My story begins before I was born. The night I was conceived my mother had not wanted to sleep with my father, but she was forced to. The next morning she knew she was pregnant, but he didn’t believe her.

Over the following months my mother’s pregnancy grew increasingly difficult, much more difficult than that of my sister, who is 9 years older, and was born in India. By the time I was born I was 10 days late and blue. So you see, I had never wanted to live, perhaps sensing that I wasn’t wanted. Before I was born my father had tried to strangle my mother, in an attempt to make sure I didn’t live.

3 months later, I was diagnosed with meningitis, and by 6 months I had a hole in my head, and was fitted for life with a bit of plastic and a tube the length of my body that would leave me forever paranoid, and trapped in someone else's body having to deal with their fits, their surgery and their lifestyle- it's not mine, it's not me.

Until I was 7 we had lived in Leeds, but then we won the lottery. I won’t say how much, but enough. We moved down to Devon, where my step-dad had lived before moving up north. The village had a strange feeling to it. The house we bought had been empty for 10 years. Before that no one had lived in it for longer than a few years. We soon noticed its many ghosts, and pagan past, but we didn’t mind. Eventually, they grew tired of trying to drive us out, and learnt that we were here to stay.

From a very early age I knew I wasn’t "quite right", but everyone always assumed it was because of my condition and I was just attention seeking like an ordinary little girl. So when a guy living in the caravan in our garden began abusing me when I was 11, no one would believe me. So I kept it to myself.

In November of 2000 I was rushed back into hospital to have a new shunt fitted as the tube had snapped in my neck I spent the next few months in hospital, refusing to eat. By the time I had recovered and was back at school, I was a new completely paranoid, no self-confidence, self-harmer who refused to talk to anyone. So I began to write. I had always had an artistic background, from both my parents and step-dad, ranging from musicians, artists, and writers. But I soon got carried away, and my writing scared me. I realized I was writing the truth that I had never admitted to myself, and it wasn't pleasant. I did put it to some use though, I write poetry, send it to America, and get it published. I also perform on open mic sessions organized by my step-dad who is part of the arts group in our village, and a well respected guitar teacher.

I managed to keep all of my problems to myself until October of 2002 when I had to have another month long stay in hospital due to failure of my shunt. While I was in hospital some guy from my school that I didn’t remember ever meeting had become obsessed with me and was pestering my friends to find out if I was ok. Eventually he asked me out. All I could think was "here is someone who genuinely cares about me and what I’m going through, so why shouldn’t I just go along with it?" I wasn’t until 2 months in that I realized how controlling, and over protective he was. He wouldn’t leave me alone. If I didn’t turn up to school he’d be phoning me all day and night to see where I was. If I didn’t answer the phone, he panicked. When he panicked half the time he’d end up in hospital. I couldn’t cope with this but I thought it was easier to cope with him like this than if I dumped him and he threatened to commit suicide. I was used to feeling alone, with no one to talk to. I was used to having these voices in my head constantly telling me I was worthless and that I should have never survived. Having to slit my wrists every night didn’t seem like a big problem. No one knew so I wasn’t hurting anyone. But after I’d been with my boyfriend for 4 months, he begun raping me. Every Friday after school he would come back to mine. My parents knew I was sleeping with him (mothers intuition I guess), but they didn’t know that every time he left I was left in my room crying, shaking, and hurting myself. My biggest downfall was when I thought I was pregnant. This happened several times, but after the first two I didn’t care anymore. Technically I should be dead, but then technically I should have died before birth no logic doesn’t come into it.

I began talking to the 2nd of my two stepbrothers, who lives in Leeds, through text. I’d asked him what he thought of the name Rowan for a baby girl. He’d replied saying what if it’s a boy, and when’s it due? I’d said Rowan works for a girl or a boy, but I reckoned it was a girl, and was due by December. At this point he phoned me, freaking out. I told him everything. The next day my parents had a phone call from his mum, my step-dads ex wife, and a good friend of the family. My brother had told her having been concerned about me and she felt she had no choice. So, they knew I had been self-harming. What did they do? Nothing. It was another 3 months before I came into school with a massive cut across my neck and people finally noticed something was wrong. Still no one knows about my boyfriend, but my councilors started to pay attention when I told them about our lodger. I’m still not getting any help from the people who are paid to help me, but I don’t care. I’ve come this far on my own. It’s not up to me anymore. I used to wake up and be so afraid that I’d still be alive by the end of the day. Now I’m certain that I’m already dead. The real me is standing on the outside looking at my body being taken over by all those who ever hurt me and watching them steal my blood, my soul and my life. All I have left is one certainty- I’ll get my way eventually, and I’ll be dead, and it will be me in charge. I won’t let them kill me first.

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