To my parents, fighting along side me.

To my parents,

I will never be able to thank you both enough for the life you have given me despite my illnesses, the hours and energy spent on comforting me, and the countless hours, days, weeks, months and years you have both spent fighting along side me through thick and thin.

A simple thank you will never do, and it will never be enough for the endless love, support and patience you have shown me continually in many a time I was bewildered and frightened. However, thank you is a start.

Nothing goes unnoticed, nor will it ever. Hours after hours spent on teary nights, doctor appointments, private specialists, research, medications, planning out my days so I can focus more and put my mind at rest, staying by my side through the dizzy spells, the flare ups, the nausea, power naps, panic attacks and spending your days with me so I don’t get lonely. I am so thankful for all that you do, for doing the unthinkable and for being the best parents a kid could ask for.

I think many people seem to forget that although it was my first time dealing with M.E or a chronic illness, it was your first time too. I needed you to be brave and tell me everything was okay, despite having a million and one worries worm around inside your heads. I can only imagine how hard that must of been to put your own worries a side, and hold my hand through everything that didn’t make sense to you, let alone me.

I know every struggle I face affects you just as much as it does me, every inch of pain and all the messy, unpleasant experiences my illnesses brings along with it, affects you too. I often think about how I would be if the rolls were reversed, and if I had to sit by and watch you two suffer as I felt powerless, longing to help you in some way. Well, I don’t think I’d be very good at it, to say the least. You amaze me.

Every sleepless night, every pain ridden moment, every time I have felt abandoned, you have been there to scoop me up, place me in your arms and talk it through. Every time I have wanted to quit and give in, you have taught me that fighting with every inch of my body is worth the happy, incredible moments I will experience in life, no matter how small. Amongst things, you have taught me to be kind and considerate because you never know what happens behind closed doors, and despite how I may feel from time to time, I will never be alone as I will always have you, my best friends. You have taught me to be brave.

Thank you for talking me through the panic attacks, pushing me to strive for my goals, teaching me to never give in and for holding my hand every step of the way. Thank you for sticking up for me, telling the docs where to shove it and for making sure I know I’m loved. Thank you for making me laugh too, joking about this crappy situation and not the ideal one I had hoped for really makes everything a lot lighter, being deep and depressed does nothing for me. Thanks for making me laugh through the pain and tears, for taking the piss out of me and for treating me no different to any normal kid, with a few exceptions of course. Thank you for showing me my fighting spirit.

I know I stress you both out, I know you don’t sleep and I know you worry more than you should. I just hope you know, I try every single day to show you how thankful I am to have the parents that I have. You guys are my best friends, to some people that might be weird but you are. However, I know that parents like you aren’t common and I’ll be damned if you aren’t made extremely aware of this.

You have shown me the true meaning of courage, passion, love, strength and bravery and that alone would have been the greatest thing to ever happen to me. You are the reason behind every fight, past, present and future. I love you. As long as I am fighting, I know you will be too, right by my side, hand in hand, smile on your face.

Thank you for loving and supporting me, for never giving up on me, for making me laugh till my stomach hurts and showing me the fighter within me.

5 things you learn being chronically ill

Like the majority of people out there, no one tends to appreciate what they have till it’s gone. A common mistake yet still a mistake at that.

When your worst fear breaches the surface of reality, our point of views are drastically changed of how we see the world and the people inhabiting it. Yes, I’m talking health.

Just like many, until I had everything stripped away from me with one mighty snap of life’s jaw, I took my normally functioning body for granted. Granted I was 9, but none the less. Now, being ill obviously has a lot of down falls to it but it does have it’s ups too. Occasionally, maybe. Sometimes.

Taking a step back from life and watching it from the side lines really improves your ability to see what’s going on, how people react to your situation and how they typically treat the average ill person. So here are a view things you learn being chronically ill.

