I was on Dale's mind, Dale loved me. Michael was on my mind, I loved him. It was never fair. It was selfish of me. I don't even think I love Michael any more, it's not him I miss, it's how he made me feel. Now he won't even spit in my direction. Michael was the only person I ever invisioned myself walking down the aisle toward. Ever. There were bad days too, days I’d scream myself to sleep, days he’d make me so upset I’d cut myself just to feel something less painful. I'd trade everything to have it and him back. I'm glad I deleted all memories of him. I know I'd look at them now. I can feel myself about to cry. He’s not much worse than me now though. He became an alcoholic – I would be too if I could afford it. I wish I could see him smile one more time. He made me feel complete. Even thinking his name feels like a punch to the chest. This is real heart break. I'd take all the hurt and bad things if it meant having him back. That's the complete truth because even with the bad things, when he had me screaming in agony. He was mine. He was mine. He was mine. My dreams are the only real part of him I have left, he's there in front of me. But it's just my imagination allowing me a glimse of happiness for just a few minutes. I'm a heart breaker. I really am. I crush people all because they're not him. I hate it. I hate how he's making me feel now. But Christ, I'd still lay down and die for him. Don’t you see? I’m dying now because of my own stupid FUCKING mistake.

Someone once told me "you move on fast". This is complete and utter rubbish; I don't move fast - fuck, I'm still shattered from a year ago. I've never been able to get over Michael, his image haunts me. I wake up screaming, screaming from the image of his face the last time I ever saw him. Everything reminds me of him. I heard his voice on a video his grandfather uploaded to youtube (it was a video of him). I shouldn't have watched it but I needed to hear his beautiful voice one more time. I stayed at my friend's house a couple of nights ago and fell asleep on my other friend who was also staying that night. He said I was shaking and twitching vigorously in my sleep, like I was thrashing about. He never woke me, he left me but the twitching shook me awake and I gasped, I couldn't breathe. I fell back asleep and he woke me up a short while later - he said I was screaming. I wish these nightmares would end.

Back to my first point before I got side tracked. I don't move fast, I am still shattered from a year ago but it doesn't mean I can try and get on with my life, I can give myself to someone else, I'm a wreck, a car crash. I'll never be whole but it doesn't mean I can give them every little broken piece.

Today I went out with a friend and for the first time in months I smiled a real smile and I actually enjoyed myslf. So thank you Sally, for helping me to break out this shell I've developed.

Left your t-shirt in my room, still smells of you and the picture you hung on the door lay smashed, picture perfect. Explains now, clearly nothing left but a memory. We only made out you, never kissed me. That's how I learned to hold back all feeling. Wait, please don't go, I won't stay. All these words on replay. I'm okay. It's alright, good to know that you're fine. Pretending everything is right, to make it better. I'll hide my make up smeared eyes, to show that I tried. Some how you have managed to get under my skin, more than anyone ever did. And if every hole makes a scar and every scar marks its place then I will never live freely without your trace. And it'll never be fair, I wrote my songs for you and you never even cared. So I'll forget you, I'll wash your t-shirt, kill the pillow and cut you out of pictures. Wait, please don't go, I won't stay. All these words on replay. I'm okay, Its alright, good to know that you're fine. Pretending everything is right, to make it better. I'll hide my make up smeared eyes... This drama sat shot gun, my eyes rained like Autumn, only the glove box knows how the story goes. Now that this bandage is broken and the cuts left are open. I'll tell you just one thing, this wasn't worth the sting.

Yes, Dale left me.

I fancy a change, I'm sick of all the totally dead hair I have, it's too limp to do anything. It's been destroyed by all the bleaching I did in December.

Fuck this, I'm getting my head shaved and I'm going for a dyke spike.

I'm back at work now. It's boring and I feel like I never left. The past six months I've been off sick with depression. Being back at work, I thought might keep my mind busy. On the contrary, I can do the work, I just find it difficult to concentrate. My mind is arguing with itself. There's so many things I kick myself for never saying. Things I never did and things I did wrongly.

I miss him. I know I shouldn't, I shouldn't want anything to do with him. He humiliated me, jeopardised my job, implanted traumatic memories into my head. Memories which still awaken me throughout the night with screams of terror.

My friend Dave once told me I should forget about him, move on. He should mean nothing to me, after all he's put me through. I'm in therapy because of him. It's easily said and I know Dave's right. But still, you can't just throw three years of devotion away like it meant nothing. I fell in love with him - I still am in love with him.

