My Dad and I were out one day. I knew he was going to vote, but I thought he would go into the polling station then we could go home. I had no idea what was to come.

We arrived at the Church where the polling station was that day, he parked but didn’t get out of the car, so I looked over his way. He blurted it out there and then that he wanted me to vote Brexit, although I already made it clear I had no intention to. He made vague promises of how this will be better for my future and begged for me to vote Brexit.

We sat there, throwing our thoughts back and forth. All I could think about was having telepathic abilities to lift my wheelchair out of the boot of the car, but no, I was stuck in this car, relying on my old man to either drive, vote or get my wheelchair so I could go home. Being weak-willed, I eventually broke and snapped back.

“Fine.”

That was it, I was voting Brexit. My first vote. Now, a big regret.

I had no clue what leave or remain meant or what the knock on affect would be. I didn’t know you could spoil your ballot paper. I entered the polling station and slowly took in my surroundings. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever been in this Church before even though it was just around the corner from us.

We waited, we got out ballot paper, we voted and we left. Who knew one tick could change someone's life?

I went back home and researched (and by ‘research’, I mean looking at the hashtags on twitter) what I had just agreed to. Honestly, I was disgusted with some peoples attitudes towards other human beings. I saw death threats, vile insults towards Brexiters. I honestly felt bad for them, as I would any other human because death threats are a big no-no to me. I think for the majority of people, actually.

To this day I don’t really understand politics, I don’t think I ever will. I can tell you quite a bit about sharks, Winnie the Pooh and other things, but politics is where I draw a blank. I just knew what I saw as just and unjust. Please keep in mind my opinions have changed since I was a child.

My Dad and My Grandma voted Brexit, so obviously it was a big talking point in my life. Slowly, through consuming the media from the likes of Sargon of Akkad, Paul Joseph Watson, Milo Yiannopoulus and Blaire White I found a ‘community’. I started repeating the talking points I was absorbing, a lot of it being borderline to blunt racism, anti Muslim rhetoric, homophobia, transphobia, ableism etc. I didn’t realise that in the beginning, I just knew I got a lot of positive attention from Brexiters, I was praised for being a smart young person, sometimes told that I was smart and apparently attractive by some guys. Even my Dad seemed proud of me. I hadn’t even thought about the rhetoric I was saying, I just said what was expected of me at that point. I didn’t think of any direct or indirect harm I may be causing to others, I just did what was expected of me.

Fast forward a little, I started attending protests, so this is where my words turn into negative actions. I thought I was doing something good, I thought I was being pro — active by wanting to go out and speak to people at the counter protests. Naïve me didn’t know the police kept both side apart to prevent a riot breaking out.

Shocker, I didn’t have a good experience with the Brexiters. Well, the majority of them at least. There words never reflected their actions. They would rant about protecting women and children from grooming gangs, which is a belief the majority of the public hold. I should have told them they aren’t unique there. Unsurprisingly, the men in this crowd were just as dangerous as any other person in this world.

My introduction to the dangers were at a Christmas party. I was too drunk, embarrassingly drunk. I kept falling out my wheelchair so someone eventually placed me on a pub bench with an arm so I couldn’t fall anymore. While I was stuck there, trying to come back to the present, an acquaintance of mine called Frankie came and sat next to me. I knew of Frankie, but he never left any real impression on me, but he made sure to that night.

While I was stupidly intoxicated, he started drunkenly ranting about communism, china and other stuff I didn’t take in and frankly, didn’t care about. He started leaning in for a kiss, I pushed him away, shook my head but he was insistent. This carried on for too long, the battle between his body weight and me trying to balance whilst being drunk and disabled. I just kept saying ‘no’ and ‘stop it’ over and over. It escalated to him putting his hand up my skirt, trying to get to my crotch.

Every now and then our mutual friends asked if we were okay. I was confused, almost in a daze, trying to collect my thoughts in a split second. Frankie reassured them we were fine, they left and the battle began again.

I don’t remember how or when it stopped. I remember Frankie tried to kiss me before I left but I dodged him, and luckily, other people were around us. I went back to my hotel, messaged my then boyfriend and cried till I fell asleep.

A big voice in the community later claimed everything was consensual when I tried to speak up. To her, I was a willing participant who was just hiding the fact I cheated on my then boyfriend. Other people came forward to defend him, even people I called friends.

Frankie was lucky. He was given an excuse by many, he had autism so ‘he didn’t really understand what he was doing’, which is an ableist statement in itself. The responsibility on me. I shut up, I was a coward, but if anyone did ask, I’ve always been honest with everyone. Now is my chance to say my piece.

Next morning, Frankie bragged on Facebook.

There was one time whilst at a protest in London where someone — no clue who — walked past, groped my chest and then ran off. I was kissed by a strange man, but the worst was the night I shared a bed with a guy we shall call Ben. This wasn’t the original plan, but by the time everyone was ready to go to bed, everyone was drunk. No one was in the right state of mind to go home. Ben had been flirting with me all through the night as we all played board games and moaned about the ‘fookin’ lefties’. I was sober, so to escape the madness for a bit I decided to go to the bathroom. As soon as I got out, Ben was there. He tried to pin me against a wall, I tried to make my way out. Luckily, the drunk party hostess dragged us away, insisting we were missing the fun. We weren’t, everyone was just drunk.

Bedtime came around, sleeping arrangements followed. Surprise! I placed in the same bed as Ben, but I was too scared to be an inconvenience.

I didn’t sleep. I was awake, alert and hyper aware of every movement, every breath he took. I felt him moving closer, breathing down my neck. He cuddled me, I closed my eyes hoping he would leave me alone. No. I felt him wriggling out of his trousers, I continued to pretend to be asleep. It didn’t stop, I felt my trousers moving down my waist and next thing I know, his penis is my bum. He thrusts and thrusts. At this point, I’m wide eyed, shocked. I accepted and complied, until I got bored of how long he was taking. I turned my head to ask if he was done, he didn’t get the message, so I said:

“If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to scream.”

Night turned to day and I was so thankful to go home that day, to shower, feel clean and be in my bed, alone.

After that night, the protest we had all been to before was being heavily criticised online. In the line up of original speakers, Ali Dawah, an Islamic activist was meant to speak, which I was actually excited for. The majority of Tommy’s audience weren’t happy, but I’ll expand on that later. The day was called ‘The Day for Freedom’, where we were giving the middle finger to the ‘government that was silencing us’ (clearly wasn’t considering we were right outside Westminster, but go off I guess). It was some bullshit served with a beautiful, righteous bow. We weren’t really there for the reasons above, we were just sheep following our lord and saviour, Tommy Robinson.

Anyway, to speak about the Day for Freedom. In short, it sucked. It was a horrible summer day, no shade filled with long winded speeches all parroting one another. The only person there who was really entertaining and as far as I know, has remained consistent in their views, was a drag queen called Vanity Von Glow.

Every other speaker there were boring and predictable. It wasn’t a day for free speech, it was a day for a certain type of speech, a certain world view. Advertising it as a day for Free Speech was just the better way to advertise it I guess, because hey, who can disagree with free speech? Apparently people in this movement can.

As stated before, Ali Dawah was significant because him merely attending unsurprisingly made Tommy’s sheep angry. The mental gymnastics people did to defend Tommy was mind-boggling. The video circled twitter and other online spaces, there was nothing to defend and people had ago at me when I pointed that out, the Tommy lads were immediately hostile towards Ali, barely letting him speak and they started the fighting. Even if Ali hadn’t been invited to speak, he still had every right to be there if he wished.

Ali Dawah and Tommy had their arguments in the past, both of them seemed to never really let it go. I always saw their arguments as a non-issue in the grand scheme of things, just two people who didn’t like each other. I didn’t care, but when Ali was announced I embraced it. This was the day for freedom. Freedom of thought freedom of religion, freedom to criticise one another openly in a civilised manner. Tommy and Lucy Brown both announced this on their social medias, it was official. Lucy being one of Tommy’s support staff at the time.

When Ali Dawah was announced, I was shocked but I embraced this. Others responded in anger, I suppose they felt betrayed by Tommy. Tommy built his following on criticizing Islam and Muslim hatred. The response to Ali Dawah attending this event was pathetic. Regardless, Ali turned up to speak like it had been agreed, which — as I linked above-led to a big fight. Fists were flying from Tommy’s cult and then Ali’s two or three friends who were there for moral support and probably protection. It was disgusting, but it had all been documented. Tommy had announced it on his Facebook page with a video. I believe Lauren Southern used it in her video, The WHOLE Truth. Timestamp: 57:05.

Tommy’s response to the anger? Blame Lucy. Tommy denied posting about it and instead it was his ‘admin’. Blaming Lucy sent a ton of harassment her way, death threats and more. Lucy dropped everything to work with Tommy and that was his gratitude. There is so much more to it, but I don’t feel it’s my story to tell, all I can say is I was pissed. She was a close friend, she is an incredible person who got swept up in all this. Luckily, I think she is on the up now. I don’t know for sure, but I hope she is.

Tommy was the figure head of the far-right, he had to keep his image clean. That’s how all of them were, as long as they weren’t knee deep in their own bullshit, it was fine. Just pass it on to someone else and pretend it didn’t happen. Milo Yiannopoulus did the same thing with the ‘White Privilege Grant’. He raised $100,000 so it was obviously something enough people cared about.

Months go by and nothing came of it, people started questioning him. He gave the blame to Margret MacLennan. There seems to be a pattern here of the figure heads people admired giving all the blame to their support staff. Margret was his support staff until she back out due to Milo’s mismanagement. Milo carried on like nothing ever happened.

I don’t know what I found attractive about it all. There were so many times I felt like the token whelchair friend. I suppose it was me craving to belong somewhere, only to stumble into this rabbit hole of chaos. I didn’t belong there. To add a shitty metaphor, I was that puzzle piece that an impatient toddler would force to fit anywhere possible just to make the picture complete. I thought I had a voice there, but I didn’t because I knew my voice wasn’t the message they wanted to hear. I tried to speak up, I tried civil discourse but it wasn’t possible. I was either put down for being too young, dismissed or shouted over. I stayed in my box, I complied with the unspoken law of these people.

