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.