a splatter becomes a puddle,

a puddle becomes a pond,

a pond becomes a stream,

a stream becomes a river,

a river becomes a sea,

a sea becomes eternity.

My Christmas

This is my Christmas post!! For Christmas, I brought presents for my mum, dad, brother, and brother’s girlfriend. I got my mum a nice dress, my dad some chocolate penguins, an electronic bug, and a bike t-shirt. I got my brother a Mr Poopybutthead figurine, which you’d know if you watch Rick and Morty. I got his girlfriend an animal crossing K.K. Slider plushie, which she seemed to like. My brother was jealous though, perhaps for his birthday…?

I got a new phone for Christmas too, because I haven’t had one for a while. It’s cheap but it seems nice and it has that new phone feel. I also got the best surprise ever: a Pablo cushion! I screamed when I opened it because it’s the best thing I could have gotten. My brother got a Smiler cushion. For my stocking, I also got a magnetic poetry kit, which I’m going to start using for my instagram. Also, my dad got me a book that he brought when he was with me, except he told me it was for my brother.

My roast was lovely, with Tofurkey… mhm. I love roast potatoes and mash too. And sprouts.

On boxing day, I went to my aunt’s. It was really nice. One of my cousins gave me a box of delicious vegan sweets (honestly, best I’ve ever had). The other cousin gave our entire family a David Attenborough collection of DVDs, but also gave me a box of vegan chocolates, and no one else anything extra. I’m obviously her favourite. I got a lovely poetry book and top from my aunt and uncle. But my uncle’s sister got me a VEGAN YULE LOG. Okay, it wasn’t really a normal yule log, it was more dark chocolate in the shape of a yule log, but it was delicious!! I love my family. We also played some games, including Bananagrams, which I love a lot. It’s kinda like Scrabble but quicker and you laugh more.

I also won a competition a few days before Christmas. My favourite author, Patrick Ness, ran a competition where 10 winners would win all these prizes and 100 runners up got some good prizes too. I was one of the 10 winners, and it makes me so happy, because one of the prizes means I get to go see A Monster Calls as a play in the Old Vic, London. I also get some cool other stuff but I think that’s the one I’m most excited for, especially considering the star of it is a tree. I’m just wanting to see a tree walk on stage, really.

Overall, my Christmas was the best time of year, because I got to go see my family. I don’t care about much else, it’s just nice to see them. The rest of my year wasn’t really much to beat either. I also played ‘Who Am I?’ and one of the questions I asked was ‘am I female?’ My cousin answered ‘you are… now’ and I instantly knew I was Doctor Who. Hehe…

The pets got a ton of presents this year too, including a bum for Pablo. Yes, a bum. My cousin got him a cuddly baboon’s bum, which he loves.

Thank you for reading,

How was your Christmas?


When You See Me

When you see me, you see a white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. She can see, she can walk, she’s got nice clothes. That girl is lucky. Perhaps you’re right; I live in a house, with a family that cares, and I’ve got pets too. I am writing this on an iPad, that’s nice as well. I’ve got a lot of things I should be thankful for. I am thankful for them, but life isn’t a breeze either.

As a stranger, I look normal to you. But I have a hidden condition, and it’s called autism. For me, it means that I crave social contact but want to run away when I get it. It means that I won’t speak up about something I dislike until hours later, when I tell only my mum. It means that I can’t go out alone, can’t navigate alone, it’s too terrifying. It means that sometimes my words get scrambled up and I say things wrong. It means that I can’t currently work, because it would be too much; the people, the tasks, the deadlines— it would all get too much. I wouldn’t even survive the interview. It means that I stay in my house most days.

It means that I am not who you think you see.

People with autism look just like anyone else. Sometimes, they’re even extroverts willing to party (they do exist, I know a few!) and sometimes they’re not. Each person with autism is different, no two share the exact same difficulties. But we all blend in. Just because you can’t see it, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s very real and very frightening.

Thank you for reading,



So I was at a cafe today with my parents, just having lunch, when I overheard a conversation from the table next to us. A man was saying a lot of bad stuff about vegans. One thing he said was “if they were on my table, I’d have extra pigs in blankets”. He also said the line that I have heard so often from people; that if we didn’t breed animals, they’d be extinct. We actually over-breed them, so it’s a very false statement. Even if it were true, which it isn’t, I would much rather a species go extinct than have to suffer at the hands of humanity.

