And i was hesitant to put it on here today; as is always the case when i'm in a good mood - i don't like thinking about bad memories.

But the purpose of this diary is to make me write down everything i think and feel...whether it's relevant to the moment or not.

One day i'm gunna look back on it all and smile at how far i've come.

So here goes nothing...

Sometimes I have this dream...or nightmare.

I�m sixteen and a half years old, it�s the beginning of summer and I�ve finished school permanently. I still only work part time at the store, so I have a lot of free time on my hands.

I�ve decided to come �home� for the afternoon � I use the term loosely, because I was never quite sure where home was in my teens.

I�m standing in the middle of my room, and it�s still very much my room at this stage.

It�s as beautiful as I remembered it, I haven�t spent many nights here in a while, which is a shame. I�m always comforted when surrounded by my things.

I�m barefoot and I can feel the sheepskin rug beneath my toes.

The pink and lilac walls make me feel so very young and innocent again.

Nobody is home. It�s just me.

I stand staring out of the window, watching the river. I stand there for a long time.

I�m pregnant. I think I�ve known for a little while now.

I don�t remember how I figured it out. I don�t remember taking any pregnancy test, or the first time I decided to go to the doctors.

I remember realising it was up to me to decide what to do. I remember feeling like I didn�t have a choice. I remember being alone.

But I can�t remember how I knew. That always bugs me. Was I sick? Is that how I knew? Did I feel different?

I�ve stopped standing there after a while. Now I�m lying on my bed, staring at the glowing stars stuck to the ceiling.

I don�t know what I�m thinking about. Nothing? Everything?

It gets to be later in the afternoon, and Mum arrives home with Lewis.

He�s only 9. I�m his big sister, his protector. He doesn�t know anything is wrong.

We play with some k'nex for a while.

I leave him to go and find Mum. She�s too busy to talk to me right now.

Then Dad comes home. He doesn�t say much, just sits down on the big leather sofa and waits for his dinner. The TV is playing cartoons.

After a while he falls asleep and the living room is filled with his snores. I know better than to wake him up.

I walk into the kitchen. Mum�s still too busy. So I say I�m going, hug Lewis goodbye and I go to catch the bus.

I decide to walk next to the river and through to the country park instead; it�s getting dark, but I�m not scared.

I know that it�s probably not the safest place for a young girl to be walking alone.

But I love it down here. I always have done.

I know what I have to do now, and I know I can�t ever tell them.

I don�t remember what happens next. I don�t remember how I behaved. What I said to people to make sure they didn�t suspect.

I don't even know who knows anymore. Did i tell anyone in my desperation to speak to someone? Did i ask them to keep quiet and not talk to me about it again?

Keeping secrets, when you have an appalling habit of blocking certain memories, is a piss poor idea.

It�s curious really, because some things are imprinted on my memory and I couldn�t get rid of them, no matter how hard I tried.

I remember my hospital room and my wrist band with my name.

I remember throwing up my pain killers and being given injections.

I�ve never tolerated medicine all that well.

I remember feeling like I was dying - pathetically so. Furiously trying not to cry and blacking out when it became too much.

I remember waking up, and looking out of the window. Wondering where I was and why I felt so weak.

I remember a lot of blood. I�ve never been all that tolerant of blood either.

And then I wasn�t there anymore. I was lying down in my boyfriend�s house. Trying to sleep. Trying not to have nightmares.

I still had the wristband on. I didn�t want to take it off and I couldn�t even tell you why. He wasn�t terribly happy about that.

As far as he was concerned I was never pregnant. Why was I with him again? Oh yeah, because I loved him, didn�t i?

I wake up in the morning and I feel so ashamed. Not because I remember what I did yesterday, but because I�ve wet the bed.

I�m sixteen and a half years old, and I�m not ashamed because I killed a part of myself the day before, I�m ashamed because I wet the bed for the first time in more than a decade.

So I sit up. And he�s mad at me, because I�ve done something so disgusting. And I don�t know why it happened, it just did. I couldn�t help it.

I�m so red with embarrassment that I start to cry, which pisses him off even more. And then I�m crying so hard I start to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

And I�m snotty and hiccupping and he doesn�t know what to do with me, so he leaves.

I get up and I get dressed and I leave too. And I just start walking.

It�s ironic how it took me another nine months to realise I hated him. It�s funny how he cried when I told him I was leaving, how he begged me not to go. It�s funny how the tables can turn, just like that.

It�s also pretty funny that I still like hospitals. I find them peaceful and comforting, and for the life of me, I really don�t know why.

But it�s not so funny that my dream isn�t really a dream. It�s the shadow of memories long buried, but never forgotten.

It scares me, to think that if I�d had a sliding door, I�d be the mother of a seven year old right now.