For me, there is danger around every corner, at the open of every door. A ringing phone sounds an alarm of doom. The doorbell rings and I panic. Everytime I leave my flat I hope I won't bump into my neighbours in the hallway. As I leave the building I feel a hundred pairs of eyes fix upon me from the building behind mine, judging me, observing my nervous walk. I round the corner, a sigh of relief no eyes are there to avoid. As I reach the main road I'm now into my deep breathing routine, desperate...

I'm not like all the other boys. Empty and dulled, down and alone. Dripping through days I'm amazed I can face. Facebook friends I wouldn't look in the eye boast of happiness of Bank Holiday highs gone by, friends and girlfriends, sunshine on a rainy weekend.

And I sit and I cry, tears slide into a whizzed up swash of downward spirals, washing the pain. I'm not like all the other boys, I'm dieing and drained, tired of this game, this bottomless barrel of torture and pain.
...

I search for an answer, words pop up and pass through my brain, assesed for worthiness, rejected again. I panic slightly as the seconds tick and my mouth remains shut and my dry fake smile wobbles. My lovely work colleague Paul, stood by my side all smiles and inoccent chat, awaits a response to his story about the ditch he dug at the weekend, in the path behind his shed. I scream inside my head and beg for words, any words, to drop from my lazy lips and pop the sense of awkwardness that builds...

I give the string a tug and the blinds close tight, shutting out the world, enclosing me in my solitary womb where tv is watched and food eaten and too few voices heard. The carpets starting to wear down in the spots my feet know well, sofa to kitchen to toilet to bed. Two years I've been here, living alone, trapped in my routine of sleep and eat and work and home. The neighbours don't know my name, seldom friends come to visit. This is my little world, a place in which my busy mind shouts its anxious...

Out of all the tears shed and wept words said since the death of Gary Speed, a common theme has been the question of why he didnt seek help. Why when he reached such low depths of despair did he not call upon one or more of his seemingly vast pool of loving friends to talk to them and at least try and get some help. I can understand why people wish he'd spoken up and not held his demons inside, but i wonder would it really have saved his life if he had cried for help. If Gary had told his wife or...