The night of the Day for Freedom, the hostess asked me about my love life. I told her about my ex who just happened to be transgender, female to male. She cut me off there, asking me why I don’t want a ‘proper man’. I responded saying that it really didn’t matter to me, I loved him and that was all I needed to be with him. Then came the question of biological children, which I never wanted anyway. None of this stopped her, I was a young, pretty girl who needed to be in love with a ‘proper man’ because anything else wasn’t right for me. My feelings? They’re invalid. What I want? Didn’t matter. Who made me happy? They decided for me. All this conversation seemed to me was her telling me that my whole existence was simply to keep Britain ‘pure’ and proper. There was a role for me to play, but in this moment, this conversation opened my eyes that nobody wanted to listen to me. Nobody cared about me, these weren’t friends or the family unit they said they were. We were pawns in a game I wanted no part in.

Days, weeks, months went by after the Day for Freedom. I finally published an article announcing I was leaving this movement. Not to brag but I had a decent Twitter following at the time, I felt like I had to make an official statement because a lot of me knew me in the streets as my old Twitter handle. A lot of people let me know they were disappointed in me and how they expected better from me. I was labelled a snake, traitor to the cause, useless, weak. I felt proud, I had a clear conscience in calling them out on their bullshit.

I left, free but also kind of lost. I was finding myself for the first time. No longer in the shadow of my Dad or people around me. For the first time in years, I was me. I found my core beliefs, I saw humanity differently. I looked to the outside world and saw something beautiful, people open and full of love. The world wasn’t scary anymore, I was overwhelmed with hope. I worked through the indoctrination and repressing myself to get to this point in time where I am writing this in a small business, LGBTQ+ café that has slowly become my home away from the house I live in.

As you can guess, I am a completely different person to the person who ticked Brexit on a ballot paper. I feel more me, not like anyone's puppet. I’m not involved in any movement, I don’t want to be. I will call out injustice when I see it, but it’s not something I dedicate too much of myself to. Except the finning industry and fishing industry as a whole, I would love to help in Marine conservation.

I am exploring my identity and who I know I am. I’m not listening to the outside world, just myself. I’m exploring the fact I maybe neurodivergent, my gender identity and much more. Stuff I never thought to unpack because it wasn’t ‘ideal’ or ‘picture perfect’ for the movement. I pushed my thoughts and feelings down. Now, with the help of someone incredibly special, I’ve unpacked so much with so much honesty, security and love that I never thought I’d deserve.

If there is anything I want anyone to take away from this, just be yourself. Stand your ground and never be pressured into anything. Find people who you can talk to without fear, don’t be afraid. Life is short, don’t waste it being someone you despise.

I haven’t wrote anything in a while. That is a mixture of lack of motivation and time, but after waking up today and feeling emotionally numb, this is my attempt to make myself feel better.

On the 11th of October, 2019 I went to see The Rasmus in Bristol for their Dead Letters tour. When this tour was announced I knew I had to get tickets. The Dead Letters album was released back in the UK back in 2004 and ever since their song In The Shadows seemed to overtake Kerrang! TV and Scuzz, I loved them. I was already into rock music thanks to my Dad, but until I found The Rasmus, my music taste wasn’t really my own yet. The only CD I remember in the house that were mine at the time was Will Smith’s single ‘Just the Two of Us’ which my Dad gave me when I was very young. Dead Letters was the first album which I wanted.

I still remember the day I got it. Dad and I had gone to Tesco for something, we got back in the car and Dad told me he had a surprise for me. He then proceeded to hand me my own copy of the CD. I remember being so excited to finally have a CD with music on that I adored, I put it straight into the CD player and begun to learn the lyrics to the rest of their songs.

For Christmas one year, Santa had gotten me a The Rasmus CD. Live Letters. I vividly remember putting it on, turning my bedroom into a venue, setting my teddies up as an audience, climbing onto my bed, grabbing a fake microphone and pretending I was Lauri. That was until my brother walked in and asked me what the hell I was doing.

For my seventh birthday my Mum and Dad had both told me they had a surprise for me. I went to school, excited to go home and find out what the surprise was. I thought I’d get home and would be able to see it straight away, but Mum and Dad explained I had to wait a bit longer. My sisters friend, Nicole, did accidentally give me a hint, not knowing that I didn’t know what it was at all. She asked me if I was excited to a The Rasmus concert this evening. Being a shy kid, my head was down, I didn’t talk much but the minute I heard the band name, my head shot up and I demanded to know what she meant. She said concert, what is a concert? My sister quickly shut down the conversation in an attempt to save the surprise, so I went to my Dad but even he wouldn’t give me answers, which was unlike him. If Dad wouldn’t tell me, no one would, so I got in the car on my way to I didn’t know where and tried to forget about it. That was until we arrived, I saw some guy selling The Rasmus t — shirts, and little me didn’t make the link, I just thought it was a coincidence. I remember saying to my mum,

“LOOK! THE RASMUS! Why are they selling those here?”

We carried on towards the venue. I saw the merch table and was straight over there, looking towards my Dad, begging him to get me a shirt. He said no because they didn’t have my size, I protested saying I wouldn’t mind if it was a large. He was adamant that it would look silly and would be better for me to get a wristband, so I did. I asked Dad what wristbands were for, he explained they’re usually used to collect sweat, which I thought was gross but it looked cool.

Still, I had no clue why we were here. The support band came on, still no clue. Then, the lights went down, people cheered and all eyes were on the stage. I watched these silhouettes walk on stage, what gave it away was the feathers in Lauri’s hair. I was shocked. Shocked that they were real people, I’d only ever saw them in music videos and interviews so this whole thing felt surreal.

Now I was seven, I was still only little. The adrenaline had tired me out. I remember falling asleep listening to ‘Not Like the Other Girls’. I woke to my mother pulling my arm, I pulled away in frustration asking what she was doing. My Mum and my Dad were putting a t — shirt on me. Dad had brought me one on the way out while I was still asleep. I still have that today.

It was that year my Dad and I lost my Granddad. Again, being seven, I had no concept of death. I thought we were born and lived forever. I went to my Granddad’s funeral, my last chance to say goodbye, and I didn’t know that it was my Granddad’s body in that coffin. I was only sad that day when I saw my Dad cry in the Church, with my Grandma crying on his shoulder. I just thought Granddad was somewhere else. The pub or something.

It wasn’t until we next went to see my Grandparents, I was confused. I asked my Nan where Granddad was and she just looked at me in shock, then she looked to my Dad. I felt as if I had asked something wrong. Dad told me he would explain later. Ever since then, I have just felt guilt. Guilt for not saying goodbye when I could. After that whole thing, on the nights Dad and I would go on car rides to get away from our bad home life, whenever the song ‘Still Standing’ came out, I would sing it ‘to Granddad’. That song was my goodbye.

I continued to love the band, specially as I went into my teens. I said to Dad on the way to see them recently, the reason I loved them as a child was because their lyrics made sense of my suicidal thoughts back then. ‘In The Shadows’ has a line that goes,

‘ They say that I must learn to kill before I can feel safe. But I, I’d rather kill myself than turn into their slave.’

For me, that was in reference to my mother and sister. Being who they wanted me to be, which was something completely different to who I am.

Another lyric from their song ‘Night After Night’,

‘ Night after night I wake up crying ‘cause I feel like dying.’

That song is from their album ‘Hide From the Sun’, but I feel as if it gives context as to why I love them.

As a child, I didn’t know why I was suicidal, I just thought I was crazy and needed to grow up. Looking back, those thoughts made complete sense. Having symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder, having a dysfunctional family, the isolation, coming to terms with my disability, hatred of the God they taught us about in school who put me in this position, in and out of hospital. All that for a kid is a lot to deal with. Ideally, I shouldn’t have related to that lyrics so strongly, but I did and for the life of me, didn’t understand why but it did play in on me loving the band as deeply as I do.

With the dysfunctional family, not really understanding why what was happening and not understanding my own emotions to it, I used to play ‘Guilty’ whenever I was in the car with my mum. I sent it to my Mum on Mothers Day to say sorry for the hundredth time and remind her that I love her, even though she wants nothing to do with any of us.

When they announced this tour, I had to go and I knew I would. The idea of singing my childhood soundtrack at the top of my lungs in a room full of people with their own interpretations of the songs, seemed unreal but for me, this was symbolic. It was me closing a chapter of my life I needed to. It’s moving forward with who and what I have now. When I was at the concert, in between songs I just looked at the stage, at the band and thought of how happy I am to be apart of all this and to have seen their growth. Even my Dad said I looked super happy, almost as happy as I did back when we went to see War of the Worlds live, and that was really happy.

After that gig I also spoke to someone whose story was very similar to mine. Through my favourite bands I have met the most wonderful people and that is something I am so grateful for. When you start talking to someone you have met through liking the same band, I find it’s easier to get along with them. Normally my walls are up all the way, but when you’re in that type of environment, all enjoying the same songs, some of which deal with dark subjects, I’ve found you’re all usually there because at least one of the songs means a lot to you.

It was nice to close a chapter.

Naturally, I am very close to my Dad. As a kid I remember saying to him that he was my favourite parent. He always smiled but told me that I shouldn’t have a favourite parent, that I should love my mother and father equally, but I just couldn’t. I think I preferred my Dad because he embraced my quirks. As a kid I was super into Power Rangers: Wild Force, I had the Red Ranger costume, I had the ‘Crystal Saber’, the ‘growl phones’ and a collection of ‘zords’. I would go days watching that program and reenacting the episodes. Sometimes, if Dad was lucky or one of my childhood dogs wasn’t up to playing, Dad would get to help me out with that.

God knows how much money was spent on those toys. I still haven’t moved them from my Mothers to where we are now, I need to nag my brother more.

