My aunt and uncle flew in this morning from Australia. They have come to stay for the week because it is my gran's 80th birthday on Monday, and we are to have a bit of a 'do' on Saturday, to celebrate. It appears that there is a genetic disorder on my mother's side of the family which requires many high pitched pretend arguments with other members of the family. 'I'll pay', 'No, I'll pay', 'Don't be ridiculous, I'll pay', 'No, I said it was going to be my treat', etc etc. On and on, they go about everything and anything.

So I was placing my bets as to how long it would be before I got woken up with such an argument. My bets were, as soon as they walked up the stairs to dump their suitcases. The subject matter would be the fact that my parents were putting them in their room rather than the box room. And the outcome? 9am, I hear high pitched squeals. 'We can't sleep in your room', 'Of course you can, it's easier all round', 'Don't be silly, we'll sleep in the other room', 'But it's better that you are there, you have room to put all your cases'. This was my alarm call for now there would be no chance of getting back to sleep.

I'm only worried that if this disorder affects my gran, my aunt and mum, is their any hope for me?

This morning I looked at Anne's Letters to Rob. This is a blog of letters to her cousin who took his own life a year ago. I have been meaning to have a look for ages but couldn't bring myself to click on the link on her page. I am a bit sensitive on the subject of suicide and a simple click of the mouse would force me to think. To think about Sam. To think about myself.

Camden is a strange place, full of people from all walks of life, all the time. It's always busy, busy, busy, punks, goths, rockers, indie kids, rastas, townies, tourists with eyes glued to their maps trying to find their way through the busy market, trying not to stare too much at the big mohicans and all those piercings. But amongst all these crowds of people, you will notice a select few who are weaving in and out of everyone with a sense of purpose. They are not looking around at everything and everyone. They are not getting lost. They are not suddenly stopping in the middle of the pavement to pop into a shop. They are trying to get somewhere particular. These people are the regulars of Camden.

Sam was one of these regulars, just as I am. I was not good friends with him but he was a friend, one of the familiar faces amongst the crowd of tourists getting in our way. He was loud and funny and enthusiastic about everything, flyering outside Camden tube, drinking in the Dublin Castle, passing out on someone's floor. But his big passion was music and with his bass guitar and singing voice, he seemed to be fulfilling his potential. His band were doing increasingly well especially with the Camden crowd. Their audiences were growing, gigs were good and word was getting around.

3rd February 2001 - I had been at work, my Saturday job, at the sports centre. At the end of the day, I always had a shower at work, got changed and went straight out. Katie's dad would sometimes pick me up on the way to dropping her off at the station, as he did on this day. I got into the car, said 'hello' to her and her dad, and he drove off. Katie is a loud, bubbly person and yet today, she was silent. I waited until we got to Edgware tube before I asked her what was wrong. Yesterday, Sam hung himself.

When I heard her words, the first thing I could think about was to comfort Katie. Understandably so for she knew Sam far better than me. We got the tube into camden and went to the Mixer. The Mixer has an atmosphere about it, one of the few regulars pubs in London. On this day, we walked in and the atmosphere was very different. It was not bustly and cheerful with drinks going full flow with private jokes and dirty jokes and laughter and mingling. It was very strange. Huge pregnant pauses producing a vacuum, so that no one could breathe until someone said something, thus piercing the bubble and providing some relief. Everyone's faces a flat, monotonous landscape of flesh, giving nothing away until they look away and an expression of fighting back tears could be seen. And sometimes, someone would come into the pub who had not heard the news and so they had to be told.

When someone takes their own life, the first thought to cross the mind is Why? Not necessarily, why would anyone take their life. But why did they? Talented, loved by so many people, could I have helped, why didn't I know. But I know why. For years I wanted to die. I knew that my family loved me, it wasn't that. I hated the fact of my very existence and wanted it to end, my body cremated and nothing left but dust to show for me. I took an overdose of various pills and potions that were in our medicine cabinet. I spent the night vomiting violently. A few days of feeling weak and then I was fine and well and very much still existing and this angered me. A couple of years later and I realized that I could not end my life because it would hurt my family too much. I wasn't happy about this but became resigned to it. And, although I was very happy in myself by the time that Sam died, this was a confirming moment for me.

The funeral was on the 13th February. I turned up to school in the morning as did the other four who were going to the funeral. Someone in my politics class asked 'Why are you dressed so smart?' I'm going to a funeral. Embarassment followed and a little bit of feeling uncomfortable on her part. 'Why is Katie so smart?' She's going to the funeral too. Bewilderment follows as she realizes that I was not going to a funeral of a grandparent or great aunt as first thought, but five of us must be going to the funeral of a friend. An 18 year old friend.

There's something very wrong about driving off from school, to a funeral. So many rites of passage to experience before death. The chapel was packed, far too many people squashed up per pew, people sitting on the floor, standing at the front. All people who loved this boy and his boundless enthusiasm for life, who killed himself because he could not go on any longer and could see no hope. It was an unconventional funeral for an unconventional person. Mostly consisting of music, nothing more suitable really, the last piece - All Apologies by Nirvana, chosen by Sam. But the most moving, tear jerking time was when his parents spoke. His mother said that Sam had made many decisions that she hadn't agreed with at first but had come to realize that he was right. Maybe one day she will realize this about his decision to end his life.