I am home for Christmas '“ back in my beloved place

This is not a confession I make easily. To utter the words, never mind share them, makes me feel at the very least, uncomfortable.

A year ago, on a chance wandering down a street in Kirkcaldy, I looked up and saw the ‘for sale’ sign and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had found my home.

The hallowed walls spoke of the past.

It was a writer’s dream.

And for six months, it was exactly that.

Plotlines and characters launched into the starry dark nights above, and my only worry was if I could not catch them all in time.

Then, my world changed. A new neighbour moved in next-door and the music started; bleeding through the walls 20 feet away from the early afternoon until four in the morning.

The next week it was screaming fights in the street. Then strangers began to arrive at various times of the day and night.

I tried to tackle it myself. I knocked on the door and asked for some consideration.

I tried to be friendly. I tried to be polite.

Then I got annoyed, then angry, a rare occurrence for me.

Then I started to feel nervous, as I sat at work and as the clock turned 4pm, my stomach would start to churn at the thought of going home. It went on for months.

I started to feel unsafe.

Imagine, waking up in the early hours of the morning to the sounds of footsteps in the shared roof space as something is pulled along the ceiling above your head.

Your heart gallops and, for a moment, you wish yourself away, making yourself so small and so quiet you could almost disappear. It happened every night.

When I complained, it got worse.

Banging doors, screaming and shouting.

Strangers looking into my window, and my roof space became a regular meeting place.

I had no choice but to fight back, to protect my home and myself.

I thought I was doing okay. I felt anxious and sick most of the time, but I kept going.

Soon, it became obvious that the worry was imprinted. My fingers turned blue as I developed Raynaud’s syndrome, and the words, my ability to express myself, stopped as I developed writer’s block and that, more than anything, upset me.

Then, one day, I came home and something had been left on my front door step. I won’t tell you what it was.

I’m not easily intimidated, so when I say I was scared, believe it is true.

Two days later, I moved back in with my parents.

Rock bottom isn’t easy. I felt guilty for being a burden, as my parents, generous and loving, became part of this drama I had brought to their door.

For a couple of weeks, having not slept for months, I cried myself to sleep. I wondered why this had happened to me.

And, when my nerves became a little less frayed and I was able to sleep for a whole night, something fundamental occurred to me.

Trapped within the stress and upset I had forgotten who I was.

I’m very resourceful and if I want to achieve anything, I move heaven and earth to make it happen.

So, I got to work.

It wasn’t easy, some days I felt like I was fighting against a tidal wave. Other days there were tiny shreds of hope and an inch of movement forward.

Conversations with family and friends were high-jacked as they also confessed to their own experiences with anti-social behaviour, which had affected them to varying degrees.

Some had moved home, others had reported it, and, to this day, some still lived with it.

Every day, I told myself, I wouldn’t always live like this.

Then, one day, after four months of letters, e-mails and meetings. I received the phone call that told me that I could go home. I can’t fully put in words the raw emotion of the moment.

The utter euphoria of knowing I could resume a life that had, effectively, been put on hold.

Some circumstances in life are meant to happen so you can look in the mirror and know who you truly are.

I have learned to have courage when I thought I had none, and I have learned to never give up,even in the face of defeat.

So, I share my story, not for attention or pity, but in the hope that if someone is going through a hard time, or has similar issues and is wondering if there is light at the end of the tunnel ... I am here to tell you that there is.

Don’t ever give up on the life you want to live. Fight for it.

Create an incident log of dates, times, what happened, witnesses and reference numbers.

If you speak to anyone, always follow it up in writing.

Speak to your neighbours and get as much support and corroboration as you can.

Don’t be shamed into silence – speak to friends, family, Victim Support and The Samaritans. Ask for the help you need.

Don’t be afraid to call the police. I wish I had done it earlier.

Contact your councillors, MSPs and MP.

Don’t ever give up hope. You won’t always live like this.

I would to thank those who took the time to listen to me during the last few months.

Your love and support has meant the world to me and without it I would not be back at home embarking on new adventures.

A lot of people helped me get here and these two simple words cannot fully express my gratitude.

Thank you.

I’m home for Christmas.