I am home!

I’ve been home for the last two days, taking the time to settle back into university life and back into my home in halls, which is why I haven’t updated you lot until now.

I was going to do a post every day while on the psych ward, but the wifi blocked so many things and there was barely any signal so I couldn’t post anymore since the first day, so I’m very sorry.

Since being in hospital I was able to reflect on a lot of things, and look around at my life and I realised how loved I truly am.

I got 50+ messages from my friends and family while in hospital and it made me feel so light and fluffy and loved, it was amazing. My Mental Health stayed shit, but a part of me felt safer on this earth and wanting to stay alive. It was incredible. It definitely helped me get discharged so soon.

Sitting here in my room at halls now, alone as Ollie has gone home for his own doctors’ appointments, I feel a bit lost, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t focus on my school work, I haven’t slept in five nights as my tablets have been messed around this week, and I’ve watched so many YouTube videos my head is buzzing.

I am however going out tonight with my flatmates, doing something that might calm my anxiety – dancing. I won’t be drinking much as Ollie isn’t around, so I’ll just focus on my friends, and most likely look after them as they get drunk.

I’m still watching YouTube videos, and I still feel lost, but hopefully I’ll sleep tonight and be able to snap back into University life soon.

Hopefully.

Until then, I hope you are all well.

Becky x

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Psych Ward Diaries: Day 1

Now, I’ve been on a psychiatric ward before, but that was back in 2014 when I was 16. I was put in the adolescents ward with ten other teenagers, all struggling with mental health issues as well as puberty.

It was loud!

Here however, it’s quite quiet.

I think I’m the loudest here, especially when it comes to my panic attacks. I’m crashing and banging things, making noise, all by accident thanks to these attacks.

The staff are VERY good, patient and kind, although I do have to tell them to speak up a lot of the time as I can barely hear some of them with me being deaf and all.

The first day…

I woke up late, sleeping right through breakfast and lunch, but when I woke up I went and joined art therapy. There I drew a picture of face, something I know I’m good at already, and something that’s quite straight forward for me.

I played some sims 4, and did some writing.

I had a total of three panic attacks, and one attempt. I’m definitely on their high risk scale if they have one, I’m sure. It’s okay though, because I’m here to get better.

I’m going to get better. I can’t keep living like this.

Day one was okay, not much happened. Tomorrow however Ollie’s coming to see me and I’m so excited!

Am I Lazy?

Sometimes I feel as if I’m lazy, especially since one of my illnesses in Chronic Fatigue, causing me to be exhausted constantly.

I get ill almost every other week, be it with a virus, a cold, the flu, a stomach bug, or a flare up of one of my many illnesses, and this will leave me bedridden for a couple of days, sometimes even the whole week, leaving me to look around the four walls of my bedroom feeling absolutely hopeless and disgusting.

During these days of being ill, I will do my best to do some sort of university work, even if it is just reading over some past lecture slides, or working on a presentation that needs to be done; I will also shower, doing the little things that count and washing myself daily is always a goal for me – I’ve always told people that the day I don’t wash myself is a very very bad day. There are little things that I try and do, and yet a recurring thought that goes through my head when I’m staring up at the ceiling, yet another YouTube video playing aloud, and my head usually spinning from feeling ill, is “Am I just being lazy?”

My reasons for ever missing university is if I am ill. I will not skive or skip a lesson just for the hell or it, or that I ‘Can’t be Bothered’, and I will put my all into all of the work that I am given. And yet as I lay in bed, the third day since returning to university only two and half week prior, I think to myself, “Am I Just Being Lazy?”

If I can’t walk to the kitchen without being in boat loads of pain, I don’t go into school.

If my fatigue is playing up and I’m falling asleep in the shower or in the kitchen eating my breakfast, and I can’t get my eyes to stay open and I’m walking into things, I know that I need to go back to bed and that I don’t go to school that day.

If I’m blowing my nose every second, coughing, heaving and my head is spinning, I definitely don’t go into school.

If my head is pounding and even just Ollie talking to me is hurting my head, I won’t go in because I know that I will not be able to take in any information or talk to anyone.

Sometimes people tell me that it’s best to go in to university, and that even just being there not doing anything is better than not going in at all, and I would agree. If I lived right next door to the university and it was warm enough to wear my pyjamas outside then I definitely would go to university even when I’m feeling seriously ill, but when I can barely make it out of my front door without something going wrong, how am I going to be able to walk fifteen-twenty minutes to my lecture, only to sit there feeling awful and most likely crying after for not understanding a thing, and then return home without any trouble?