1. People are genuially quite rude to the disabled and ill percentage of the population.

I have noticed, as has my family, being in a wheelchair pretty much makes you invisible to the normies. Now you’re properly thinking that doesn’t make any sense what so ever, wheelchairs are unmissable right? Wrong.

Using my wheelchair for day outs, or distances I can’t walk means I can do a whole lot of observing from down below. Personally, it’s hard enough being in a wheelchair at 17 being pushed by my 13 year old brother without adding to the chaos it brings. I am constantly cut up, pushed infront of, elbowed, walked over, and hit round the head with some stupid ladies handbags. I’m not sure why and how exactly but I’m very much convinced I’m invisible as soon as my bum touches the seat. Magic.

2. People are quick to judge.

I’m sure I’m not the first person to complain of such things, but it’s 100% true. I have a blue badge to help aid me and get me though the tough days. Even on a good day, I may need it as I can’t walk to distance intended for healthy people to get wherever I’m going. As I’ve mentioned before, I also use a wheelchair to get around the place. Anybody would think I’ve just slaughtered a new-born baby by the looks I get given. I’ve heard on multiple occasions that I don’t need my wheelchair, I shouldn’t be in a disabled parking spot or I’m simply just too young to be ill. The looks I’m given can be absolutely heart-breaking, making the whole ill and 17 concept even harder to cope with.

3. Friends don’t always stay.

Over the years, specially at the start of the whole diagnosis process, I’ve lost my fair share of friends. I don’t know what it is exactly, but maybe when you become ill you get a free ‘please run away’ sticker slapped on your forehead.  As many stressful periods of a person’s life often does, a chronic illness or if you’re lucky, multiple (insert sarcasm here), filters out the true from the fake. It hurts, but you find out who’s in it till the end and who isn’t. You can call it a curse and a blessing.

4. People are selfish.

As I’ve mentioned previously, for a large portion of my time spent ill, I spent the majority of it watching from the side lines as everyone else continued embracing life and all it’s glory. I can’t say I was any better when I wasn’t in this position but it’s something that is now incredibly obvious. Unless it personally affects their life or them, people don’t tend to care all that much.  I can’t say this is the case for everyone but from personal experience, it’s a large majority. I had no visitors or cards, not even a single text from outside my close family (parents and brother). I was 13, bed bound and persuaded I had met life’s end. Even now 4 years on, I can’t say it’s got much better people wise, I’m still waiting on that text.

I suppose being ill has enhanced my ability to care for others, and to thoroughly understand the loneliness and overwhelming feeling someone gets when facing a stressful ordeal. I can honestly say, hand on heart, I have been there for as many people as possible in the last 4 years as humanly possible and still currently am.

5. People are highly uninformed on the majority of chronic illnesses.

Everyone has heard of cancer and rightly so. However, what about the 50 million other illnesses, disabilities and chronic conditions a percentage of the world’s population face every single day? I have learnt that most people haven’t got a clue what my illnesses are, what the do or even that they are a thing. There is little to no funding for research and only a few specialists covering my conditions in the UK. It is unbelievable how uninformed  and oblivious the general population is. Yet again, I can’t say much as I hadn’t got a clue till it smacked me in the face. I think this is why it is so important to spread awareness not just among the chronic illness community but outside of it too. Friends, family, the weird guy wandering the streets. Anyone.

It’s all part of my experience learning to dance in the rain.

 

 

Identity Thief; losing yourself to a chronic illness

When living with a chronic illness, in many ways our identities feel taken from us. Whether you live with one illness, or twenty, you are mildly or severely affected, a bit of who we are is striped from us and replaced with the longing ache of who were once were, the person we wish we were.

No matter how much we cling onto the person we were prior to the dreadful diagnosis, sometimes when we look at ourselves in the mirror, we won’t always recognise the person before us. We change in so many ways, although not all bad as being ill can develop us in ways we don’t even realise.

Theft of identity while living with any illness is often predictable, one of the biggest aspects of being newly diagnosed. We’ve all been there, yet not all of us regain the control we need, the control we want.

