They used to call me crazy. It sizzled off of their skin in a heatwave, hissing through their body language at me – Freak, Freak! Sometimes it spilt over and out of their mouths, an accidental expulsion as they spat out their venom-rotten teeth to my feet in distaste. It was only natural that I came to believe it, for a while. Everyone has that awkward stage though, I think. I hope. That time in your life when you think that you are broken somehow. That no one else could feel that way too. That you are alone.

I felt that way, for the longest time. I was young but I didn't want to be. I was romantic and idealistic and thought I was an artist, an old soul.. and not fitting in was a helpful validation of my theory. Perhaps I was another species entirely. I had friends, I loved them dearly and I still miss the friends I had back then. The memories have become a sunkissed haze but even they cannot remain untouched by the clouds.

It's always cloudy.

I evolved, eventually. Some people don't, I gather. Some people lived their whole lives thinking they were unlovable and in defending their frail parts, the soft underneaths of their emotions, they turned their backs on opportunity for love to get in. Humans as their own worst enemies happened in a whole range of scales across the world. Anyway, I did evolve somewhat. I still have neurotic behaviour and some days, when I walk these wide circles and talk in tongues to the walls (oh how I wish for a hydrangea!), I feel the immense pressure of my own being.

I feel crushed under the weight of my duality, both sane and insane. I am possibly, and it's a very real possibility now, the craziest bitch on the planet. Equally it is possible that I am the only sane one, trying to make sense of a nonsensical world. Turning myself inside out to examine the unseen parts of myself, and others.

I shouldn't have written that last part, the unseen parts of myself and others – it just reminded me. Some days I wish I could pluck out my eyes. I'm not frightened of the pain any more, Sepsis after the shooting was the final proof I needed that I can endure all manner of horrors (no more proof needed oh Lord, oh mighty and dreaded Lord).

No, not the pain. I dream of it, serating the optic nerve with a rusty blade (you can tell its just a dream, Carlisle said all of our blades were immaculate) – and still I dream. Of that final act of madness. Would it work, I wonder? To finally surrender to the consumption of madness? I doubt it. It would probably prove my sanity, I've seen things that are scratched into my retinas, I am never unseeing them. Never blind to them. Never blind. I wish…

If wishes were horses then beggars would ride. My grams used to say that.

Sometimes I imagine my skull like a prison cell, with each memory or thought trying to etch its way onto the walls (the inside of my head) but there isnt enough room for them all. They overlay each other, scratching away layer by layer until holes appear. Holes, and then cracks. That's why I started to write this, I suppose. I'm frightened that the cracks will widen – that I may go blind and mad and not care who remembers any more, right now it's all I have to hold onto and sometimes my over-exerted heart will flutter with panic that I might not find someone to pass all this information onto.

If I don't, who will remember Grams? Who will remember her talcum powder scent, her hair rollers, the grateful pat of her hand or her cauliflower cheese? I have to remember. That's all I have to do, remember – and stay alive.

They used to call me crazy.

Now they just call me the Rememberer.