I’m a perfectionist, and I hate not understanding, and yet I am also dyslexic, so I spend a lot of my time in class and reading, not understanding what’s going on so going over to the lecturer at the end of the lesson and asking their ear off, a lot of questions.

And I still ask them a load of questions, even when I’m ill, through email, and I’m pretty sure they get tired of my little email always popping up in their inbox, but it puts my mind at ease once I’ve asked the question.

My point is, if I could make it to those lessons, I would, and I would also probably enjoy those lessons, but the problem a lot of the time goes down to the travelling and the getting ready.

Sure, sitting at the back of the class with a pack of tissues, or aching all over isn’t that bad when I’m actually there and learning, but having to travel there in agony, or discomfort, or falling asleep and almost getting run over there and back from my lesson, is when the problem comes back. Risking my health for a lesson that I can quickly catch up on once I’m well; Is it worth the travel and getting worse?

I always try and limit what I do to keep myself safe, and yes that does sometimes mean saying no to going clubbing one night and instead being in bed at ten with a teddy bear, blanket and hot chocolate full drunk with biscuit crumbs at the bottom. I’m that sort of person that would rather I hosted the meetup at my house, instead of going to someone else’s place for food and a film. I’m that sort of person that likes to stay in comfort, and when that comfort means staying in bed to get better, instead of risking getting worse, I usually pick the first option and stay in bed.

But does that just mean I’m lazy?

When I was younger I used to lie to my parents that I was ill to get away from school, mainly so that I didn’t have to face bullies,  but I still did it nonetheless. Now that I truly am ill every time I write that email to the teachers to excuse myself from the lesson, I feel as if I’m that eight year old girl again, lying and saying that I’m ill just to stay in the comfort of my own home, instead of risking myself on the world.

Am I ill, or is it just my anxiety taking a hold of me?

Am I lazy, Anxious or Generally Ill?

I don’t know.

Sitting here now, I haven’t gone into university all week because of severe constipation, and even though I’ve been to the doctor; I’ve for the antibiotics; I’ve called 111, I still feel like that eight year old girl when writing the email to my teachers, explaining that yet again, I truly am ill.

Sometimes I fear that people think I’m making excuses, and that I’m lying just like my anxiety and my head tells me I am.

But I’m not lying.

I am genuinely ill, and can’t come into lesson.

So why do I feel so guilty?

Why do I feel as if I’m just being lazy?

Is it my head beating me up yet again?

I’m sick of being ill all the time, and I wish I could experience every lesson and go to every lecture and seminar as I’m sick and tired of having to catch up. I’ve spent my entire life catching up on classes, I thought university would be different but I guess not.

I don’t know, these were just some words floating in my head the last couple days.

I know I’m sick.

I know I truly am ill, a doctor even sat in front of me and told me that I am.

And yet why do I feel as if I’m just being lazy?

My Journey with Writing

Writing has always been a comfort for me, ever since I was a child when I would spend hours drawing little fairy comics in my notebooks with my sister, forcing my parents to read it as if it was a master piece.

The comics would always end up with some fairy that was sort of different or outcast-ed, being hurt or shunned in some way, and then later accepted as friends to all of the other fairies all, because one other fairy stood up against the ones being ‘mean’.

For years I would make these comics, creating the princess or the fairies or the fairy princesses.

Stories would always lurk inside my head and I would even be cast out at school for being strange, as I sat with some of the students playing ‘Pretend’, telling people to act out the stories in my head and role-playing as it were, even from an early age. We would play pretend for hours, and these stories that the other kids acted out would just be a game for the others, and yet they would be magical for me. Seeing what was in my head being acted out in front of me was something of wonder, especially when I was the main character. I am sure that if our playing ‘Pretend’ was allowed to last hours, and not cut off by the school bell or someone’s parents coming to collect them at the end of the day, then the game would last for hours until someone called it quits.

I was the daydreamer.

The one who would write for pages and pages whenever we had a creative writing task at school, even if it was only meant to be a short story. But how could you write a story, in less than a page. I’d read books after books, and those stories had been hundreds and hundreds of pages long. I wanted to match those and write for pages and pages, only later getting told off by the teachers for writing too much.

Too much?

When’s too much for a story?

