Dearest Doctor, Arisen Angel, Empty Shell.

There are three main influences in my life, The Doctor, My Angel and Sylvia Plath. My mother and father are not on this list. They are incompatible. My father is on - apparently- drugs and my mother is on anti-depressants. I do not believe that either of these humans should influence me because my father is like the Moon, distant, white and cold. My mother is the Sun, fiery, mercurial and life-giving, as well as having the power to destroy, all wrapped into one, big, glowing nuclear package.

The Doctor is an alien, fictional life-form who has his own show on the BBC. He is currently played by David Tennant. I have this, sort of, obsession with The Doctor and his nemesis Daleks and other alien and malicious deviants. I can respond to his loneliness, his deeply held anger, his love of life. Yet, his enemies have that quality too. The Daleks are unfeeling monsters in metal cages whose sole goal in life is to exterminate all other life-forms. I can see where that superiority came from. I sometimes feel as if I am above all else, my thoughts are above most other thoughts being thought in my town. I can see their disgust for humans. Human nature is a dangerous, terrible substance. Cybermen are even better. The Cybermen used to be human, but they replaced their flesh with steel and plastic, they stopped their emotions and honestly thought they were doing good. I wish I was one, sometimes, so I wouldn't have these emotions in my head. To feel nothing is a great advantage. Love, hate, happiness, sadness...all melted into one, great emptiness that is full.

My Angel is a very good friend of mine. Very good. I will not speak her name, I do not want to upset anyone. I had an obsession with her too, for a while. Everything began with her and all ended with her. My life started to be a timetable according to her, not set by her but my own obsession. I would dwell on her during lessons and would spend every free moment I could talking to her. My love grew everyday and scarcely a day went by without me crying in panic in case I ever lost her, for whatever reason. I even proposed. Then, one day I was down and we talked properly. She had been trying to motivate me for weeks to do some homework, to pull myself out of my slump, to be the girl I used to be. I cried and I knew then that I couldn't just change back again. She told me a secret and I knew that our relationship was killing us both. Our relationship went back to best friends, even to sisters when she and my Mother started to get along. It still hurts as sometimes I still love her like I used to but I know that the relationship cannot ever be like that again. She has a relationship with someone else now, I wish them well. I hope she finds that glorious love that she deserves.

Sylvia Plath is the most articulate poet I know. Her poetry is like the words of my subconscious, speaking to me in books. Forty years separate us and yet the poetry seems as perfect as it would have been then. Depression has a language that is universal, the darkness of mandrake roots, the deliciousness of poison. I cannot underline this enough; not every person who gets sad is depressed. I only guess that I have depression is because I was diagnosed with it. It is a terrible way of life and I fail to see why anyone would want it so desperately. There are people who fake the downer, say they're on Prozac or Lithium, that they are bipolar or depressed or have panic attacks. This disgusts me. It just means that some people will think I'm faking too, my Mother suspects I am and one of my friends just raises their eyebrows and tells me to grow up when I can't work or I'm crying or whatever. It's depressing just to think about it.