Monday 10th October 1999

Dear Diary,

The weekend at home has left me feeling a little lost. Mother doesn't seem to appreciate the effort that goes into surviving each day of my life at the moment. Yesterday I came down to breakfast determined to eat something. This was in fact the first time I'd even considered breakfast in the last two weeks. I built myself up to it, not wanting to upset the woman that brought me into this world; trying I suppose to make up for the previous day's sandwich refusal. As I sat opposite her I could feel her scrutinising eyes on every mouthful, but I tried not to pay attention as her judgement made the whole thing much more difficult.

I finished my slice of toast and breathed deeply. Breakfast managed. But I could feel it inside me and it felt funny. I was unused to food so early in the morning. I began to feel a little sick and willed the feeling to dissipate, but as my mind focussed on it, it built and a nauseating panic started to surge through me.

"Excuse me" I said, and hurriedly left the kitchen, heading straight for the nearest bathroom. I could feel the toast climbing back up my throat and just as I reached the toilet, it made its appearance.

"Oh for Christ's sake" a voice behind me shouted. "I have absolutely no sympathy for you any more Sherlock. This is pathetic. Doesn't it occur to you that I'm sick to death of all this non-sense? Can't you think about other people for a change and use a little will power for once in your life? "

The injustice of my mother's words hit me hard and five minutes later I was in my room with hot tears streaming down my face, feeling more pathetic and worthless than I ever remember feeling. I hysterically began to scratch away patches of skin on my arms with my fingernails, wailing with the pain of still being alive. I felt I could scratch through the layers of skin and keep going until I reached bone, so mad was I. I wanted to reach into by body and pull apart organs, rip through blood vessels, and tear out the wretched muscle in my chest that defiantly continued to beat strong.

Instead, the adrenaline kicked in and numbed me all over. The sizeable marks on my arms were stinging, but I almost couldn't feel them. I stopped crying, my breathing slowed and I spent the rest of the morning laid in the same position on my bed feeling drained, unable to move an inch.

Now that I am back in Oxford I feel a little better. I have some level of independence back. I feel more in control. But I cannot forget the intense pain that my mother inadvertently caused, and I regret to say that the desire to end my life has not completely faded.

Sherlock Holmes

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