It is truly devastating to be suddenly restricted by the name of an illness you can’t even pronounce and have no say on the changes being made to your lifestyle and you as a person. We learn to change how we do things, our hobbies and the things we once truly loved. Living in the word of doctors appointments and flare ups mean we have to make tough decisions and these decisions can be just as troublesome to make as anything else.

I’ve had to stop doing so much, simple things from netball games, to walking with my friends into town without worrying about the journey back. Things closer to my heart such as horse riding and playing on the trampoline with my brother. Losing everything at once overwhelmed me with nothing but confusion and the fear of losing myself. I know I won’t ever be that person again, I will never live without pain nor will I ever be illness free. That’s the harsh reality.

I think the fear is being seen as your illness rather than the person the illness has swallowed. I used to and still do fear I am seen as the girl in the wheelchair, rather the girl with the great sense of humour. The girl who was too young to be ill, rather than the girl who loved to paint. I fear I am seen as Myalgic Encephalomyelitis rather than Maddie. Seen as POTS and EDS rather than who I really am. Not only did I fear that others would see nothing but the illness, I felt like I had lost a great part of who I was.

I think the trick is to understand that you can be both the new and the old you. Let the girl with the chronic illness stand out as much as the old did and don’t for one second let it define who you really are. I think we should embrace both the old and the new, after all an illness shouldn’t stop us from being who we are at heart but we should also allow it to build our character. It took me a while to understand that although I had changed drastically, I am still myself. I have learnt to appreciate and accept that although I am not 100% who I was, I am now more capable of understanding others needs, I love harder than ever and I appreciate every single thing I have and am able to do. Yet I am still as interested in music, art, I still love animals and reading and I’m still as quirky, sarcastic and smart as I have ever been.

I am not the sick girl. I am the happy, nerdy, quirky, horse loving, arty mess of a girl who just happens to be sick.

What it means to be strong

Strength is often thought to be categorised as muscular or physical ability of a person, rarely is it appreciated for the strength of someone’s heart and mind.

It should come of no shock to know it hasn’t always been the easiest for my family and I, 1 step forward 2 steps back. Whether it’s been due to illness, passing of loved ones or trouble makers, there always seems to be another obstacle in the way just after passing the last. I think it takes a certain strength to deal with the hand we were given and to every single time come out stronger.

I don’t think everyone is strong, I wish everyone could be but I think it takes a certain type of person to be given hell and then proceed to come out stronger than ever before. We often find ourselves in a place we would rather not be in, like many do, but many a time we see people spiralling down rather than climbing up.

Strength is being given hell and rising above it. Strength is fighting a war you’ve already lost and carrying on. Strength is knowing what suffering, pain, anger and heart ache feels like, and learning to over come each obstacle no matter how tricky. Terrible things happen to good people, people that don’t deserve the golden platter of doom, served with a side of extra doom and a splash of more doom. Terrible things that make us want to cry, punch, kick, scream. Obstacles that project the illusion of drowning in our own emotions, continuous waves. Things that make us want to give up.

However, strength is not about being seen to be okay, to not look broken or as if you’re struggling. Strength is about crying, screaming, being angry at the world and giving it the middle finger. Strength is about allowing yourself to be weak, and then picking yourself back up and carrying on. Telling yourself you’re good enough, tough enough, strong enough and worthy of every damn fight it takes to be happy. No matter what.

I know that determination and strength doesn’t appear over night, and it doesn’t come in swings and roundabouts. I know that the strength I carry, the strength my family carry, is worked for every single second of the day with the scars and bruises to show for it. No matter how many setbacks, no matter how many times I fall, we fall, we will set our goals and reach for them with all our might.

Not everything is easy, it never will be and I know that, I’m sure you do to. So when I’m reaching for my goals, when my mum, dad, brother and I are trying to push through the tough times, I remember that there is beauty and always will be in the many imperfections and perfections of life.