Young me didn’t know, and wanted to write and write letting the words in my head unfold into a book just like I’d seen on the shelves of WHSmith and Waterstones.

Soon, playing ‘Pretend’ wasn’t cool anymore, and no one wanted to act out the stories in my head. I was bullied for making up the stories, and telling people over and over about the characters in my head; about the princesses, fairies, children and adults, all completing magical adventures. I was kicked and thrown around, called weird and a freak for having a strong imagination. I was called a nerd for writing stories that were too long, and writing stories that took up most of the exercise book.

No one wanted to play my games, and soon I was playing solo, and acting out my stories on my own, but that only encouraged the bullies more.

That was when I acquired a notebook of my own.

I had had notebooks before, but they were always for me and my sister to play around in and draw our little comics.

This times, this notebook was mine and I could create whatever I wanted.

Of course I drew myself, but myself as a magical character that I saw in my head. I was a princess, and instead of everyone bullying me, I was loved for my stories, and loved for my games. Everyone wanted to be friends with me in my world. I drew my dream house. I drew my friends and wrote stories about them and what they liked and disliked.

Myself as a Princess lived with me then, and I acted as the Princess every day.

My friends were always with me, and I would talk to them constantly. Even though no one else could see them, I could, down to the last detail. They were mine, and they were just invisible to the world as they were from another land, and didn’t want to identify themselves to anyone but me, because they could trust me.

I acquired more and more notebooks, and in these I wrote stories after stories about the adventures my friends had been on, such as being transported through books to other lands; being captured by evil beings only to escape with power; defeating monsters and riding dragons.

They did things that no one else could have dreamed of doing, and I wrote down all of their adventures as they told them too me, down to the names and words that people had said to them along the way.

I must have gotten through fifty or so notebooks writing these stories, that my parents’ bank accounts must have been burning with the amount of times we went to WHSmith to buy more, and more pencils and sharpeners too.

And then they ran out of stories.

I had written all of the stories that my friends had told me.

And yet there were more inside my head; people I had never met before, invisible or not, I could think of more characters that had gone on more and more adventures.

And then year seven hit.

I had moved away from the bullies and ready to start fresh with new people, in a smaller school that would hopefully treat me better.

But this school was further away from me, and I had quite a trip to get there, so that could only mean one thing.

More stories.

I would spend my travelling talking to my invisible friends, telling them stories on the way to the trains station, on the train and then walking to school. If no one wanted to hang out with me at break or lunch I would circle the small playground and tell these stories to myself, only to be stared at by others as if I was mad.

I realise now that I probably was a little bit mad, talking to my ‘invisible’ friends, and talking to myself all the time. I’m sure people on the train looked at me weirdly too, and didn’t know what to think of an eleven year old girl in a school uniform, talking to herself and ‘invisible’ friends. It was probably something out of a horror film for them.

And yet none the less, all through year seven I did this, and then would go home to my notebooks, and write and write all of the stories I had thought of that day and told to myself and my ‘invisible’ friends.

And then I came up with the Pheonix Series, and actually thought for the first time that I could turn these Characters into something.

So, I turned to my family computer and started writing.

I ditched the notebooks, using them to take notes on my newly thought out Phoenix Series, and instead wrote on the computer.

I would write for hours with music in the my ears. School had gotten hard, and new bullies had turned up, but I kept going with my stories and made sure to never lose my imagination. My Phoenix Series was my escape. I no longer turned to my ‘invisible’ friends, and instead turned to Joanna.

I turned to Joanna Dollbrook, a girl was magical powers and the main source to find out who she is and why her parents had been murdered. I was in my element with my favourite girl, telling her story and hogging the computer.

I would throw fits if I had an idea for my writing, and yet my sister was on the computer doing her work.

I needed to write, and my notebooks were no longer an option. I needed the computer.

And then that Christmas.

THAT CHRISTMAS!

I got a laptop.

My parents had got me a laptop.

This was something I was so excited for and treasured with my life.

I would do my travelling and day at school telling myself about this girl Joanna, and would then come home to my Laptop! My baby! My life! I would escape the world of bullies and nagging sisters, and go into the magical world, being a student at Foxswift School of Magic.

The corner of the living room, everything plugged in, my Ipod on charge, and my ears plugged into music, I would sit for hours with a blanket over my knees just writing and getting sucked into the world.

When I had finished my book I had given it to my Dad to write, someone I admired heavily and wanted to impress.