Back to my Dad…I was drawn to him more because around him there was no acting like anything other than what I wanted to be, I wasn’t afraid of him, I didn’t have to test the waters to see what mood he was in that day to see if I could talk to him. No, I’d sit by the window, waiting for him to return from work and if he wasn’t back by 6pm, I would call him in a state of anxiety wondering if he had been in a car accident or something. My mind was morbid even as a child, no wonder I’m a mess as an adult, but whenever my Dad opened that door, he didn’t hesitate to hug me. I was his priority. After a hello and a hug, he would ask me how my day had been and we would talk. That seems like such a simple thing but looking back, it meant the world that someone cared so much. As a kid, I was isolated because of my disability so I didn’t know any kids on my street, because of this my Dad was my ‘best friend’.

My Dad knew absolutely everything about me, he knew my biggest fear, my favourite songs, my insecurities, what I wanted to be, who I wanted to become. He was always the one who would sit up with me night after night where I would be in pieces because I didn’t understand the wheelchair, he would hold me, he didn’t say anything, he just listened to what was going on in his daughters head. He didn’t need to say anything, he just needed to reassure me someone cared.

As time went on and the psychological abuse started, I began to unconsciously distance myself from my Dad, my mission to save my parents crumbling marriage had begun when I learnt that it was my fault. If I wasn’t disabled my parents wouldn’t fight, there wouldn’t be a problem. So I began to try and be more independent to show my parents they didn’t need to worry about me. Before, I would have told my Dad what I had learnt, but I wanted to surprise both my parents by fixing their marriage, somehow.

As everyone grows, things got harder. I was still trying to save a broken marriage, the arguments were frequent, self harming crept its way into my life, I locked myself in my room and hardly spoke to anyone, I was the problem. I did speak to one person though, someone who made me feel worth something, someone who made life seem worth living, and my relationship with that person wasn’t going to end well. That relationship almost killed me.

In my high school years, my Dad suffered a severe batch of depression. I was naive and believed depression was just an emotion, not a medical condition which can’t be helped sometimes. He stopped being happy to see me, he stopped talking in depth, he became a zombie and gradually, he became someone I barely recognised. He stayed this shell of my father for six months, in those six months I got really, really lonely. No one told me what was happening with my father. I even asked my Mother at some point, I can’t remember exactly what she said in reply, but it was a typical throw away reply which didn’t give me any answers whatsoever but from how mum said it, I had gathered she didn’t want to talk about it, so I shut up.

Now in High School it was routine that my Dad would take me to school on his route to work, he worked as a social worker during this period. Had I known what his job entailed, his depression would have probably made sense. That morning, he was in a extremely foul mood and I don’t know what he said but I remember my reply, I remember what I said and how I said it. These words will always be one of my biggest regrets: “You’re not my Dad.”

From what I have explained previously, what I said wasn’t a complete lie. This man wasn’t my father, this was the shell of my father but not the father I loved but Dad didn’t know my line of reasoning, so his reaction was completely justified. I won’t go into detail as to how he reacted out of respect for him, he knows this terrified me, he regrets it and he sincerely apologised. I forgave him because like I’ve said, what he did wasn’t him. I know my father enough to know that.

As the situation unravelled, I screamed to my ‘sister’ to help me, which I would never do otherwise, but nobody else was home. She looked at me straight in the eyes with this blank expression on her face, unsurprisingly not caring about me. The look on her face is something I will never forget. It only makes my hatred for her stronger.

I went to school that day really shaken up, scared, confused, wondering who cared, making mental plans to run away. Half way through the day I broke down, my mum got called and of course, there was an argument when we go home. My fault, again. I don’t remember what happened throughout the rest of that day, I just knew what just happened wasn’t the actions of my father, but I couldn’t explain it. I just had a gut feeling something more was up.

It took a while to not be afraid to approach my Dad again, but gradually, he earned my trust again. Whoever that person was seemed to have gone and I finally had my Dad back again. It was after my Dad’s depressive period that he took me to our GP to see if I had depression too, I am guessing Dad had noticed the symptoms in how I was acting and wanted to get me the help I needed. From Dad taking me to the doctors I learnt where my Dad had been, I learnt that depression is a medical condition, not just an emotion and I learnt how it can change a person, which explained the situation with my Dad. Dad and I then rebuild our relationship on supporting one another, I was in and out of therapy but soon gave up because I was sick of being passed to therapist to therapist, never being able to build a enough to trust to talk to them fully about my issues. Without my Dad, I wouldn’t have gone to therapy at all, and despite the NHS failing me, my Dad didn’t. Sometimes caring is enough.

In 2012, on a drive home from my Grandma’s, at a set of traffic lights somewhere in Birmingham, my Dad told me what I didn’t want to come true. It had been on the cards for years and part of me knew it was going to eventually happen…my Dad was separating from my Mother. I just cried, said something along the lines of “no matter what happens, I am staying with you!” and Dad told me his plans to move in with my Grandma.

I stayed with my Grandma for a few months and those few months were strange. I was so happy to finally have a family dynamic again, my Grandma soon took on the mother role I was desperately craving. My mum didn’t take me choosing my Dad over her well, but I think she always knew I’d stick by him, even if it hurt her. To go from no family dynamic at all to suddenly being in a healthy home environment, one I was not used to. My family had been having arguments for so long, I don’t really remember anything else; being in an unhealthy environment was normal to me. For things to suddenly switch as fast as they did, it took a while to process. I think the most difficult thing about leaving was leaving Buddy. I wanted him to come with us, but for some reason, I cannot remember why, we didn’t. He was already ill before we left, but I couldn’t stay. I feel so selfish writing that.

Moving in with my Grandma also meant leaving High School behind, which at the time didn’t bother me but in hindsight, it really, really affected my education. Dad tried to get me into a school up in Birmingham, but it wasn’t easy. Although, I don’t regret anything from that period. Not only did it show the length my Dad would go to in order to look after both of us and keep us together, but it made me see my Grandma differently. She is my Mother, which is why I find her stubbornness so irritating, but I know I’m just like her so in that sense. She is the woman I could only ever hope to be.

Those few months with my Grandma were so wonderful. To feel loved, to not be scared, to have a family…It was the happiest I think I’d been throughout my teen years, but of course it didn’t last. My mum had not contacted me the whole time I was there, I made it no secret that I missed her and I wanted her to show she cared, but even back then I think I knew she was a lost cause. That was the beginning of the grieving process, saying goodbye to the Mother I once loved. Something happened up at my Grandma’s that triggered an impulsive message to her asking to return back to the roof we called home, immediately she replied saying I could, but I think it was so she could spite my Dad. So back to my Mothers I went and it was the biggest mistake of my life. I had Buddy once more, he was now taking my Dad’s role of me crying at night and listening to me ramble. His fur was very absorbent. To have him back was lovely, but he could only do so much. I learnt quickly to only speak if spoken to, I learnt how to read my mother and sister well enough to know if I should leave my room that day. I was scared, alone and had no one. The only people I interacted with was via the internet, and it was at this time I got very reliant on my favourite band, Escape The Fate. Often on the nights I was struggling, I would message them and they often responded back encouraging me to carry on. I’ve told them time and time again that they helped more than I think they realise, but those messages kept a broken child strong enough to get through another night. They were my lifeline, through music and them as people. This was meant to be a fathers day thing, wasn’t it? Moving on…

Throughout this time, Dad and I would often Skype each other. He didn’t know what was going on at home and he wouldn’t know for years to come, but knowing he cared enough to check up on me every day said a lot about his love for his daughter. He wasn’t going to let me go anytime soon. I don’t know how I kept my suicidal thoughts to myself, when I was a child I had no filter with him but he was so far away, I didn’t want to worry him. I also couldn’t justify the hassle of moving back in with him and my Grandma again and, to top it off, I didn’t want to be the reason for another family argument. If Dad had known what was happening then, it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Later that year, something major happened to me from outside the family which sent a lot of emotional trauma my way. It’s something I am not willing to go into, but my Dad knew what had happened and he knew I was struggling, but despite his efforts to keep me strong, the abuse tore me down completely. That incident combined with my home life, it broke me, and I hate to admit that. I was nothing, I didn’t feel anything, I was trapped inside my head, the voices were loud and I wanted out. So I attempted just that, in my Mothers living room, when everyone had gone to bed and an emotional message to an American friend explaining where my head was, I turned off my WIFI, put on my favourite album, took the pills, lay down to look at the stars out of my mothers living room window and went. The next thing I knew my mum came down stairs, angry, dragging me off her sofa. I think I screamed something along the lines of “LET ME DIE!” out of frustration, because that’s all I wanted at the time. For the pain to end, to be out of my family’s life, to get rid of their emotional and financial burden. My sister had to assist my mother with helping carrying me to the car to get me to the hospital, after that, I blacked out.

When I woke up, my Dad was by my side. I didn’t understand how my Mother had found out about my attempt but my American friend had messaged my Dad via Facebook explaining her concerns due to the message I sent her, so my Dad called my Mum. I knew this friend through Escape the Fate too, if I hadn’t had known them, I wouldn’t have known her. Told you they were a lifeline. I have apologised since for worrying her. Slowly we drifted apart but I still keep an eye on how she’s doing and as far as I can tell, she’s doing great. She knows who she is, so if she reads this, I really, really appreciate you.

My stay at the hospital was oddly the happiest I had been, mainly because I felt safe there. I know I was mainly happy to have my Dad back, I was happy to be eating full meals again. I don’t remember a lot other than that, but I know the whole time I did’t ever want to go home again. After a day, they sent me home and Dad returned to Birmingham. I was too scared of the consequences to tell Dad about life at home and I was alone again, so I repeated the cycle. Again, the next day they sent me home, but this time mum hid the pills but when you’re desperate, you’ll find a way. After this attempt, Dad returned back to the roof we called a home, I thought he did it to genuinely try again with my Mother and it did seem that way. For the first time in years I saw them show affection for one another. I don’t have it anymore and I probably deleted it because of how meaningless it is, but I took a photo of my mother and father cuddling by the Christmas tree and I remember thinking this was the best Christmas miracle I could have asked for. While they did try to make things work, a few years later I found out Dad didn’t move back for my mother, it was for me. It was to watch me, to make sure he didn’t lose me. That stills blows my mind that he came back just for me, things were not good at all. Dad and I were both treated horribly, and the way I have heard my mum speak to my Dad throughout our life with her was infuriating. I still don’t understand why he came back to her, for me.

