The first thing I remember about my life is the car ride home from the lost dogs home in Trentham. Before that, all I can remember are feelings of complete and utter excitement. Today, I'm getting my dog. And on the car ride home he fell asleep, he fell between the seat of the car and the door. Tiny little thing, wagging tail, I don't have any photos to remember him then. He chased me up and down the house, nipping my ankles, barking. I sat in his bed, I played him the tambourine. When I was six and I wanted to be a vet, I wrapped him up in bandages, then forgot to take them off. An hour later he was still sitting on the chair, wrapped head to toe, unable to move. Once when we took him for a walk, he swam across the river and got out on the wrong side, looking for us. He licked more salty tears off my face than is strictly necessary. And we grew up together, we spent every single day in each others company. And he got old, and I got distracted. We didn't walk together, but we still slept side by side every night. So many months I could have taken him on adventures, and I didn't. And then he was an old man, with pain in his joints and cataracts in his eyes. My little boy, my best friend. When i found out he would have to be put down, all the recovery, all the attempts to enjoy life went out the window. Nothing has ever, or will ever, probably compare to the grief i felt. Complete and utter emptiness, like someone had scooped my heart out with a cold spoon. When he cried for the needle, i lied to him. "It's okay baby". I whispered sweet lies into his old ears and kissed his face. When I was sure he was gone, I said goodbye in the shakiest voice, I planted a kiss on his cheek, touched his nose and backed away. Instantly, in that moment, the shutters closed. I took a deep breath, talked to the vet, talked to my mum. I came into my room, took sleeping tablets and dropped into the bed on the floor I had shared with him the night before. Hours spent lying there in complete agony, complete silence. And then I pushed it away. I don't think I cried for three weeks after his passing. When the ashes returned I put them in a cupboard, ignored them. Today I finally opened the box. Drenched it with tears, felt my heart scooped right out again. Honestly, I think this has prepared me for anything. Because there isn't such thing as more pain than this. He wasn't a pet, he was my family and he was more important to me than any human has ever been. I am never going to see him again, and all the poems about dogs in the world don't tell me the truth of where he is. There's no certainty. I don't know where he is, I don't know if he's okay and I don't know if he felt as loved as i wanted him to. And until I die, I'm never going to know. Years are stretched out before me with no Wags.

Things i like to think are behind me

Crying in the bathroom, crying in the parking lot, crying in the space under my bed. Slices, hundreds upon hundreds, soaking towels and sheets and the carpet. My dog licking thick blood off my feet when it finally dripped that far down. Fainting in the shower, at the busstops, not being able to let a boy I loved look at me because every inch was covered in red lines. Fading in and out of sleep, vodka for breakfast, not eating for days at a time. Trying to throw up, crying because i can't, cutting because i can't. Family members obliviously asking why I'm wearing sleeves in summer. The heat burning through the fabric, hiding the shame. Crying to music, to movies, to books. Crying and shaking while i write potential suicide letters, postponing my suicide because i couldn't get the letters right. Bumps on my skin, cuts in my chest, on my hands, my face. Broken razors, broken scissors, kitchen knives stored under my bed. Bandages, antibiotics, trips to the chemist. Sitting in the emergency room for hours because I want to be dead, my mothers face when she thinks i'm going to die, my mothers face when she first found out i wanted to die. Guilt. Bitterness. Gut wrenching fights with people i love, complete and utter desperation - breaking pens and paperclips in the glovebox so i can slice deep into my arm after a fight with my mother. Ripping my hair, skin, fingernails. Not leaving the house without a blade and some pills. Vodka in every water bottle. Alcohol with every meal. Sleeping for one hour, or for fifteen. No normality left in my life, nothing stable.