I know a lot of omnivores; the majority of the people I know are omnivores, and if they’re not, they are vegetarian. I don’t have any vegan friends. I hold my beliefs quite passionately but if I were to go around bad-mouthing them, I’d be a very unpopular person. I accept that it’s not something they’re willing to do. Whilst I’d like them to be vegan, I know that I have to accept them as omnivores. Being vegan is about passion and I couldn’t call myself passionate if I were constantly making them feel bad.

This guy had no right to talk rubbish about an entire group of people within society. He hasn’t even met most of us, yet he can be so rude. It kinda made me sad, because a lot of other people are probably staying similar stuff. Vegans aren’t the enemy; we’re just like you, except we live slightly differently. I’m so thankful for the small amount of friends I have, and I wouldn’t change them. But other people should not judge a book by its cover.

With me, it’s “is she antisocial?” “How rude!” “Does she speak?” “Stop fidgeting!” That is because of my autism and that is how I am judged. Next, because of my veganism, it’s “oh, she’s one of those.” “What does she eat?” “Plants have feelings too, hypocrite.” “Where does she get her protein from?” “Better not be friends with her, she’d turn me.” I have all these perceptions of me constantly floating around and it’s just upsetting to constantly have them in my life. Strangers, leave other strangers alone.Thank you.

I might not be what society deems ‘normal’ but I’m not what you think either. I’m more than just thoughts. I’m a person too.


What My Depression Feels Like

I’ve been depressed for a long time, suffered from anxiety for most of that time too, though I think the depression started first. I wasn’t even a teenager when it started. I have been on medication for it since I was fifteen, and I’m currently trying to get it changed as I am now an adult and it’s really not working. Not so many years ago, I overdosed on iron pills and spent quite a few hours in A&E, but I had thrown up most of them already. This was my way to get away from toxicity by digesting toxicity. Not my best idea.

I usually talk about my anxiety on this blog. My anxiety is simpler than my depression, because I can understand it. I can understand why I have it and what factors contributed to me getting it. I can understand why I used to be depressed, but I can’t get why I still am.

I guess it’s because of expectations, and what everyone else is doing with their life… and the fact that I can’t just get up and do something. It’s not that simple. Depression is never that simple. I’m at home most days, lonely. I want to get out and do stuff, but I can’t. A heavy weight stops me from doing it.

I want to be distracted, to have a friend come over and distract me, but people that were once my friends are now further apart from me than ever. They’re moving on with their lives, going places. And I’m not. You can’t expect me to just get a job, or to just go to university. It’s not that simple, again. Autism and depression don’t mix. I was never good at interacting with people, especially strangers. I want to volunteer but my confidence isn’t very high. My anxiety also coincides with this. I just feel so alone about all this.

This is just how I am. I’m sad all the time, but I’m too exhausted to talk to someone, because my mouth won’t move. So I type.

My Brother Is an Egg [Short Story]

My brother is an egg. He is oval, white, and very fragile. Seeing him so fresh to the world, and so unknowing, it pains me. He is the purest form of life, waiting until the day of his hatching, not knowing when it will come or what will come of it. I know. Our mum knows. We don’t have a dad, they don’t need dads.

My brother is an egg. He sits around all day, waiting for his time to come. But he will never have a time. He is a boy. I cry sometimes, knowing that he will have been an egg longer than he will ever be a chicken. I am merely a chick myself, but I know more about the world than he will ever know. I know that it’s cruel; my mother has gotten so used to it that her eyes don’t flinch anymore. I remember when she used to try to warm us all. Not just me, but all of the girls. All of her many, many daughters. We’re in a cage, you see. People don’t call it a cage; they say it’s not a cage because it’s a barn, and that we’re cage-free, but I can barely breathe here. My mother has gotten crushed accidentally so many times that her feathers are mangled. She isn’t that positive anymore. I try to be, but I’m so young that they don’t believe what I say. They know I haven’t had the worst of it yet. Even after the debeaking, the most painful experience I have ever been through, they’re telling me that was just the start.

My brother is an egg. He is starting to shake. He wants to see the world, to be free, to dance. A little crack here, another crack there. He is ready. But he shouldn’t be. What awaits him is a horror story. I have only heard folk tales of what goes on but we all know the basics. They talk about it sometimes. There is a conveyer belt, and there is blades. He will not live to tell the tale.