He said it was very dark.

It was dark. It was a very dark novel, and I remember then I had thought that it wasn’t dark, and that it was normal like all of the other books I had read. But it wasn’t. Because I was going through such a dark time in my life, being bullied and my depression starting to hit me harder than it had hit me before, my writing had been reflected off that and my writing had gotten dark.

No matter what I did to try and change my writing, my dad would always say that it was dark.

I would sulk, wanting my writing to be light and easy to read, instead of heavy and full of depression like it was.

I instead stopped editing and going over my first book, and instead turned to book two and started writing that.

This time, it wasn’t going to be dark.

I did the same as I always did, and travelled to school, this time not talking to myself and keeping myself quiet, ignoring my ‘invisible’ friends, and focusing on my book, and the second tale of Joanna Dollbrook. I wanted my dad to love the book, and say that it was light and easy, and yet brilliant.

I would get back from school, sit in my little corner with my ears pounding with music, and wrote and wrote.

I wrote so much, that I know now, it had turned into an addiction.

Writing was an addiction.

I guess, it’s one of the better addictions you can have. After all, you could be addicted to smoking or drugs, alas, I was addicted to creating my stories.

But this affected my work, and soon my writing turned into my everything. Instead of doing my work at school I would daydream about the Phoenix Series and come up with stories when I should have been writing. When I was doing exams, no matter how hard I tried, my stories would cloud my brain and my ‘invisible’ friends would come out wanting to play. I would get told off for telling nothing to ‘Go Away, I’m working.’ and get concerning looks every time I covered my ears and closed my eyes tight trying to focus on my school work, instead of telling my stories.

Whenever I got a creative writing piece however, I would write and write and write, just like I had done when I was younger, and yet this time be praised.

I’m sure it wasn’t fair, giving the teacher so much to read. And I’m sure that teacher only decided to read a page of it, instead of reading it all, and I find that quite funny. I was just a small kid with a story in my brain. Which adult would take that seriously that wasn’t a psychologist?

And yet I would come home and still write.

I would give in to my stories and continue to write them down, sometimes before I had even done my homework.

It got to the point where my parents told me that I had to do homework before writing, and tell it to me strictly so that I would take them seriously and do as I was told.

Writing was my everything, and I would never get away from it, doing it every day.

It had gotten to the end of book three when I was fourteen going fifteen, and then met my first proper boyfriend.

He loved my stories, and my nerdy reading self, but saw my imagination as more of a threat than something to praise.

Here was a human who wanted to hang out with me, and yet I would rather be writing. And soon I realised, I want to hang out with him too. Writing days would soon get taken over by spending time with him, and soon I was coming away from writing.

My stories were still fluent in my brain, and I was having fun.

My eyes were open, suddenly open and I started seeing the world more clearly. My stories were a blur, and the real world was in front of me. I still read all the time, mainly Harry Potter, but also other things, but as I started making new friends in yet again another new school, I wrote and wrote less often.

I started wearing makeup and wore tight skirts.

I started thinking about my boyfriend and wanting to impress people.

People thought I was still an innocent daydreamer, but they also thought I was funny and that I had a good brain on me. And everything seemed okay.

As I escaped the land of my stories and my ‘invisible’ friends, the world around me was less foggy and actually seemed quite bright, and that reflected in my books.

It took me longer to write my fourth book, going into my first relationship and having a tight nit friendship group for the first time in my life.

Everything was good.

And then the abuse happened.

I guess in some cases you don’t know you’re being abused until after it happens. And I know now that I was being abused. I was being punished for being a daydreamer, and teased by my friends and boyfriend for being innocent and a ‘prude’. I was pushed around, slapped, punched, kicked, thrown around. I was being told that I would only be pretty skinny. I was told a lot of things that I now know are bullshit, but then I took seriously.

And my writing turned dark.

When I came home crying in my room, not letting my parents see my tears I would go back to my writing and write and write my heart out into the early hours of the night.

If I slept I got nightmares, so soon I chose not to sleep and instead write.

Writing was my friend and my comfort.

Joanna Dollbrook was the one friend who didn’t tease me or treat me horribly. I had her and no one could take her away from me.

I grew thin. I grew angry. I grew severely depressed and soon the only thing keeping me alive was my writing.

I would only live for my writing and nothing else.