Dizzy Driving

As I’ve just turned 17, learning to drive had very quickly moved up to the top of my priority list the coming weeks before my birthday. There isn’t much difference from the casual 17 year old that wants to wiz about the place in a flashy new car and me. Apart from the small problem of being chronically ill and having the attention span of a damn gnat. Small problem I said, small. Very, very, not so very, small problem.

So this very small, not so small problem, is something I’ve decided I can overcome, if I listen to what this hot mess of a body has to say.

I’ve recently had two driving lessons, the first of which started on my birthday, and I was surprised with an actual car. Yes, you heard me, read me, correctly. I’m incredibly grateful for such a wonderful surprise and I truly am so thankful for that along with everything else my parents do for me.

So far, so good. My lessons are going very well, and I haven’t had to cancel one yet. It’s early days and I have a way to go, but so far the excitement of driving has distracted me from any symptoms I’m feeling, right until I get home. I don’t know if it’s because I have to concentrate on keeping myself safe or not, or because I’m so excited every time the lesson comes around. Either way, I’m not complaining.

Of course there will be days I feel like I’ve been running that much I could actually star on Scooby Doo, but I’ll face those days wisely. I don’t run by the way, like ever. If I ever run, it’s either away from something scary or towards a fridge. Either way, you’d better come with.

Brain fog is as much as a problem for me as fatigue and pain is, so not screwing up massively and plummeting into the nearest lorry is a good sign so far. I haven’t found listening and understanding what Lee (my driving instructor) is saying too hard. In fact, I would very easily say that your instructor is the most important part of this process. If I had someone who didn’t break it down for me, wasn’t aware of my disabilities and had little to no patience with me, I’d be in a completely different state of mind right now. My mum made sure that he was suitable before we even welcomed the idea of booking with him.

As far as actual lessons and my fatigue go, if I wake up and I have that gut feeling I’m not going to be able to even talk normally today, the lesson will be cancelled. I’m not about to risk anyone’s life. Actually passing will be similar. On days I really feel like I can’t, I will ask someone else to drive me. I may not like it, and I may very well have to have a good old talk to my body, a good telling off, but its better than anyone getting hurt. I could never live with myself if I hurt someone, so I will just have to suck up my pride and ask for help. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

I haven’t just thought about driving, and how I will have to achieve my goals using alternative routes if push comes to shove, but also what I should carry in my car. Now the obvious stuff like a spare tyre and a first aid kit isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m thinking more, ice-cream backup spoon, well spoons, medication, heart rate monitor and a million pair of sunglasses. Maybe a million and one if I’m feeling extra sassy that day. The spoons for well, duh ice-cream, medication for surprise headaches and back/joint pain, a heart monitor just in case my POTS wants to come out and play, and the sunglasses to prevent any headaches in the first place. I’ll add to the list as we go, but for now I think that’s a good start.

I’ve been looking forward to being able to drive for a long time, as many new doors are opened and a little bit of independence is given. It’s early days though, and I have much to experience.

Body VS Heart

I was given a body with limits. My body can only with hold a certain amount of normal day activities without retaliating in the only way it knows how to. I’m restricted in so many ways, chained down by pain and fatigue and sentenced to a life time of it.

The chains sometimes feel so heavy, breathing properly is difficult. Other days, the restraints of my illnesses are manageable, almost like I can swing them over my back and get on with my day. Other days, I’m lead into a sense of false hope and security, the chains are barely there, I feel free. No good day comes without 3 bad ones, it’s just how it is. I was given a body with limits.

Oh but my mind. I was given the mind of an explorer, an adventurer and a daredevil. My mind has no limits, a source of endless motivation and imagination, creativity and freedom. At heart, I want to climb, run, fly, ride, I want to be free. One with nature, nature with I. I want to climb the tallest mountains, run with the wind against my face. I want to explore the world, and appreciate every inch of beauty I come across. Grand or small. I’m an explorer at heart, yet my body has limits. It seems only unfair I was given the body of a dead person and the heart of a child. Unfair yet unchangeable.