My brother is hatching. His body is shivering, he is starting to wonder. Where is he? What is he? Where will he be going? We all know the answers, of course, but he doesn’t. He is a baby, and I want to wrap him in my wings and keep him close to me.

My brother is a chick. A hand reaches down and snatches him. He lets out a soft startled squeak. He wants to be with his mummy. Is that too much to ask? He is dragged away, and that is the last time I ever see my brother, but it is not the last time I imagine him. I imagine his scream amplified as he falls off the conveyer belt, I imagine his body being ripped apart — but that is nothing compared to what I imagine next. I imagine him running around, in a field, happy. That is what breaks my heart the most.

My brother is dead.

Seven Reasons Why My Pets Are Robots

This is a list of reasons why my pets are robots.

  1. My dog, named The Pablo-62, runs to me when I get home. This is obviously a sign that he is a robot and is just doing what he is programmed to do.
  2. My cat, called The Diegometer-360, purrs all the time. This is definitely a sign of a malfunction; I will have to find my receipt.
  3. Another one of the cats in my residence, The Smiler-400, is not actually my cat. Another sign of malfunction, his registered home changed to mine somewhere in the line of things, and he is now in our home. This is surely a sign that these ‘pets’ are all broken.
  4. The Pablo-62 has a growl button. I’m not sure whether this was intentionally put in to deter people from touching his sides, but it certainly isn’t necessary. I will be contacting the distributors to discuss this problem.
  5. Sometimes they’ll just stare at me for hours. This is worrying and I am sure they are going to take over the world soon.
  6. They lie in uncomfortable places. Surely if these robots had emotions, they would not lie in wicker boxes, or rest their heads on wooden bars. It is odd.
  7. The cats and the dog co-exist. If they were not robotic, emotionless beings, they would hate each other. This is surely a sign of roboticism.

    This is a very, extremely, super serious post. All animals are robots and have no emotions. Watch out, or they might become sentient beings.

What Am I Doing With My Life?

So, two people in one day asked me the same question: what am I doing with my life? One conversation went something like this:

Them: Are you going to university?

Me: No.

Them: Are you working?

Me: No.

Them: Are you breathing…?

The other conversation was just a catch-up with an old friend, whom seems to have a really cool job as a teaching assistant with tiny children. I love children, so that seems fun. We talked a lot about our pets, and then about what we’re doing at the moment.

Anyway, it made me realise that people don’t understand me that well at all. These people that I’m friends with aren’t very similar to me. There is one friend I have who is very similar to me but we don’t meet up much, and it’s pretty much just her emailing me jokes that make me laugh. She thinks they’re not funny but they’re really my types of jokes!

So, I don’t have any prospects. I’m just an eighteen-year-old living with her parents. A lot of eighteen-year-olds live with their parents still, so I’m not too abnormal yet. My brother lives with my parents too — he’s nineteen! FYI: My mum moved out of her parent’s house at nineteen. I wish my brother took after her, because I really like the quiet. Just thinking is nice. And I can’t just think because he is constantly loud. I think I’ve complained about it a few times in blog posts… I have hyper-senses due to my autism, so every little sound really disturbs me! And he doesn’t even try to be quiet sometimes. The noise can be so loud…

Sorry for getting off topic! Basically, I think I should tell everyone a little thing about me: I don’t find it easy doing most jobs, or going to university. Both things involve interaction, and I have constant anxiety over every little thing, so something like that really wouldn’t work for me. I don’t know if I’ll get a job somewhen in the future, but right now, I don’t want one. I know that it would send my anxiety levels skyrocketing and my parents are fully supportive of me in everything I do. They want me to try working on my writing, but honestly, I’ve been stuck for ideas lately. Somewhen, I might go to university, or the open university, but it isn’t this year, or next. People need to live life at their own pace.

Not everyone should feel pressured to do what everyone else their age is doing. Sure, other people my age are at university or at a job: that isn’t me. Not right now, anyway. I have autism and it limits many of my social skills. Lots of people with autism do go to work or university, but I don’t find it works for me at the moment. I’m also pretty tired a lot of the time. I don’t know why, it’s kinda undiagnosed, but it stops me from being able to just go out and do things.