My Mum and Dad’s fake affection for one another didn’t last and our household soon went back to the way they were. Tension built, it was my mother and sister vs my dad and me. Dad and I often got out the house by going on car rides, blaring music and singing very badly to our favourite songs. I’d judge him for the bad music he listens to and he would judge me for the music I listen to. This was our equivalent of a therapy session and it was brilliant. When we were out of the house we were happy, we were who we wanted to be but the minute we set foot back in that house, we were miserable again. It was hard not to be able to relax in your own home, but somehow, we managed.

Around this period I was dating a wonderful guy. Our relationship was beyond anything I had ever experienced, I loved him so deeply and I’ll always have a soft spot for him, he knows that, but we just aren’t meant to be. I’m just happy we still call each other friends. We both had our own set of issues at this time so we kind of relied on one another, some people will think that’s a bad relationship but I disagree. Having him there to distract me, to remind me of the good, to give me a different way to navigate any situation and me there to do the same for him, we kept each other up. Over time, he had pretty much moved in with us. He experienced everything my family had to offer and was there for me to fall on when things got difficult. You’re probably wondering why I’ve even brought him up. My Dad helped him a lot, and due to the certain circumstances, I was anxious of how my Dad would react to him but my Dad took him under his wing immediately . Those two men in my life at that time kept me happy, and while my family was literally crumbling down around me, that was also the happiest I had ever been in who I was because of being built up by those two men. I really hope they know how grateful I am for that period.

So I had good stuff in my life again, I was struggling but I was also happy. I didn’t see an end to this happiest, but Christmas 2016 would prove to be a challenge. I’d never really liked Christmas because it always meant some sort of argument, it was never a family event but living in the tense condition we were already in made it that much worse.

I think it was three days before Christmas when the fight happened. My sister and my Dad were yelling, my sister started marching towards my Dad and I have no clue how to describe it but something felt wrong. I got in between them and just yelled ‘stay away from him!’, in response I was hit, hit in front of my dad and he reacted as any father should do, but I didn’t want him to. I hadn’t felt anything from the blow, I was numb, I didn’t care. I tried pulling my Dad away, but that was near impossible so I watched as the fight began to unfold. Many things happened that night but the one thing I can’t forget is the scared look on my nieces face, her crying and me holding my arms out, picking her up and hiding her face from whatever may happen. This was everything I didn’t want her or my nephew too see. My mum soon rushed down the stairs to protect her angel child, not even caring what she had done to me. That didn’t shock me. When the smoke had cleared my mother decided it would be a good idea to completely tear my Dad apart, stating how he ‘had never been there’, ‘never earned anything for the family’ and so on. Both complete lies, she had never been emotionally available and my Dad worked full time until he was diagnosed with severe depression. He worked in Child Care and dealt with some grim situations, he couldn’t work there in the state he was in and she damn well knew this, so I went off at her, telling her she was unfair, telling her she had never been a mother, telling her I don’t see her as a mother and so on. Nothing was held back. Years upon years of anger and hatred was gone. My mum would have never heard that if she had left my Dad alone. I think that was me officially saying goodbye to the woman who was once my mother, she was gone.

Luckily, that very night things went sour, my boyfriend at the time was coming over so I knew him being there would stop the arguing. We would have to act like a normal family, even though he knew we were far from normal. The fact I ran out that night and wrapped myself around him in a fit of tears told him everything he needed to know about that evening. I think he was a bit reluctant to come in but he didn’t let it show, he just hugged me.

That Christmas morning, nothing seemed special. I did not want to join the festivities because whats Christmas without a family? We weren’t a family. We put on an act for my nephew and niece, went to see what Santa got them and then my mother and sister sat in one room, my Dad and I in the other. We were miserable. We didn’t really celebrate, we just acted like we were happy for the kids.

In the New Year Dad and I began house searching. This would prove to be a severely long process. I don’t know how Dad and I did it really. Now I had gotten used to the wheelchair, my late night tears were tears of regret of what had happened. My Mother was now just not speaking to me, we lived in the same house, she just didn’t talk. I tried to ease her into speaking by slipping letters under her door but she never responded. Accepting she didn’t want me was hard, but what was even harder for both Dad and I was letting go of my nephew and niece. My sister had left boxing day without a goodbye. No goodbye hugs and kisses of the kids, just gone. I didn’t expect anything less than that from her, but saying goodbye to the kids, the ones my Dad and I had watch grow, the ones that were apart of our everyday lives, that hurt. I couldn’t give a damn about my sister, but losing the kids hurt. I couldn’t stop thinking of how confused they must be, the questions they must have, will we see them again? I didn’t understand myself why my Dad and I weren’t allowed to see them. I have my suspicious and have no doubt I’m right, but this was the next emotional hurdle Dad and I had to deal with.

To add to all that for me, in early 2016, I lost the guy I loved. Things happen, priorities change, things became too much. I had to let him go. Things were a blur after that. I remember being emotional, wondering if I’d done the right thing, my Dad being there to comfort me. Thinking back, I wish I would have bottled my emotions because Dad had enough stress to deal with but I couldn’t. Everything and then this on top, it all just seemed way too much. All I could do to cope with take a trip down to the park, sit and write. I think that helped a lot, it stopped everything from being too overwhelming and kept me out of my own head.

The year dragged on slowly until Dad and I were offered a home, when I heard the news that we had got the house we had viewed that day I just cried. Dad and I had just parked outside of mums house, I think I mentioned how I didn’t want to go in when Dad got the call. It was on speaker so when the guy asked whether we wanted it, I screamed ‘YES!’ and of course Dad agreed. Dad said thank you and hung up. Once he had hung up I was a mess of happiness, I wanted to go there that night, anything to get away from her.

Dad and I began decorating. Painting where we could while taking in the limitations we have, slowly with the help of my uncle and aunt, we moved in. That whole process was weird for me, it showed me the love and care people have for me on my fathers side. So I may have lost half of my family for good, but I gained another half.

I don’t think I’ve saw Dad so happy as he is where we live now. The peace here is something he loves, I personally hate it because it makes me so anxious so I always have music playing, destroying the silence for Dad, and since our music tastes seems to have changed drastically since moving Dad now hates the majority of what I like, so that’s always fun. Luckily he still enjoys Escape The Fate though and as long as he always has a soft spot for them, we’ll be okay.

Personally, I hate where I live. There is a few reasons but there is one very big reason that just makes living here hell for me, it triggers panic attacks, shaking, nightmares and so on. I can’t wait to move, but it’s much better than living in a house where the arguments are constant. I can’t say I’m necessarily happy here, but I don’t think my brain is wired to be happy. It’s just nice to see Dad get his spark back. He lost it for so long. When I was a kid, he had this sparkle in his eye, he had his life to live, he was happy. I’ve only recently saw that again and I luckily caught a picture capturing that glow he has.

This has been emotional to write. I’ve remembered things I had forgotten in the mess that is my head, I’ve managed to put our story into order, I’ve reflected on how much my Dad truly loves and cares about me. He has put so much at risk for me, including his mental health and well being. He has fought for me time and time again when others have just brushed me aside, he has taught me to laugh at the dark stuff in the world, he has made me who I am. I do have this overwhelming fear that I’ll never live up to the person he has always wanted me to be, but I just have to tell myself that he is proud of me, despite the fact I’m nothing special.

I love you, Dad.

Songs for Dad:

• Alice Cooper — I Am Made Of You.
• Danny Worsnop — Saviour.
• The Word Alive — Like Father, Like Son.
• Will Smith — Just The Two Of Us. (first CD my Dad got me.)
• Russel Watson — Faith of the Heart.

Throughout my journey with my Church, I’ve saw a few exorcisms, people praying for others and a few attempts at healing. I’m not here to tell people they are wrong for believing this type of thing works, I am fine with people believing whatever they wish and have no authority to tell people otherwise. I’ve heard a few stories about people supposedly being healed ‘’by the power of God’, but none that have been convincing. They all seem to be about people who have gotten ill and over time got better, which isn’t a miracle, that’s life. The body can do some incredible things.

I have met some very dedicated Christians who are extremely ill, with no hope of getting better soon. That is something I admire, people who struggle a lot with the body that they believe He made for them, but they still know and love Him. I for one, am a bitter motherfucker.

I may have accepted the chair but from an early age I was angry. I went to a Christian primary school but came from a non — religious household. I remember one day when my Dad picked me up from school I asked him,

“What is God?”

and he replied, pretty firmly “Imaginary!”

To which I was confused. Why was my Dad telling me that this weird guy we’ve been learning about in school is imaginary? If he was imaginary, why are they teaching us about Him?

My Dad then asked me a question that has stuck with me throughout my life,

“If He exists and is this big, almighty being, why are you in the chair?”

And I agreed. Why? Why did a two year old, an innocent two year old spend months in hospital if this guy who could fix all my problem existed? This logic stuck with me and made me despise anyone who tried to talk to me about Christianity. I was angry then and even now, I’m angry because this chair has done nothing but cause problems for my family and I. My Dad will tell me otherwise but the chair, my illness broke my family apart. I broke my parents apart. I know if life had gone otherwise, things wouldn’t have gone down the way they did. My Mum would have been available to my siblings, they wouldn’t have felt pushed away and my sister wouldn’t have become so jealous.

I see pictures of me before my illness and I see how much it took from me. When I see me before the illness I see a kid who was ready to face life head on, no worries, happy, curious, a kid with the will to live. I wouldn’t have noticed it as a kid, but it took a lot of things from me. Not just my ability to walk.