I’d like to explore different cultures, and meet new people. I want to camp, make bonfires and dance around them with people I love. I want to sing, dance, party. I’d love to visit museums and embrace history. I’d like to eat in an American diner, I’d like to walk along the streets sheltered by trees. I want to be given endless energy, because hell would I make the most of it. I’d like to do something as simple as working behind a bar to pay for my own horses, and treat my parents because hell do they deserve it. There is so much I want out of life, yet I’m afraid I’ll be forever watching from the side lines.

That’s a huge fear of mine. Watching from the side-lines but never playing the game. It terrifies me, and I envy the people who take it for granted. I’m too familiar with the four walls of my bedroom for my own liking. Why should I be trapped within the small space I call my bedroom when there’s a whole world out there for me to discover?

I’d be grateful if I could simply go on a bike ride again, play with my brother and ride all day. I miss being normal, I miss having no limits and I miss the feeling of being free. Now, I dream. I dream about the things I want, and boy is it a tease.

But, one day I will do something great.

One day, and one day, I’ll turn around with a bag on my back, and car filled with loved ones, I’ll tilt my head to the side, crack a smile and I’ll say ‘Screw you body’.

Daddy’s little rocker

Throughout my life, I’ve been one to appreciate great music when I’ve heard it. Not the pop crap you get nowadays, but the great and passionate rock’n’roll goodness.

One of my earliest memories and certainly one of my fondest ones, was set in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, chomping down soggy toast that grandma had given us on the way to school. Every single morning, on the way to my grandma’s house and then school, my dad would find a new but classic band for me to listen to. I remember listening to my dad speak about the bands with such passion, as I looked wide-eyed at his bearded face as I munched on my over buttered toast.

If you ever have the pleasure of listening to my dad talk about his passion for music, you’ll understand me when I say you can truly tell how proud he is to of been apart of that musical era. After all, dad grew up with it on his doorstep, apart of the greebo, rocker, punk times. I have to say, hand on heart, music has built one mighty bond between him and I. Out of everything we share common interest in, music has always won.

We used to listen to all sorts, ever album he has, I’ve heard at least once. It makes me laugh now sometimes, when my dad puts on something different for a change, and I find myself knowing the words after years and years of not hearing that very song. In fact, it won’t just be the song, but the entire bloody album.

Now, I’ve been pretty lucky on the music front if I may say so myself. At just 11, I attended my first ever concert. It completely stunned me if I remember correctly. I was completely taken back, as car stereo to live show is quite a change in scenery. I can’t remember everything about that night, although I do remember a lot, the one thing that stood out was the smile on his face. My mums too. That and the dreadlock weirdo hitting my mum in the back of the head with his hair. Good times, good times.

It’s funny because I’ve always been different, right from a very young age. I don’t wear what most girls wear, I preferred mud and football to dolls and makeup and I didn’t like the music everyone else liked. Up until year 6, I never had a problem with being the weird kid. I had friends, I was liked but I could still be myself. I can’t remember why exactly, but I became ashamed of not being able to sing with my friends, the latest songs of 2012. I took it upon myself to learn to like that music, maybe then I could sing along with them too. Let me tell you now, that did not last very long. A month maybe? Long story short, I hated the music and I hated trying to be something I wasn’t.

Pretty quickly after that, more than ever before I was proud of who I was. I went into high school (year 9) proud of being different, and unlike every other girl. My music taste didn’t broaden at all, I just got more and more into it. As I said before, I liked my music before and I’m pretty sure I’ve been a Black Sabbath fan since the age of 5, but after a series of very annoying and unfortunate events in my life occurred, I became more dependant on music than ever.