Dave made me laugh today. I was telling him all about this and how I had a moment of weakness whereby I nearly called him. (I just feel so alone all the time. He used to make that better. Now we never speak. I suppose it's for the best, but I still wish it weren't so). He said "but you've only seen him once". It's true, I have only seen him in person once, I feel this is why no-one really understands me when I say he was The One. I had never felt like that ever in my life. Being with him was almost like a dream, something out of a fairytale, but it was reality. It makes me smile when I think about how happy I was just little over a year ago. It saddens me to think that there's barely any physical memories of that period of time left.

All I have left is a photo I had framed as a 19th Birthday present for him last summer. It's still in my room, hidden with the letters I've also kept. Of course I've got his jacket - he gave me it as a going home present as the sleeves are now too short for his arms, he was 6'5", a foot taller than me. I used to sleep in that jacket every night.

I've got a t-shirt I bought when his mother took us to Disney World, Florida. We both bought identical t-shirts and signed each other's. I haven't worn that t-shirt since he touched it. It still smells of his sweet, heart-stopping, beautiful scent. I wear his deodorant - (in fact, typing it to him actually taught me how to spell the word correctly).

Every night for several nights after I came home I'd fall asleep with my xbox headset on in a private chat with him, just so I could hear his voice as I was nodding off into a pleasant slumber (this was before the nightmares became a regular occurrence). The first night we tried this I awoke in the middle of the night - still getting over the jet lag - half asleep I searched around for him calling out his name once or twice. As soon as I fully awoke to find myself in my own bedroom, in my own bed, in my own house, back in Scotland, back in Europe; I burst into tears. It was just so difficult getting back into the knack of things, back to GMT, back to being alone. Leaving him in Nashville airport was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, even now. Our last kiss, last hug, the last breath I got of his scent. The last look into his perfectly blue eyes. Knowing it could be months before I saw them again. However, as it turns out, it was the last.

I'm in a perfectly normal relationship with someone else now. Don't get me wrong, I love Dale to bits, he's lovely in every sense of the word, but compared to him he's far from perfect. I hate myself for knowing I'll never love someone as much as I loved him. I feel guilty for staying in a relationship with Dale when he's all I can think about. It's unfair of me because I know Dale loves me with all his heart. I just can't seem to find the strength to love him with all my heart back.

I'm broken. I've been broken for a very long time. I'm never going to be whole again. I know that. But I an give myself, every little broken, tiny piece to him. I will do my best. But it'll never be perfect.

Earlier on in the month, I asked for some more drama in my life. I got so used to my hectic life back in December that when everything calmed down and went back to normality, it became boring. I got fed up of a normal routine.

That drama I've asked for, has returned. I was so obsessed with not having a boring life that I forgot the drama was what caused me not only to be diagnosed with severe depression, but it also caused me to be so mentally unstable I couldn't do my job and ended up being signed off sick. Today, I finally go back to work after 6 months. Yesterday, the shit hit the fans and the drama I had hoped for so badly, returned.

My whole World's been turned upside down, just like I wished for; only now, I'm kicking myself. This isn't what I want, it's like déjà vu. December's repeating itself all over again identically; which means, I know what's going to happen next and I don't like the sounds of it.

Don't know what I want,

But I know it's not you.

Keep pushing and pulling me down.

When I know in my heart it's not you.

What to do, what to do?

I have set those free, who I do not need, in order to get a tighter grasp on those I do. I have gone down roads without destinations, to accidentally stumble upon heaven, and bits of hell. Miles of concrete gobbled up by underbellies of cold machines, and at my lowest points, I have counted my blessings. am okay with loss now. I am okay with picking up the pieces. And I am definitely okay with trying. Minutes and hours have passed where I have felt nothing but content inside this heart, and in that, I am okay with crossing out calendar days, which held moments of despair. Because I have realised: after the storms have passed, and the earth is busy dissolving the aftermath, darkness falls, and in the mean-time, the sun will always peak over the horizon. I will have a child’s eyes, seeing everything for the first time, and everything will be beautiful again.

Why do I do this to myself?
I hate you for being fucking gorgeous and I hate you for constantly being on my mind.
But more importantly - I hate you because I would still drop everything for you.