After my disability, I see a confused kid. A confused kid who didn’t have any curiosity about the world around her because she knew she wasn’t able to explore it. I see a kid who isn’t happy, but doesn’t know why yet. That sadness turned to being suicidal at the age of nine. I see a kid who isn’t bothered about life or death. I don’t see what I wish I could have been, not just for myself, but for my Mother.

I spent a lot of nights with my Dad in tears of frustration. Not because I saw myself different to other kids or I was treated differently, but because I didn’t understand why I was in this thing. I just didn’t, and nothing Dad could say would end the frustration. All he had to do was hug me and share my anger.

So many times as a child I remember asking Dad why God hated me, why he did this and what I did wrong. My Dad has always been an atheist so he didn’t have an answer to that either, the only thing I remember him saying is,

“This is why I can’t believe,”

I grew up not caring about religion, often rebelling against it with the songs I listened to and every time I saw a preacher in town, I’d park next to them and yell “HAIL SATAN” as loud as I could. I never saw myself getting involved with a Church, but here I am. Me losing control of my old dog, Taz, and having a helping hand from a stranger led me to Church. I have met some of the nicest people there and I do love them, so none of this is out of spite. I’m not going to stop being who I am or change the opinions I hold, I wouldn’t be me otherwise, and after living in a house where I had to shut up, it’s not happening again.

People have prayed for me to walk, with my consent. I don’t mind them doing it to me because I am where I am with the chair now, I know it will never go away and I am okay with it. I think it would fuck me up to suddenly walk again, how do you people even do that? Able bodied people are weird. Anyway, they’ve prayed for me, that’s fine, but if we go back to a more younger, more gullible me, if you were to give me any sort of idea of hope to walk again I’d be so happy and believe every word you say, hoping that a simple prayer could fix me…Only to be let down because my body doesn’t work that way, and who even says I want to be fixed? My perspective of this world and the people in it is unique thanks to the chair, thanks to the family break up, thanks to people abusing my vulnerability to have their way with me. Maybe little me wanted a cure, but now, if you were to put some sort of cure on the table for me, I wouldn’t take it. Yeah some things are more of a challenge than I would prefer, but fuck it. If I didn’t have the chair, I’d have something else to deal with.

I met this guy the other day, a guy we’ll call Jim. Jim had a car accident and ended up paralysed from the waist down, just like me. We bonded over telling cripple jokes and so on, which was good because the event we were at had such a bad speaker system. I would have been so bored without him there to distract me until it was time to go to the pub. I ended up asking him if anyone has tried to heal him and he gave me probably one of the best stories I had heard. Apparently this street preacher started going on at him about how God can cure him, he asked to pray, Jim said no thank you and as Jim went on his way, this preacher allegedly followed him. Luckily Jim owns an electric wheelchair, so he made a run for it. The image of a priest chasing a cripple through town just tickles me so much, but it’s still insane to me. Who said we wanted fixing? Why do people assume we want it? We’re fine the way we are and speaking for me, I find it insulting people would want me otherwise and actively try to change me.

I have asked Christians why I’m in a chair if God loves me and the response has always been that apparently, my Mum sinned while I was in her womb. That isn’t hard to believe, but to blame it on my Mother, to punish a family for something one person did seems a bit cruel to me.

I have also asked people why their prayers haven’t worked, I’ve been told it’s because I don’t have enough faith myself. So it’s my fault I can’t walk, basically. People are weird.

I allow religious folk to pray for me because they feel good doing it, they believe God called them to do so and if that’s their gig, that’s cool with me, but just knowing some people, but knowing some people turn to prayers in hopes of healing whatever might be wrong, physical or mental, knowing they won’t get the answers of healing they are hoping for, that sucks. And for people to exploit peoples issues like that is just sickening. There was a televangelist called Peter Popoff who did exactly that, and earned quite a bit from doing so. I’ll let you look into who he is and what he did. I thought Greed was one of the Seven Deadly sins, but maybe that’s only the case when non — believers do it.

I know a lot of believers are nice, reasonable people who will ask to pray for someone and will back off immediately if the person says no, but there are others who don’t and they’re the ones this is directed to. Those are the ones who are only doing it to make themselves feel better, to make them feel like a better person when in reality, they just self — serving.

Offering a glimmer of false hope to emotionally vulnerable people is just cruel, and there is no excuse for it. That’s all I’ve seen religion do, not just Christianity. Pray upon people who are in vulnerable states, just looking for answers or ways out of it all. Some of it can be taken as kindness but there are times when we don’t want to hear about God, we just want to know someone, the person in front of us, not someone we can’t see, cares. I have no problem speaking to someone about their faith because it’s obviously going to be a big part of them, but when I’m depressed or suicidal, I don’t want God. I’ve screamed to God when I lived with my Mother, desperate for someone to show they care, and I got nothing. He gave me no sign of hope, he didn’t appear to me, he did nothing. He let that innocent teenager live there, scared, alone and on edge. If everything is in His plan, He let me sit there in my blood, He let me take those pills, He let me receive the neglect and abuse. I wasn’t even asking to walk at that point, I was asking for someone to show they gave a shit. He didn’t, that showed me everything I needed to know

Maybe I’ll never let go of this anger at whatever is up there that did this to me, but it’s there, and it’s here to stay. My anger drives me, my anger makes me passionate, my anger is why I am writing this. I think Corey Taylor put it better than me in his book, Seven Deadly Sins,

“I may never let go of my wrath, my anger, but I will always have the last laugh.”

As a child, my view towards my body image was relatively normal. It was normally the last thing on my mind as a child. All I remember thinking as a kid was how I wanted to be as beautiful as I thought my sister was. Until the age of about five years old weight was never a thought that came to my mind until I was told that food can make you fat and unattractive, so I slowly began eating less and less. My Dad would often eat any left overs from dinners because he hates wasting food, but then I was blamed for my Dad being overweight and was told if something were to happen to him due to his weight, it would be my fault. After that, food became the enemy.

There was a point where I was only skin and bones. I was never diagnosed with anything, I was just freakishly thin. I look back on those photos now and am often just amazed at how ill I look and yet, I thought I was fat. I’m still shocked no one said anything back then.

Going back to the wheelchair and how it makes me look, my problems with it only really started in High School. Primary School was good to me, I had the best teaching assistant I could have wished for. She was very protective of me so no one ever dared have a go at me for the wheelchair. They knew she would come straight to my defence. Going to High School without her was like being thrown in with the piranhas. Everyone else there covered up their insecurities with make-up. A wheelchair isn’t something make-up can hide; even if it did, my High School teachers would ask me to remove it…that’d be rude, but I could zombie crawl down the corridors.

I’d often find myself watching girls walk down the school corridors, admiring their female features and slowly I became envious of how lucky they were to be able to walk, to show how beautifully women can walk. Walking became a sign of beauty to me, a sign of beauty I can only dream of owning.

Throughout my High School experience, I began to own my ugliness. I knew nothing was going to change and I just pushed it to the back of my mind. I had bigger problems at home to deal with. At home, I would constantly compare myself to my sister and wish that one day I could look and be like her. Luckily, I never got that wish.

I think I became more aware of my insecurities in 2014, where I had this crush on what I thought was the most handsome boy I’d ever seen. I started to put a lot more effort into what I looked like, not a lot, but more than I was before. I really wanted to impress him and somehow, I did. That turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life, for multiple reasons. Throughout that relationship I would have constant breakdowns because I believed he was too good to be dating a cripple (HE WASN’T!), he should be dating someone he could look normal with, not whatever I was. He wasn’t really the most understanding of boys, so he never really comforted that crippling insecurity. This insecurity was something I carried throughout my relationships up until 2018 when I met someone who, despite being a snob, made me feel sexy. He helped me see past the wheelchair and actually look at who I am. Despite the fact our relationship didn’t work out, which was for the better, I am grateful I met him and let him in before he forced me to push him out.

Everyone has their insecurities. For me, it’s my nose, my eyes, my smile, my waist, my hands…I could go on, but I have found confidence in finding my friendship circle. In July 2018, I went to London to welcome president Trump to the UK. During my visit there, I found people who genuinely cared for me and after the June I had that year, I needed that. They love and accept me for me and they include me, they’ve never made me feel like the burden I’ve always been told and felt like I am. With being reminded that I am fine the way I am, I went home with this random boost of new found confidence, which helped me build on how I viewed myself psychically.

There is stuff I’ll never be able to change, and at this point, I don’t want to. It is what it is, but I am working on the stuff I can change i.e weight, covering my scars, finally owning my body and calling it my own. It’s not a boyfriend to abuse, it’s not a doctors to poke, it’s nobody’s but mine. Mine.

In finally reclaiming what should have always been mine, I’ve been able to work on my personality and how I allow the world to see me. I don’t know how people see me in general, but I know there are some people who view me as this poor, broken crippled girl who needs to be mollycoddled. I give people the benefit of the doubt that they hopefully mean well so I don’t get uptight when a stranger is overly helpful, but if you are a friend or acquaintance, stop it. I am more than the wheelchair, I don’t want your pity. Treat me as you would anyone else, joke about my disability, ask me questions if you’re curious. If I want help, I will let you know. Really, that should go without saying but people are a weird breed. I’m not here to make someone feel better about themselves for helping a poor cripple, and if you think I am, leave.

I don’t want to be cured. Being in this wheelchair has given me so many different perspectives of this world and the people around me, it’s given me thick skin, it gives me something to laugh about when I see my big brother, Tom. It’s made me into the woman who sits in the chair. There will be days where I see myself, see the wheelchair and just completely crumble inside because it’s never going to be a bed of roses, but those days are so rare. I have found sexiness in my body, despite the chair, despite being made to feel otherwise by family members and ex-partners.

As I’ve said, coming to terms with the body you’re either born with is never easy, for anyone, able bodied or not, but the sooner you do, the happier you’ll be. Stop looking for pity validation off people who generally don’t care. Accept yourself.