Falling ill sucks, and boy did I struggle with the whole chronic illness concept for a while. I tell no lie, I still struggle now but not half as bad. I remember being stuck in my bed, with my newly bought iPod I had been given for Christmas, and listening to the same songs on repeat. It wasn’t until several months later, after making it out of bed, I started watching the music show ‘Kerrang’. Again, like I’ve mentioned before, I’ve always been a fan of rock and metal, and everything in-between. However, I got into the programme fairly quickly. I can’t remember which happened first, but near enough the same time, dad introduced me to a band called Slipknot. My dad isn’t a huge fan himself, although I dragged him to one of their live shows, but he told me how the band’s identity was unknown until someone put two and two together. That story alone made me one of the biggest slipknot fans out there.

It was soon afterwards, I got into heavier music than what I was used to, like Motionless In White and Bullet For My Valentine. I went through that kind of awkward stage of trying to be super gothy. I’m so thankful for the lack of photos taken during that time. Never again. My passion for all sorts of different music grew, and my mum and I would listen to it in the car when she carted me around to get some fresh air. My poor mother, some of the stuff I played was bloody awful.

I could talk forever about music. After finding my own feet in the music spectrum, my music taste is kind of how it used to be. I got tired of the whole weird screaming music, and found the type of music I do actually really like. For me and not just because every other weirdo liked that band. I got heavily into Five Finger Death Punch about two years ago, heavy enough while still being capable of understanding the damn words. Luckily for me, I got the entire family into them. We’re actually seeing them in December, and its safe to say I’m not the only one excited. Although nothing will compare to my forever favourite band ACDC.

I have a million music memories, shared with all my family, including the million and one concerts my dad and I have ended up at. I’ll talk about that another time though. One memory that really sticks out to me, is the day my dad said something along the lines of ‘you wouldn’t be where you are now without the soul of music’. As cheesy as that may sound to some, he’s right. Music has kept me going when many times I’ve just wanted to sit back and give in. I’ll be forever thankful for my dad making music such a huge part of my life.

Sugar Fuelled Day

Yesterday was a busy day, to say the least. I had to attend another college meeting about my next year at college, as I’m unable to keep up with a level 3 course and 2 GCSE’s along side it. In simple turns, if I tried, I would crash and I would burn.

This year at college has been hard enough, a lot of challenges to overcome but all which has added to my overall determination. The plan is to do my English and Math’s GCSE’s, achieve the best possible grade and try and catch up. Long story short, I’m 3 years behind where I should be. A couple reasons for that being my sorry excuse for a functioning body, and my high school denying me my entitled home tuition time.

Despite being at home, I achieved a B and a C in my Science GCSE, and a Distinction** in my B-Tec Art and Design. This year at college, I managed to get my English functional skills, hopefully fingers crossed a Merit in my Level 2 Digital Media course and I’m working on my Maths functional skills as we speak. Even if it is a bit of a ball ache.

Anyway, after a very long chat with some staff members from college and noticing her wonky eyeliner dragged across her eyelids, we managed to get the help we wanted and a goal in reach. Nothings set in stone, as what we want if above the college, but I have a feeling for once it’ll go our way.

I’ve had an extremely busy week, well two weeks, with college and constant trips to a hospital 3 hours away for some fairly unpleasant tests, so as you can imagine I was fairly drained of energy. How can I get a short but much needed energy boost you ask? SUGAR. Mama took me to a place called Oatcakes and Milkshakes, our first time there actually. Now when I say these milkshakes are monster sized, I mean you could feed a whole country with just the damn toppings.

I had a Unicorn something, I cant remember exactly what it was called. However, it was pretty much made with a dash of unicorn dust, a can of cream, a handful of sugary sweets, a fountain of bubble gum flavoured drink and a huge spikey multi-coloured lolly sticking out the top. My thoughts; a unicorn pooped in my cup. My mama had a banana split monster milkshake, I’m not entirely sure what flavoured milkshake it was, whatever it was it was certainly a dance for my taste buds. The jar was covered in hard dripped chocolate, a banana placed under a mountain of cream, a few glazed cherries on top, finished with a splash of some sort of yellow sauce. Safe to say my mum enjoyed hers as much as I enjoyed mine. Thanks Ma!

