While the physical wounds have mostly healed, the psychological ones run very, very deep. I wake up, shivering and crying, feeling guilty that I survived while others perished.

July 7 was a sticky London morning. I work as a clerk at Barclays in North London. That morning, I left our family’s terraced home in Edmonton — I live with my mum, dad, brother and sister — pleased that I was going on a banking course in Central London.

At King’s Cross, my carriage was packed, but everyone was good-humoured. I was standing inches from two strangers, chatting to each other about the cramped conditions.

Then it happened. The explosion, the wails in the dark, the fire and the severed limbs. I heard some horrible, guttural screams that a person can only make when they are in inconsolable pain.

Everyone knows now from newspapers and television what passengers saw that day. But it was the smell — the blood and the soot — that stays with you for the longest time.

For four or five seconds, I was sure that I was going to die. It is a feeling that has not left me since the accident, and sneaks up on me when I least expect it — when I am washing up or putting out the bins.

I escaped from the tunnel, stepping over bodies, trying to help some, seeing others die. I grabbed the arm of a young dark-haired woman who was also making her way outside, and together, we clung to each other as we walked out into Russell Square.

As we made our way out of the square, we heard a bang — the bus bomb had exploded. It felt as if the world was coming to an end.

I was injured, but nothing compared with others. I had shards of glass embedded in my arm, and in my hair. I was suffering from whiplash. I was coughing from smoke inhalation.

At first, I was elated to be alive, and experienced a real high. But within a couple of days, I started to suffer from panic attacks. I would shake, my heart beating furiously.

The day after the bombings I went to my GP, who tended my wounds. He told me that I had no need to see a counsellor. Later that day I returned with my uncle who demanded that I be given professional, psychological help, which I received that afternoon.

I took a week off work and wrongly thought that that would be enough time to come to terms with what had happened. My doctor prescribed tranquillisers. Since then, I have not been able to live without the pills.

For the first week after the bombing, I stayed at home, not talking very much, crying a lot, trying not to think about what happened. More recently I have become angry at the way in which people can just carry on with their trivial lives, while others have suffered so much.

Two weeks ago I watched friends sitting in their car, playing loud music, laughing and joking. I felt like shaking them and saying ‘how can you just carry on as if nothing has happened?’ No one, apart from other victims, can understand what I have been through. I feel increasingly isolated, and there seems to be no help out there.

My family, who are from Turkey, have always been very close and have tried to help. During that first week they did not know if I wanted to talk about what had happened, or forget about it. I felt like a baby again, and sought comfort in my dogs, two bull terriers.

I thought that my mother might become upset if I talked to her about it. The only person to whom I have told the true story and described those unbelievable scenes is my boyfriend.

By the second week I felt strong enough to return to work. I could not face travelling on the Underground, or even walking past a Tube station. It was during that week that bombers tried to strike for a second time. I was at work when I heard about it, and again, headed home to be comforted by my family. The fear made me physically sick.

I feel at my lowest at night. On Saturday I called the Samaritans because I felt suicidal. It helped to talk to a stranger. I shook off that numb, guilty feeling.

When I see the bombers’ faces in newspapers, I feel so angry. I cannot describe the hatred that I feel for them.

I don’t understand how they think that they committed an act of God. They are using Islam, my religion, as an excuse.

The last month has taught me what really matters, and what is trivial. I feel so blessed that I did not die that day, and want to do some good with my life, to combat the guilt I feel for others.

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