Feeling unloved by a parent can leave you feeling completely empty. It did for me. Back in 2017 I used alcohol to fill me up, to help me forget my Mum. The majority of the time it did the opposite. It resulted in me texting my Mum drunken sorry’s, drunken suicide notes, gushing my heart out to her, letting her know despite what may happen, I’ve always loved her and if I were to die that night, I forgive her. I doubt it’s worth much to her.

The last time I got properly drunk was on my Brothers wedding day. I was happy for my Brother and Sister — in — law but my mind was too focused on how fake my family were being. We hadn’t been in the same room together since we all went our separate ways, to suddenly be together again, it hit me like a train (excuse the pun, Nathan.).

I broke down upon seeing my Nephew and Niece, the two humans I had watched grow, the two humans who became more like my little Brother and Sister than Nephew and Niece. Seeing them walk in, My Nephew looking so handsome and my Niece like a princess I couldn’t hold myself together. My family has split and seeing how much they had grown, thinking of the milestones I must have missed broke my heart.

The last thing I vaguely remember of that day was me on the toilet, crying to my Mother about how sorry I was for being born, for being the family burden, for not being what she wanted. I don’t remember if she responded, but I do remember waking up in instant regret. How could I be so selfish? That was my brothers big day, but I was too wrapped up in my depression to think of anyone else.

Some people allow their depression to make them stronger and more compassionate, others get to the point where they just don’t care. Where life is just so unbearable that they just want to be numb. That’s all I wanted that day, but looking back, I regret it. I regret it because that was my Brothers day and I missed it. I wasn’t the Sister I wanted to be when I should have been, all because I was wrapped up in what I was seeing in my Mother.

In company, my Mother was everything you could want. You wouldn’t see any flaws, but from experience, this was her act. At home, she couldn’t care less. Separating those two different personalities was difficult, so I didn’t even try. I just drank till the pain ended. I haven’t drank that much since.

Back in September in 2017, I drunkenly overdosed in the middle of the night, and to be clear, it was nothing to do with my Mother. It was to do with the toxic relationship I was in with a ‘man’ I was too scared to break up with so alcohol and drugs were my solution. When my Dad found out, he rushed me to the hospital and in the moment, I wasn’t thinking too much about my Mother but when I came out of it, the questions rolled in; Where was she? Did she care? Nope. She was no where to be seen.

I didn’t attempt suicide to get my Mum’s attention and I should have known at this point that she wanted nothing to do with me, but my mind couldn’t process this. How could a Mother, the woman who is meant to have unconditional love for their children not be there when they’re child is suffering? Now, in a clear mind, I can see that suicide isn’t an easy topic for her to deal with but at the time, it hurt. No matter how difficult a subject is to deal with, a parent should always be there for their child. That love is all a child needs sometimes.

In 2016, when the anger and resentment towards my Mother were raw, I hadn’t really processed the situation at that point. Around this time I was reading Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl and from what Anne wrote, she described how I felt then perfectly.

On Saturday, 30 October 1943 she wrote,

“I cling to my Father because my contempt of Mother is growing daily and it’s only through him that I’m able to retain the last ounce of family feeling I have left,”

“I’m the opposite of Mother, so of course we clash. I don’t mean to judge her; I don’t have that right. I’m simply looking at her as a Mother. She’s not a Mother to me — I have to Mother myself. I’ve cut myself adrift from them. I’m charting my own course, and we’ll see where that leads me. I have no choice, because I can picture what a Mother and a wife should be and I can’t seem to find anything of the sort in the woman I am supposed to call ‘Mother’.

Monday, 24 December 1943,

“I miss — every day and every hour of the day — have a Mother who understands me. That’s why with everything I do and write, I imagine the kind of Mother I’d like to be to my children later on. That kind of Mum who doesn’t take everything people say so seriously, but who does take me seriously.”

Thursday, 6 January 1944,

“I’ve suddenly realised whats wrong with her. Mother said she sees us more as friends than Daughters. That’s all very nice, of course, except for the fact that a friend can’t take the place of a Mother. I need my Mother to set a good example and be a person I can respect, but in most matters, she’s an example of what not to do.”

Reading that when I did was important. At that time I felt unable to speak about my Mother in a negative sense, I felt ungrateful but in reality, sometimes parents don’t do things correctly. Reading that book when I did helped me process what had happened. I’m not sharing what happened in full detail but it was intense and the shock of it all didn’t wear off, not until Dad and I moved to a place where I could grow and find myself again.

I wrote a long letter to Robert Ortiz, drummer of Escape The Fate and gave it to him in 2016. I recently found my copy of that letter and I forgot how bitter I really was. In it, my Mum isn’t called ‘Mum’, I address her by her first name only. She hadn’t earned the title Mum to me. Really that was out of spite, to get my anger across. It’s crazy how far I’ve matured from my family situation. It does sometimes get to me my Mother can’t do the same.

I know I am lucky, my mum is alive, but she isn’t here. I know that and I know I can put that love towards my Grandma instead, I will spoil her rotten on Mothers Day, whether she likes it or not, but no matter where I go to fill the void my Mother left, I will never be whole without her. It depends on the circumstances, but when a parents leaves, the child looks everywhere trying to put their heart back together. I’ve tried to find a Mother figure in so many places in my life but nothing will compare to the love my Mum once gave to me.

She was a good Mother once, I know that. Once upon a time, I trusted her. Once upon a time, I knew she would be there for me. Once upon a time, she wasn’t broken. She has so much emotional baggage that she is afraid to open up so she shuts down, she taught me that so well.

The process of getting cards and gifts for her is difficult too. Most cards go on about how brilliant a Mother is, how special she is etc and I just can’t get those cards for my Mother because it feels like too much of a lie, given the circumstances. I normally end up getting a card with a cute picture with a short, non — emotional verse inside. With presents, where do I begin? I barely know this woman. I don’t know her favourite TV show, her favourite genre of music or what she is passionate about, so how could I get her anything that she will appreciate?

Saying I don’t know the woman honestly hurts, but I suppose she doesn’t know me anymore either. I knew her once, when she knew me, when she was what I would consider a Mother, but now I just see the shell of the Mother she once was.

A lot of people have tell me to pack it in, to stop worrying about gifts, to leave her in the past and move on. My only response to those people is that I can’t. I am her child, she is my Mother and we are blood. It is a child's duty to look after their parents, even when it is painful. Family is meant to be the most important thing and how can I leave her alone without being a hypocrite? I was mad at her for leaving me alone in the dark, how do I justify leaving her alone? No. The door is always open to her and I don’t think that will ever change, I just don’t expect her to want me any time soon.

I have always used music to articulate and make sense of my emotions, so I have a timeline of songs which explain my emotions; the resentment, the anger, the sadness, the tears, the forgiving, realising my wrong and the letting go. The first one is probably most important. I used to play it a lot while in the car with my Mum to get across how I was feeling. I doubt she even picked up the significance of it then.

• The Rasmus — ‘Guilty’
• Escape The Fate — ‘You’re Insane’
• Escape The Fate — ‘Breaking Me Down’
• Asking Alexandria – ‘Someone, somewhere’
• Five Finger Death Punch — ‘Remember Everything’
• Slipknot — ‘Snuff’
• Bowling For Soup — ‘When We Die’

The two Escape The Fate songs are weird for me, they both came out at the perfect time to fit my situation. You’re Insane came out while I was kind of homeless in a sense. Not as in I didn’t have a home, but as in my heart was torn between two places, skipping between my Mother’s and My Fathers. Filled with anger and hatred for the house my Mother called a home, filled with misunderstanding of why my Mother was so careless. Then, I remember when I first heard Breaking Me Down. My Mum and Dad briefly got back together, it was some sort of Christmas miracle to me. Later I found out Dad only moved back in with her to make sure I didn’t overdose again.

Anyway, when I heard Breaking Me Down, the family who were still at that house were all in the living room and I was sat next to my Mother. As it went into the first verse, I turned to my Mother and thought of how fearless, strong, caring and compassionate she once was. Then as the song continued, I just teared up because it made sense of the situation I was in and that one day, my Mother will be gone. One lyric that has stuck with me that I wish I could say to my Mother is,

“You don’t gotta be perfect, you’re not too far gone, but if you can’t help yourself then you won’t move on.”

I know life has been tough for her too. I know one significant thing that happened to her changed her completely, I know she doesn’t speak about things because I think she believes that if she ignores them they’ll go away, but they won’t. The glass of emotions has to overflow at some point. Humans weren’t built to suffer in silence.

One of the important things I want answers from my mum for is my Granddad’s funeral. Why my Mother didn’t think it would be important for me to understand what had happened, why we were here, why my Grandma is crying, why flowers were laid in their front garden, why my Dad was crying, why did we all have to where black, where’s my Granddad?

I don’t blame my Father for not telling me. The state of shock he must have been in had to be overwhelming, he probably didn’t want to admit Granddad’s death to himself, let alone his seven year old child. When I found out my Granddad won’t be coming home again and what a confusing day that was, I was filled with regret. I should have gotten my chance to say my goodbyes, but they were taken from me. I wish I had told him I loved him while he was still alive, I wish I had the chance to say goodbye.

This will seem off topic, but I do have a point here…

I often watch War Of The Worlds (2005) and watch Ray’s character development. From a careless Father who is never there for his children, Rachael and Robbie, to the hero who protects his children and gets them back to their Mother alive and well. The scene that stands out the most to me is the one where they take refuge in a abandoned cafe, when they hear gun shots from outside Rachael jumps from her Fathers arms and into the arms of her Brother. Ray begins to cry, as if it kills him that his own Daughter doesn’t feel safe with him. Later in their journey Ray and Rachael lose Robbie, but have found shelter in a cellar where they can rest. As Ray lays Rachael to rest he notices an award badge tide to her bag, he looks at her and in that moment, I think Ray realises how many important milestones in his Daughters life he has missed. At the end of the film when Ray and Rachael arrive at Rachael and Robbie’s Grandparents house, where their Mother and Step — Father had been staying, after Rachael runs to her Mother, out steps Robbie, who was thought to be dead. He runs out to his Father and simply says,

“Hi Dad.”