After a sugar high, we ended up visiting my Grandma and Grandad which was nice, I don’t seem to see them too much at the moment. College and various other things have been getting in the way, so it was really nice to catch up and watch my mum get a little stress break talking to them.

I think I mentioned earlier, I had a rather busy week. Well, all honestly I’m surprised I’m alive. I’m surprised I’m even functioning to be honest, but here I am just about hanging on. Homework is coming out my ears and even when I think I’m done with college, the work still piles up. It wont matter too soon anyhow, we’re off on holidays abroad Sunday. All I have to stress about then is the flavour of my ice cream.

Tap Into Your Creative Side

Art; it’s a beautiful part of life that reveals itself in any form of self expression.

I find art in almost anything, it’s who I am, creativity running through my veins as a part of me. Any given moment, someone’s or even sometimes my own personal creative perspective can leave my mind swirling, eyes wide open, jaw dropped. I love that the smallest noise, scent, taste and sight could inspire the most amazing things.

My own personal opinion, art isn’t just painting or drawing. It’s looking at something, getting inspired and using the only two tools you need, your mind and hands, to create what ever the hell you want. Drawing, painting, photography, writing, building, it’s all expressing your creative dreams. I’ve always been into creating anything, ever since I was little. When I was younger and spent a couple hours with my grandparents, I’d get these two huge bags of scrap paper, boxes, anything (all that my grandparents had collected for me) and my granddad and I would just go to town. Normally, we’d build robots, using cereal boxes as the head and body, toilet rolls for the legs and then paint over the top of them to create the final finished piece.

I also used to write a lot of short stories, not just in my English classes but in my spare time too. If I had even a remote resemblance of a good idea, off I went writing about it. I look back on my work from when I was 11, and yes my spelling is bad as it normally would be for year an 11 year old, but I had the same creative outlook and imagination as I do now. Something I never want to lose.

I find a lot of relieve in writing, when my heads swarming and I can’t think straight, writing how I feel and expressing myself through words of any kind helps tremendously. I find writing and describing every little detail to the point of over doing it sometimes, to just give me a short break, helps a great deal. However, there are times no words can describe what I have envisioned, and the only way to get out what’s in my head, whether an idea or a thought that’s been bothering me, is to draw.

Drawing, another passion of mine, if not the biggest. I love drawing, I love the fact my hands can make what I see. It puts me into a relaxing trance almost, the only thing scrambling in my mind is the question of whether I got that line right. I used to attend art classes at my now college when I was younger, they had a group every Saturday morning. They didn’t necessarily teach you how to draw better, or better your technique of lines and structure, but more of exploring different styles of art, opening that imaginary arty looking door featured inside your head. I went for several years, I loved it. I never wanted to stop.

I want to start sculptures almost, creating furniture or animals/people from old car and motorcycle parts, introducing two passions to each other. My dad’s going to help me, I have so many ideas swirling around. I also want to write a book, I love reading, writing, drawing, imagining, I love the idea and the work process it involves. The commitment and dedication, passion. Smash booking and journaling is something I have recently been exploring. I can include my photography, writing, drawings, painting and collaging work into one and create whatever I see fit. No one else has to see and it doesn’t have to be perfect, that’s the beauty of it. It can be perfectly imperfect to me and only me.

There is just so much I genuinely want to just sit there and do, spending hours upon hours putting my whole heart and soul into it. All my drawing, writing, creating, painting, it’s almost like my own personal type of therapy as well as passion. When I’m creating, nothing else matters, just the thoughts in my head. It’s kept me sane to say the least, well as sane as one can be. I hope in several years time, I can look at my work and see how much I’ve improved and be proud of what I hopefully have accomplished.