If I died, what would happen to my Phoenix Series, left alone and untold to the world. I wanted to see my stories out there and told. That’s what kept me alive. I needed my writing, and at the time it felt like my writing needed me to keep it alive.

When the abusive relationship was over my writing was my only escape.

I submerged myself in these letters on a screen and turned to them for support.

After the bad relationship I was left with no friends, and I was alone.

My writing kept me sane enough to not go through with a lot of suicide attempts.

I ended up in hospital.

Now I won’t talk about the next couple years, but let’s just say they weren’t pretty.

My mental health had taken a turn for the worse, and I was in a very low, unstable place. My addiction grew for my writing, but so did buying things and harming myself. It was not a pretty couple years.

My Mental Health stayed bad, and I ended up getting Insomnia after my many nights forcing myself awake for my writing, and because of my nightmares. And yet, I was able to get through all of that and stay alive.

But then I grew.

As I grew older though, my writing lessened. I was more focused on adult things, such as work, friends and socialising. I would open my eyes a little bit more, and try not to get so clouded in mental health and my writing.

But then I got taught that maybe writing didn’t have to be a dark place, and I got taught through editing my first book, that maybe something that was dark and dismal, can be rebuilt into a bright and happier place.

With my eyes wider and a smile on my face a little bigger, I edited my first book with a teacher of mine, spending our English lessons working on my book instead of doing actual English work (But it was a special school so I could do that without harm to any work).

My dark dark book turned brighter and happier.

This newly bright book, with of course some dark bits in it, was brought to life and I saw my book as a work of art instead of an escape.

So I published it.

I then joined a college and started doing musical theatre, something else I treasure and love with all of my heart, and I may even tell my musical theatre story too later on in the year if its okay with you.

Writing soon turned a little distant as musical theatre cluttered my brain, and the thought of maybe being an author one day was pushed to the back of my brain, as being a successful west end performer took over.

I wrote every so often, but dancing, acting and singing was usually more on my brain.

And then I met Ollie, and he encouraged my writing.

I wrote, and he loved it.

Yes, he knew back then that I was a full on daydreamer, but he loved it and didn’t punish it like the last boyfriend did.

I started writing when I could, able to focus my mind on my homework and my writing at the same time, something that I had never been able to do before.

My eyes got brighter and so did my writing as I edited the second book in the Phoenix Series, and also wrote the fifth book.

Writing and Writing, I found my love for it again, but this time knew that too much and I would grow addicted so I knew when to stop.

I think I wrote a little too much, now that my second book is over 800 pages, but what can you do? I can’t get my heart to lower the pages and take away anything from the story. My writing is my writing, and my heart won’t allow to take anything my brain came up with, away.

Then the shit all happened at college and I was dismissed from my course for having Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue, and again, I turned to my writing, and of course, Ollie.

Then work happened, and writing was cancelled out as I never had time with the amount of times I worked during the week.

But I missed writing, so I applied to university to do Creative Writing.

So, writing is the reason I’m here at university now.

Thanks to being kicked from my college course I have to do a Foundation course before going into my degree, which led my down the path of journalism.

I still do my writing as all of you know, having started a blog and all, and am in the current time of writing The Supernova and the Phoenix Series at the same time. I’m finding things that remind me of my characters every day, but I’m not as submerged as I used to be as a child. My ‘invisible’ friends pop up to me now and again to try and distract me, and get me to pay attention to them and their games, but usually now only remain in my head and talk to me there.

My writing now is usually my work, but when I get down to it I write my books, and who knows, maybe I will have something published in actual pages and hardcover one day. I will never know.

So yeah, that was the story of my writing and what it’s been over my life.

Quite a roller coaster? You’re telling me, but writing is my life, and something I love doing no matter what it’s for. My stories play in my head every day and are my loves. Part of me still lives for my books, but its not the only thing anymore.

I’ve grown, and so has my writing.

But for now, I will leave you to work on The Supernova, and probably get some tea.

Becky x

Feature Picture credit: anon. Found on Tumblr.

A Little Bit of University Work

There’ll be some interesting posts coming to this blog in the next few months as in university we are looking at BLOGGING!

I will be using this blog to post some work, and I will be sharing my research and interests through university work, on here, so stay tuned.

They won’t be boring posts – I hope. I will make them as interesting as possible for you all. They will just be a bit more informative and informational as my posts usually aren’t.

There will be academic writing, reviews, and much more.

Stay tuned!