Up until that point, Robbie had only called Ray by his first name because in his eyes, Ray hadn’t earned the title “Dad,”. I often wonder if my Mum needs to nearly lose her kids before she realises that we’re only on this planet for a short period of time, it’s best to appreciate the people you do have while you can. Ray had to nearly lose it all before he learned that lesson.

That’s a big fear of mine with my Mother. If something fatal were to happen, with how I have little to no contact with her, how will I know? Will her funeral go by without me? Will I be able to say goodbye? More importantly, will I have the chance to say goodbye and let her I know I forgive her for how things turned out? I don’t want her leaving without me being able to tell her that. Given the circumstances we were under and the strain my disability put on the family, she did well to balance things out, until things became too much. For that, I am grateful.

I wish I could go on to say more, but I know my Brothers hate it when I speak about our Mother because, at the end of the day, she is their Mother and I understand that. Out of respect for them, I am cutting this short. With that in mind, I’ve tried to be as vague as possible and leave out the gruesome details, but that’s important to say. Things were worse than I have been able to say.

Make sure you show your guardians how much you love them, not just on Mothers Day or Fathers Day, but all year round. Family should be the most important thing, my Granddad taught me that.

If you struggle around this time of year too, I send countless virtual hugs to you. x

This week has been depressing. The amount of stabbings that have happened all around the UK has been unbelievable and our politicians seem more interested in playing the blame game than fixing the issue. At this point, I don’t care who did it, I just want the issue fixed.

An answer to this I’ve heard and hate is,

“Just turn the news off. Ignore it.”

How careless do you have to be? Parents have lost their children to this epidemic. I refuse to sit by and ignore that. People have ignored stuff like this for so long, we can’t afford to anymore. We’ve already lost so much.

Alongside feeling discouraged at the state of the UK, a friend of mine went missing and has had a history of bad mental health and I was so worried and I felt so overwhelmingly guilty. I should have texted them more, I should have been there, why didn’t you do anything? Luckily they were found, unharmed and is now safe. They have got a second chance, and so do I, to be a better friend. To be there for them.

There is also Mothers Day that is coming up. I have sorted things for my mother, but I doubt she’ll appreciate them. Regardless, I need to keep the door open for her and remind her that I love her.

I’ve been struggling with self — esteem issues. Slowly I’ve begun to notice all my physical flaws and slowly I’ve chopped away at my confidence. Being your own worst critic is horrible, it’s like you’ve got a little devil on your shoulder telling you how awful you look, mocking you for trying to dress nicely and look presentable. You have to just ignore it, but it is not easy at all.

Because of this I have taken to applying simple, basic make — up to make myself feel presentable. I’m definitely not ever going to be the next Jeffree Star. No, I have to just taken to simple foundation, blusher, mascara and lip liner. Just things to hide what I hate, make me more confident and look less ill in comparison to all the beautiful women around me. Fake it till you make it.

All that put together leaves me with a lot of mental chaos. It’s like the devil on your shoulder has multiplied into a thousand, telling you how horrible the world is, telling me how much of a bad friend I’ve been and how if anything would have happened to them, it would have been my fault. Reminding me of how much of a burden I am to those I love, reminding me how ugly I am. I probably sound dramatic but this is the only way I know how to articulate my mind.

So to try and combat this bad mental health period, I made my way down to the riverside. Although I hate a lot of Worcester with a passion, we do have a beautiful city. There are so many beautiful buildings and the riverside just makes me so happy. It’s one of my favourite places to go, it helps me put a lot of things into perspective.

When I got there, I smiled immediately. Watching the various different birds glide through the wind, dive into the river and snatch any bit of bread. Seeing the sun, feeling the wind in my hair, enjoying the early signs of spring and thinking about how to improve myself. It’s like God knew I needed a moment of mental peace.

It’s such a small thing, but probably the best thing I could have done for myself. I know a lot of people who struggle with depression have ago at people for telling them to just go outside, but it genuinely does help. It doesn’t cure it, obviously not, but I think going for a simple wonder into nature with your headphones and some of your favourite songs helps in the moment, at least it did for me. It’s those little pieces of happiness which are most important for people like us, it shows us we are human, we’re not insane and are capable to feel happiness and a sense of belonging. It’s quite easy to be convinced you do not belong on this earth when you’re lost in this pit of loneliness, even though you do have people who love and care about you around you all the time.

I’m not afraid to admit it, I am suicidal, but I don’t think I am too far gone to act upon it. I’ve had the passive thoughts of,

“There are pills in the kitchen. Go on.”

But I’m always pulled back by my Dad. Not physically, but the idea of leaving him alone, thinking of the pit he would go down if he lost me. I won’t let that happen. Not to him.

I have tried to get help. I’ve been trying to get help for 10 years, I know I’m not alone in saying the mental health system in the UK is so, so, so awful. I’ve felt thrown around so much that I went through a phase of giving up, I didn’t get help and I suffered alone. Sadly I know I’m not the only one who has done this, I’ve heard so many stories where people just give up trying. It’s infuriating.

Luckily, I’m like a cat, I haven’t taken my nine lives yet, but other people aren’t so lucky. Some people are so lost, try to get help and then given months to wait until some sort of referral. Some people do not have months and it can be so discouraging after finally building up the confidence to try and get help to be left alone, without any answers for however long it takes. I am sympathetic to the NHS, the lack of sources and so on but like I said, this has been years. It’s as if nothing is being done at all. A lot more could be done. It’s shameful.

I do worry people think I don’t want to be happy. Ex — lovers have made it clear that they think so and they were the people I shared almost everything with. When you know a person is going to leave eventually, you don’t open up to them. They were wrong, I want to be better, I want to be happy and can be happy. I am trying, they just choose not to see it.

I have took steps to try and improve my mental state right now as a result of that day by the riverside,

I have made a pact to myself to go and see my Grandma every week. I’d been meaning to for a while, listening to Escape the Fate’s — ‘If Only’ scared me. It basically woke me up to the fact my Grandma won’t be here forever and I need to cherish her while I can. I’m glad I’ve done that, I have really missed her. Despite the differences we have, we are more alike than we want to admit. She’s beautiful.

There is hope that I have a ‘job’, of sorts, which is a huge step for me. I’ve avoided applying for anything in fear of rejection. To apply for something you need confidence and I don’t want to build up the confidence to do something with myself to only have it torn down, but finally I’ve stepped out of that mindset. I hope I don’t regret it.

Tomorrow, I am going to see my nephew and niece who were born on Christmas Eve. For a number of reasons, I am terrified of building connections with people, which is why I have put off seeing them for so long. I can only hope my brother has understood that.

I expect people to leave me so why bother building a relationship? They’re only going to leave, and with them being so young, what does a crippled auntie have to offer them? Nothing.

I’m writing more on here, and it’s not been stuff I’ve been particularly proud of, but writing alone makes me happy. All of this hasn’t been to please anyone or build an audience. I realised doing something to build an audience, without passion in what you are doing just leads to disappointment. I need that passion, I need to care about what I’m writing now, so I’m not focusing on bringing in an audience anymore. Writing to me has always been an outlet to me so I need to be my authentic self.

I’ve started to get back into photography again. My confidence (like in everything else) in that is low, so I know it’s not extraordinary but again, it’s an outlet that I enjoy so I am embracing it.

I have taken up gardening, but I imagine with this at some point will come some sort of frustrating obstacle due to the wheelchair that I will have to figure out, but I know I have people in my life who will be willing to help if it’s needed.

Lastly, and this the seemingly silly one, I am getting out of bed, getting dressed, doing my make-up and keeping myself busy. Reading that over, yeah, it sounds silly and easy but anyone who has suffered mental health issues knows that this is pretty much step one to recovery.

After being baptised, I’ve heard a lot about losing your old identity and then embracing your identity with Christ. I haven’t been able to do that, not yet and I’m not rushing myself to. Things won’t change over night, but if I can leave this depressive, suicidal Nikita in my old identity, I’d be grateful.

We’re all taking different paths in this thing called life and we all have different ways of going about things, I am doing things my way. One day, I do want to help others with suicidal tendencies, voluntarily or otherwise. I think doing it voluntarily would be better for me. I’ve always argued that therapists don’t care, they just want to be paid. Some have confirmed that opinion, others have proven me wrong and for those people, I am grateful. For now, I’ll continue to write these things and see how I go.

And with all that, this is me.

2004, New Years Eve. My Dad picked up the phone and rushed out the door. I knew something was wrong because he didn’t say “Goodbye, love you!” or anything. I asked my mum why, but I think she was as confused as I was. All we could do is wait for him to come home. I didn’t see him again till the next day, and understandably, he was switched off. I may have been a child, but I could understand when an adult didn’t want to answer questions.

Even after I had been to my Granddad’s funeral, when my Dad and I went back up to my Grandma’s, I innocently asked where my Granddad was. My Grandma and Dad looked at each other and I got the impression I had said something wrong. My Dad and I don’t remember his response, I just immediately understood not to bring up Granddad ever again around my Grandma. I never brought him up with my Grandma until 2015, even though I still worry about upsetting her.

My Granddad’s funeral was a complete blur to me. I remember people dressing in black and how excited I was to see other family members. My confusion started when we arrived at my Grandma’s and people were laying flowers outside her house. My mum took me round to look at the flowers, she read the labels to see who paid their respect and I asked her what was going on. She told me it was a funeral but didn’t explain what a funeral was. I didn’t have that trust with my mum enough to ask too many questions, so I left it there.

I went through the day, confused, unsure what to do with myself. The sadness didn’t hit until my mum asked me to pass my Dad a tissue and I saw my Dad cry. To a daughter with a strong bond with her father, seeing him cry broke my heart. I didn’t know how to react because I was so confused, but I remember snuggling up to my mum, crying, asking why Dad was crying. I got no answer.

