Does anyone feel that you're not supposed to be here? That somehow your soul got mixed with someone else's, and you got put in the delinquent body, while they ended up with that of the perfect girl next door? You've lain on your bed looking out the window as the family next door sits down to a happy outdoor barbecue. You can smell the sausages - and even though you're vegetarian, you'd be prepared to eat anything just to be a part of that family.

And so you stop eating altogether. Perhaps you'll even disappear? The smell of the sausages now maddening. The sight of the neighbors eating is now both sickening and addictive. And you hurt yourself just to feel something. Perhaps you can cut the pain out if you just go deep enough. And you think obsessively about ending it all - and you remember the last time you miserably failed at this. And you think, what's it all for? What is the reason for being put here? Why oh why was I not born into that family?

And these thoughts flounder in your head, round and round like the wheels of your first pink bicycle; round and round like the family fights; round and round like the memories...

And then when you find yourself lying on the chilled slate of the kitchen floor, looking at the fuzz caused by the salt in your eyes, it dawns on you. It can't possibly get any worse than this. You've lived through the worst of it; you have lived through the abuse. And you are going to live through this. And your dog, upon hearing your violent sobbing, slinks over and nestles his head in your lap. And rather than cringe at the touch, you melt into it. Because you know you are worth it.

I've had enough of writing my story for now. After Christmas I just lost all my motivation. It's been so hard this Christmas. But I don't want to think about it anymore.

The thing that's really causing me grief at the moment is my ever-increasing weight. I can't stand it. I used to be perfectly (apparently unhealthily) skinny. I found strength and peace in denying myself of food. And then the medication... And now I can't stop eating, I have a BMI of 21 (which isn't even my lowest healthy BMI!), and I'm miserable. I've tried everything except coming off the meds or going on a weight loss pill. I don't know what to do because no one will give me a weight loss pill because they say I'm too thin - but don't they get that I am increasingly putting on weight?! I need that freakin pill!

The terror and panic I feel at how fat I am is too much. I think I'm going to have to start cutting again. I need some method of gaining control in my life.

I'm boring myself.

Explanation: I have always wanted to write the story of my journey from a childhood of sexual abuse, to a strong and happy adult. I have worked, and continue to work, through the horrors of my childhood. But however many wrongs there were done to me, is how much stronger I am now as a woman who is working through this. A survivor of sexual abuse needs courage and intuition - and if you've already lived through the abuse, then you must be strong indeed! Healing is just around the corner. This is my story, however some names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of others.

It's a tough one, but these were the questions shouting in my head when the psychiatrist asked me to tell her my story. She sat on the other side of the desk in front of me, hand at the ready and pen poised above a fresh sheet of paper titled "Cheyi's Background."

Psychiatrists are a strange species. I can say this with some auhority now as I've been 'seen' by three in the past three months. The first one who saw me was only a one off session, as he deemed me fit to leave the hospital under conditions that I see Dr T. Mich (psychiatrist no. 2) as my ongoing psychiatrist (this arrangement did not last long as I soon decided that Dr Mich was in fact an alien, and that I was better off steering clear of him - and no, I'm not joking, he really was an alien).

I sat there for what felt like hours, trying to look the picture of togetherness in order to be given the all clear for evacuation of the hospital. Three nights in the psychiatric ward of T. Hospital, was enough to ensure that if I hadn't been insane before, then I definately was now.

How do you commence telling the story of your life? The obvious answer would be to start at the beginning. But how do you define the beginning? Is it the moment of delivery where you suck in your first taste of oxygen? Or is it the moment of your conception, and if so then how do you write, or indeed learn about that without causing embarrassment for you and the unfortunate parent you ask? And how much do you or anybody else for that matter, really want to know about that moment anyway?

Or is it the moment when everything in your life changes? The moment there is no coming back from, and you know that from now on everything will be different.