Remember that you shouldn’t feel like you have to do what the world is doing. You should do your own thing, be your own person. You can go to university if you want, that’s cool, but you should do it because you want to do it, not because everyone else is doing it. You can wait a year or two to try and figure out what you want to do in life. I want to be a cat, but unfortunately I haven’t figured out how yet. Maybe, one day…

Thanks for reading,



I’ve not done a blog post for quite a few weeks, sorry, I just haven’t been feeling good. I don’t know why but sometimes I get really down and I guess that’s how i’ve been feeling these last few weeks.

Anyway, i thought i’d just update you to inform you that i’m not dead, even if i feel it. I’ve had issues with my front right tooth for years, ever since I cracked it skateboarding when I was a cool tomboy kid. So, they’ve been doing lots of treatment on me, but eventually decided the only way they could kinda fix it was to do the final root canal treatment under general anaesthesia as this meant they could do exactly what they wanted.  So, on Friday I had this done. I’ve never had general anaesthesia before so was kinda nervous but it went okay. I had a premed that made me giggle a lot and then they didn’t even told me they were giving me the general anaesthesia, they just did it and then a second later it was done and i was in my room. There were some patches of blood on my bed which confused me as I hadn’t had anything done that should warrant that much blood next to me. I still don’t know what it’s from, just that it’s definitely mine. 

 The first thing I remember saying is ‘did they steal my slippers?’ as I had gone in with them on and woke up with them off. They did not steal my slippers. I am happy. I have a cut on my foot from the wheelchair, which is not friendly. Apparently I cut it trying to get into the wheelchair.

 I was very emotional yesterday because my parents had made me go out as we had a house viewing, the day after I had general anaesthesia. So, I didn’t get to rest, and ended up crying in the evening at absolutely everything. 

Also, I am still annoyed that my mum ate two of my sandwiches. She said she made too many for my post op snack but i was starving and she ate two of them!! Monster. 

I also went to a children’s hospital despite being 18 and it was a great experience. I don’t think i’ll get to go again but it was lovely. I have a cute plaster on the back of my hand.

I’m still very dopey and have a sore throat from the tube. It was terrifying not knowing how I would respond to the drug, because my mum has had a lot of surgery and sometimes it wasn’t a good experience for her. However, because of this, she asked that I be given an anti sickness medicine and a small tube for my throat, which means the sore throat isn’t as bad as it could be.

I’m doing okay at the moment. 

Apart from that, my life hasn’t been too eventful.  I guess I just want to chill. 

Sylvia Plath, Mental Health, and Girls

This post is a combined post about mental health day (yesterday) and girl’s day (today). It’s talking about my all-time favourite poet: Sylvia Plath.

She was born in 1932 and died thirty years later in 1963. Why did she die at the age of thirty? Suicide. She had attempted suicide many times, but they failed. Eventually, she succeeded by carbon monoxide poisoning.

As she wrote in some of her many letters, she felt that she wouldn’t get a place at the top universities because of her suicidal background. She did eventually get a place at Cambridge, where she met her future husband, Ted Hughes, who was once the poet laureate.

She talked, in her letters, that girls being suicidal wasn’t taken seriously back then, and that it would even affect their chances in education and work. Her doctor cared deeply about her mental health, however, and had tried to get her admitted to hospital several times, but they would not take her. The system failed her because they didn’t care enough about her mental health. She was also subjected to electroconvulsive therapy when she was depressed, which is a really awful way to treat someone.

In one letter, she mentioned that two days before a miscarriage, her husband had beat her. Many blame Ted Hughes for her death, and some even vandalised her grave, getting rid of the surname ‘Hughes’ and replacing it with ‘Plath’. Her son also committed suicide in 2009.

Nowadays, mental health is taken more seriously, but a lot of girls are still subjected to judgement: “it’s just hormones”, “it will pass”, “you’re not depressed, just sad”, “you don’t seem it”, “this is a phase”. Sylvia Plath was failed, but she did so many beautiful poems that will always honour her memory; don’t let anyone else be failed. Just because they’re young, doesn’t mean it’s a phase, or hormones, or anything else. Even if it is, just take them seriously. Wiping them away like rain on your windscreen will cause them to isolate themselves and, eventually, they might have a similar fate to that of Sylvia. I love her writing so much but a lot of it is sad. She literally wrote about her emotions and she still didn’t get the care she needed.

This post was about girls, as it is girl’s day, but that doesn’t mean you should forget boys. They are taught to be strong pillars, but allow them to fall down. If you don’t, they might have the same fate as Sylvia Plath’s son, Nicholas.