I’m a Little Sore, but I Still Went Pokemon Hunting…

I seem to have gotten ill again.

Typical, isn’t it. I’ve seemed to be okay over the holiday, yes extremely sore and having flare ups frequently, but not ill ill.

Now? I seem to have the mix of a cold and flu and it’s SO frustrating because I’m excited for this semester. We’re going to be BLOGGING! And doing projects that are in our own control and on our own instead of a group, finally! Yes, we have one group project, but the rest are individual, and I can’t wait to work my arse off on those projects!

But anyway, today was good, I guess, besides feeling like crap and just wanting to curl up in bed and watch YouTube.

Ollie treated me with chicken nuggets from McDonalds, which was cheeky of me but it was worth it. It was nice to have something unhealthy after being quite healthy for a few weeks. It’s something rebelliously delightful about having a treat, and part of me regrets the McDonalds, trip, but part of me loves it. The nuggets were so good.

Ollie also tempted me outside with a good, old fashioned game.

Now, the game is not old. Only a year or two old I think.

No, but the game is a classic and I’ve recently redownloaded it onto my phone, as has Ollie. It’s Pokemon Go! Read my review on the game HERE! That was a post from AGES ago, but I still did it.

Although I thought classes were a little too difficult to attend as I know that the information given would just not go in, and I would just be sitting there not able to participate and feeling like crap – I was still able to go on a little stroll around town with Ollie so that I wasn’t cooped up in my room all day.

We went Pokemon hunting, and it was so much fun to play the game again and get out of the house for a little bit. Some people may think that maybe I could have gone into class if I was able to go on a stroll, but I truly couldn’t go in. My pain was so greatly sore, and besides, the walk was not that long. It was to Waterstones to get a book for Ollie, to the pharmacy to get my medication and then back home. Very quick, and not I’m curled up in my bed again feeling really crap and sore and shitty. I just want to watch YouTube videos now, and read my new book The Handmaid’s Tale which I’m very excited to get stuck into!

Did I tell you we’re learning about the future in one of our modules? I can’t wait! And we’re learning about my favourite book Ready Player One! I had to hide my excitement from everyone when we all found out.

Anyway, I’m going to sign off.

I will now wear Ollie’s hoodie, and watch him most likely play video games, or Rooster Teeth or Funhaus play video games.

I will speak to you soon,

Becky x

Back At University

I am back!

After a long break and rest at home, I am back to Southampton for university to start up again on Monday, and even though I am excited to be back with all of my friends, and especially excited to be back living with Ollie again, there is a longing for going back home.

I long to be with my parents again and Lucy.

We just had so much fun while I was at home – fun that I would have taken advantage of before if I hadn’t gone away to begin with.

It was just so nice to be with family, and getting back home I didn’t realise how much I missed them until I got home, and suddenly I couldn’t bare to leave again.

I don’t think I should be writing this while crying, but honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to not write this Coming Back To University post without tears in my eyes, because of how much I don’t want to be away from home.

I want the degree.

I want to be at home.

But commuting to this university is out of the question, and I would miss Oliver so much if I moved back home – more to these thoughts in my post HERE!

Sometimes I think that maybe I shouldn’t have picked a university so far away from home, but I truly fell in love with Southampton Solent, and couldn’t picture myself anywhere else.

After yesterday of walking around the city with my friend, and a game or two with the flatmates in the evening, I am officially back, and the next day I am ill. Of course.

My health had been okay over the holidays, but I think it’s because I rarely left my little sofa in the house. I rarely left it and did anything with my day, unless I truly had to, and already this week I have done far more than I have done any other week during the holidays.

I don’t know.

I have a mix amount of feelings.

I’m excited to be back with my friends.

I’m excited to start new classes next week.

And yet I want to go back home to my parents and dog.

I want to stay here as it means I get to live with Ollie.

I want to go back home because home is home, and I’m comfortable there.

I don’t want to do any more learning because learning is hard and I don’t think I’m doing well in my grades.

I don’t want to and can’t look after myself as I don’t do that well at all with my pain and fatigue always yelling down at me.

I want to go back to somewhere where I was looked after and loved every day with parents and dog.

I want a ball of fluff waking me up every morning by lying on top of me and falling asleep on my bed.

I’m crying so much as I write this and I need to stop.

Okay, I’m going to go and have a good cry.

Ollie is not back until tomorrow, so I will see you all soon.

 

Becky x