My Dad kept my Granddad alive though, through stories and memories I began to piece together who my Granddad was and what his values were. He was a protective family man. I like to think I learnt most of my family values from him through my Dad and uncle. My Granddad taught me a lot of lessons that I try to use daily, even though he isn’t here to teach me himself.

When I was young, Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride was one of my all-time favourite films. I watched it once and listened closely to the opening song “He Lives In You”. One day I turned to my Dad and said “That’s like you and Onslow! I can see his face in yours.” Onslow was my Granddad’s nickname, taken from the show ‘Keeping Up Appearances’. My Grandma is also known as Daisy. Don’t ask why, I don’t fully understand myself.

I did my part in keeping my Granddad alive as child. I often found myself crying over him, not understanding how I could have met his shell without knowing his personality. I just wished there was more time, I still do now, but as my understanding has grown, I have accepted that will never be possible.

I used to make wishes on stars, asking for my Granddad to make some sort of appearance in my life or my Dad’s, like Mufasa does in the Lion King. I spent a lot of my life hoping for an afterlife, because if there is an afterlife, he would still be alive. When Dad and I used to take late night drives, listening to Alice Cooper or The Rasmus, if the moon was full Dad always told me that Granddad lives on the moon now. Even now as an adult, if the moon is full I find myself saying ‘Hi Granddad,’ and smiling.

I don’t know how my Dad felt about me bringing Granddad up a lot as a kid, specially as I didn’t know him, but Dad and I have always spoke about anything we needed to together. So I felt comfortable enough to do so with him, which is good. If Dad and I hadn’t of spoken of Granddad when I was young, it could have been like he never did exist to me. Getting to know who he was and what he was about gave me a chance to put a personality to the shell of the person I saw. I still see my Granddad on that sofa when I go into my Grandma’s house, he is meant to be there. He is meant to be here to see me now, to guide me, to love me.

I remember as a child hating God and refusing to believe in Him because, on top of the disability, He took my Dad’s Dad, my Granddad. Experiencing the aftermath of his death was so confusing and overwhelming. I began to fear death, if my Dad wasn’t home by six o’clock like he was meant to be, I’d call him, making sure he was alive. How could anyone believe in God when He broke my family apart? How can anyone justify my Grandma losing her childhood sweetheart? How was this fair?

One of my Granddad’s favourite films was Highlander, now it’s one of my favourite films. My Granddad had Queens — ‘Who Wants to Live Forever’ played at his funeral. Whether that was because of the film or because of his love of Queen, I don’t know, but whenever I hear that song in context of the film, I picture my Grandma and Granddad as a young couple with no concept of time, no idea that one day they would be apart. I didn’t know if this was a coincidence or whether it was done on purpose, but on this date, every year my Grandma lights a candle in memory of my Granddad, just like Connor does for Heather. Coincidence or not, I find that adorable.

He truly meant everything to this family. He sounded like the glue that kept us together, things seem like they’d be simpler with him here but he can only be here in memory and how we act in our day to day lives. All I can hope is that he is up there, somehow. When I lost my German Shepherd when I was twelve, I liked to think that she is now with him watching us. These sound like pointless, childish fantasies but it’s a huge comfort to something I cannot change.

Greif is something we all face, and we all deal with it differently, I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to go about it. If you acknowledge you aren’t the only one grieving a loss, if you are emotionally available to those around you, that’s more than enough. I would like to think I’d have better advice to give than just that, but I don’t. Death has always been a sad fact of life. It doesn’t feel like it but it does help us grow and cope with loses in the future, that’s not me saying it will be easy, just easier.

I like to think, considering my Granddad doesn’t leave my thoughts, I can get him to live on through my kids. I want to keep him alive for as long as I can, if that’s even possible.

I can try.

Christmas eve I went to bed, feeling defeated due to my wheelchair and the limitations that came to the survive that evening. I had written a letter for my Dad, letting him know how much I love and appreciate him, despise both our faults of the last year. To add to the Christmas theme, I put two mince pies and a glass of milk by his bedside too. While doing that, i struggled getting the glass of milk from the kitchen to his bedroom, which seriously stressed me out. What should be a simple task became a unnecessarily difficult trail.

After dinner, I felt my mental health and self hatred take a toll, leaving me angry and irritable to the people and things around me, so i went to bed to save any possible, unnecessary arguments. I sat in bed, looking at the wheelchair and burst into tears. Depression killed all the festivity that was alive in me just hours before. Every single issue that the wheelchair brings became highlighted from that one minor issue, and that made it all the more frustating. I can look at it in a positive mindset and say it doesn’t matter that much, but in the moment, it really gets on top of me, but I don’t seem to get to have control of how I feel. I am a puppet to my brains irrational emotions.

As it got to 12am, I set my alarm for 6am to wake bright and early to unwrap my Christmas presents with my grandma and Dad. When 6am came around, I stopped my alarm and went back to sleep, waking again at 8am. I looked at my phone, at the time and the date and wondered if I had the strength to face the day. I knew I didn’t but felt obligated to take part. I went into the living room, sat on the floor, completely forgetting the presents. I only picked one up once my Nan excitedly asked me to begin unwrapping. I had breakfast and went back to bed, once again drowning in the feeling of self loathing. I didn’t want to ruin the festive happiness for the people around me.

To the people around me I probably seemed anti — social, and I appreciate that it came off that way, but not everyone wants to take part in the expectation of Christmas happiness, nor should anyone be forced to.

Normally Christmas is a happy time for me, which is a lovely thing to be able to say, but this Christmas I was completely lost, drowning in thoughts of my past and insecurities of the present. Overall, I am happy and grateful have the people and stuff I do have in my life, but that doesn’t mean the days of defeat don’t come and go. It’s just unfortunate that my day of overwhelming defeat happened on Christmas day.

If you have a family member or friend who struggles around the christmas period or is just having a bad mental health period, don’t force them to smile. Just because it’s Christmas, it doesn’t mean they have to smile if they feel too weak to. Let them feel their emotions, process them and move on in their time. You cannot control their emotions and the majority of the time, we can’t either. Also, seriously calling them “Scrooge” or “The Grinch” when you know they struggle with mental health issues isn’t funny, just plain rude, insensitive and unhelpful. Try encouraging them and you may get more of a response.

As I write this, I am sat at my uncles, surrounded by their Great Danes, my Grandma’s Jack Russell and a Bichon — Frise crossbreed. I’ve always loved my uncles, I get such a sense of home and family here, which is something truly special to me.

I hope you’ve all had a brilliant Christmas and continue to enjoy the holiday season. Please remember to stay safe.

Happy New Year. x

I struggle to reflect on the year gone by on New Years Eve knowing the majority of my family are overwhelmed with the grief of my Granddad who died on New Years Eve, 2004. So here I am, reflecting now, and yes, this year has been so incredibly eye opening in the best way possible.

I went into this year in such a toxic place, surrounded by one toxic person. I was trapped, scared and in turn, extremely suicidal. In May, that relationship came to a sudden holt which left me with such a feeling of liberty and happiness, but that happiness didn’t last.

In June, I was severely suicidal. Locking myself in my room, turning up the radio, screaming eternally and filled with no self esteem or confidence. This period nearly stopped me going to London in July to what I thought was a “Welcome Trump” march but was a “#FreeTommy” event. July was a significant month for me, it showed me who my friends were, it showed me the people who love me for who I am which helped me find myself and find my self confidence again. In finding myself, I let go of my attempted political activism as I realised a shift in the rights approach to open dialogue. It was bittersweet because I am more than aware that there are genuine people within these movements who actually want to make a positive influence in the world, but the louder voices in the movements have ruined it for me. There isn’t a movement trying to bring people together anymore, everyones so set on disagreeing and no one wants to get along. It’s no longer that feeling of “home” I once had. If anything, I feel incredibly unwelcome in those environments now, but I had to. It was the best thing for me and in turn made me happier.

I still have my opinions on politics, I just hate voicing them. Whenever I do, somebody either takes offence or starts recklessly insulting me and my intelligence. I don’t need that crap in my life, thank you.

Later on in July, the 28th, I found love. It was short lived love, but love nonetheless. I am grateful for having that person come into my life and show me what a relationship can be. It was a completely different experience to what I’d had before and so much more than I ever thought I’d deserved before. I think it was short lived because we didn’t take time before getting intimate, we didn’t become friends before becoming lovers. It became evident quickly we wouldn’t be compatible long term, so, we said goodbye around early December.

October was the month I seriously began to get involved with my journey in faith. It’s not something I’ve been too public about because, honestly, it’s nobodies business and it’s something that only I need to know about, but I do know that this did play a big factor in making me happier and more confident in myself.

November was a mixed month. Towards the beginning I celebrated my 21st birthday, a day my 12 year old self never thought she’d see. I was so overwhelmed with love from my friends I’ve made through politics, my church family, my nephew and niece and so many other important people in my life. I hadn’t celebrated my birthday for years, it never seemed important to anyone else so it became unimportant to me. This birthday was one I will definitely remember for a long while.

Towards the end of the month, I noticed my mental health declining rapidly. I knew why but since it involves someone else, it’s unfair to share.

Whilst the declining mental health stuff was going on, I went down to Bristol to meet up with some friends. It was so nice to reunited with them all. Once I got home and reflected on the weekend, I quickly realised where I belonged.

Skip to now, late December, I can say this is the happiest I have been. I feel like the more I go on about it, the less people will believe me, but I truly am. I believe I’ve found who I want to be, for the most part at least. I can look in the mirror and say I like the reflection looking back at me. The confidence in who I am and what I look like isn’t arrogance, far from that, it’s something I’ve battled with for years so to be at this point is truly something to be happy about. I think I have also found happiness in the fact that this is happiness I’ve created for myself, it’s not me depending on another person for it like it has been before. This is all me.

This year as a whole has been so overwhelming brilliant. So many good things have come out of it, that the downsides to it don’t matter to me anymore. I feel unstoppable, and that means everything to me.

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and happy new year.