It takes a brief eternity for me to fall in love.
It takes insincere major words to fall out.
I’ve never learnt to say what has to be said, I never will.
Others seem to kill time by repeating those famed three words,
time kills me as I try to find the voice to utter a single syllable.
Do I savour adoration too much, or do they merely take compassion for granted?
I can’t live whenever I remember what I drove away, which is in every waking moment.
As wrong as they could ever be; believing I didn’t appreciate.
In bitter truth?
My gratefulness to those who cared was too great for my nervous tongue to express.
Perhaps to watch the care stroll away as if it were effortless, as if it was natural, is the most painful thing for a heart to endure.
Specifically the guilt, the self-hatred, the extreme remorse towards your own breath, makes losing those persons truly unbearable.
I would never pretend to know the thoughts of the newly uncaring.
Their departure makes it clear that I never knew, that they were forever strangers.
I can always hurt that little bit more, I can surely lose another small portion.
Why would one ever wish to inflict the agony of love upon their senses?
Incredibly, I will do it more than once - as will most.
I do not believe that there is such a thing as ‘love’, really.
Basically it’s defined by force of habit, the comfort in familiarity.
Of course we all revel in discovering new and fascinating things – it’s in our nature.
But we become accustomed to that thing, allow it to take place as a form of comfort, then pursue something else.
The once exciting object might not be discarded completely, but it will certainly be shut out, pushed into the cold shadow of inconsiderate.
Though, in the case of love, it is thrown away completely.
It’s intentionally forgotten once it has served its purpose.
One character will feel freedom, the other extreme claustrophobia.
The loss, in essence, was the latter character’s freedom.
I’m in no doubt that we’ll all be broken at some point.
Battered, cracked and dropped, cascading into a million, million tiny hopeless pieces.
Hindsight is a disgusting, addictive, haunting gift.
The skill of looking back, the capacity to regret, will make victims of us all.
Even for me to hope I’ll lie smiling as I die, only regretting what hasn’t been committed is to feel remorse.
There is simply no way we can avoid regret, no way we will look back without wishing to change what we’d done, or to conjure what we hadn’t.
I will regret my lack of expression, my hidden true emotions.
I will hate the memory of lying in the arms of my loss and having the chance to whisper what they mean, but letting the opportunity pass by, purely because the moment was too perfect to disturb.
Maybe I’ll smile at the laughter, and the feeling of their comforting skin, but I’ll cry every night for the words I wanted to say all along, but avoided for fear of understating.

Shall I write you a tragedy?
I could shuffle through thousands upon thousands of conjoined syllables, until I find the correct one, the perfect one, the one which covers what little I can say.
I will slur each word, toss it to sufficient and fro inadequate, and chew it between over-critical teeth.
There’s no talent required to express what’s on my mind.
I did not put these thoughts here – my thoughts are their own, and society invented countless ways in which I might convey them to you.
If anything, I severely lack a literary talent, or a linguistic talent, or an expressive talent.
I rely on these plastic keys each labelled a – z, the ballpoint pen to paper and the liquid relief of paint in order to tell you what lurks behind my forehead.
I simply cannot find the words when approached by the questions of a concerned friend.
I watch those who can in colossal envy, adoring the image of letting those beautiful words tumble out, those sounds which will release me from quiet grasp.
How do they communicate?
My only means of communication are through these pointless black marks, which will leave your conscience as swiftly as they came, and you will continue with the everyday.
The human face can tell a thousand words.
I might be crying or screaming as I write this, but you’ll never know, unless I grant you that truth and you choose to believe it.
We’ve learnt to read the formation of a face more fluently than we’ll ever read the formation of words.
To see a single tear slide from someone’s cheek sends signals of pain and sorrow, normally inflicting similar emotions upon its witness, and all without a single twist of the tongue.
Are these words pretty to you, do your pupils widen as you read this, do you savour my poetic phrasing?
Maybe if I told you these words crush me and that they torture me every night before I close my eyes, you’d think differently of them.
Perhaps if you knew that I find every little figure and curly black line a disgusting, unpromising, cruel opportunity to be discovered and understood, but whose prospect fails by the inconsiderate hands of its readers, perhaps then you’d want to look away.
This is not pleasurable and this does not amuse me as the seconds tick by.
I am spitting out shortened lines of things I feel with startling poignancy.
Are you surprised that my youthful features and insignificant stance can formulate such apparently intelligent miscellaneous?
It pains me to write this and know that even once it’s complete, I’ll feel no closure.
The only satisfaction is in the knowledge that I might briefly make another life consider others around them.
I don’t do this for praise, I don’t type to be told that what I write is beautiful, or ‘deep’.
If anything, it’s to be criticized that I long.
Call it self-harm, call it sick, eager, lonely, art, morbid.
I’d prefer to be informed that what I write is terrible, and the only things you felt as you read it was confusion over what on earth I could possibly be talking about.
I don’t care if that negative opinion hurts me – in fact, this is what I crave.
Whether or not my considerations move you, or stir something close to nerves in the pit of your stomach, or make you feel the need to cry, is entirely up to your observational majesty.