I am proud of how much you have managed to put down on paper. I am proud of you - and I am constantly amazed at the talent and flare for writing that you have. <3
Thanks everyone! As promised I have a new update. And then I'll have some more Sunday/Monday as I haven't typed it all out yet.
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I didn’t really know what to do but I found that a bag of frozen vegetables on my arm helped the pain a bit.
The pain at work the next day was excruciating. I’m not one to cry at pain but I came very close that day. It was only a 3 hour shift but it seemed to go on forever. I put on the mask I was so used to wearing and prayed that it wouldn’t crack until I got home. It got to a point where I was running to the bathroom or walk in freezer whenever I could to allow myself to pull faces and stomp a bit out of pain.
It seems so pathetic when I look back on it. I was desperate not to let anyone know I was hurting in any respect that I felt the need to hide before I could acknowledge it myself. I rarely feel empathy towards myself, but thinking about some of the days I used to have makes me wonder how I managed it at all.
The weekend finally came to an end and my hand had impossibly swollen more. I reluctantly called my GP on Monday morning for an appointment. I decided that as I was going, perhaps I should use the opportunity to ask for help too. I still felt mentally awful and whilst I had only slipped up once, I didn’t want it to become my life again. I never doubted that I would be taken seriously and offered help. I couldn’t forget how I had been treated in my own home town but I felt sure that my new life would give me the opportunities that I wanted. Needed.
It was the first time I had seen a GP at the university’s medical centre. I was nervous; I always got incredibly nervous before I saw any medical professional and it always left me feeling nauseous. I was the only one in the waiting room and got called through almost straight away. It was a woman Dr and she introduced herself as Dr Salmon. She asked why I was there and I managed to explain what I had done and how my arm and hand were feeling. She didn’t seem too interested but she had a look, diagnosed an infection and gave me a prescription for antibiotics. I hesitated, hoping she would throw me a rope, but she didn’t.
‘Erm. I was also wondering if I could get some help.’
‘For what?’ Was she serious?
‘Well. For the self harm and my mood. It’s not been very good.’
‘We don’t just prescribe anti-depressants to everyone who asks for them.’
‘Oh. Well, I wasn’t really asking for –‘
‘I mean, we could refer you to the psychology services, but that can take 6 months or so, there’s not much point in doing that.’
‘Why –‘
‘I suggest you go to the uni counselling service. If you want to talk to someone they can do that.’
‘Oh –‘
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Erm, no, thanks.’
I didn’t understand what had happened. I didn’t want medication and I never had; I didn’t think it could help much. I couldn’t understand then why she didn’t want to refer me, though in hindsight I suppose she wanted me to see someone sooner. Perhaps. At the time I felt that I had been dismissed again and felt worse for it.
I had had ‘episodes’ of what I can now recognise as psychosis and in that year they became very prominent. I spent hours at a time hiding in my bathroom, terrified and convinced that ‘they’ were coming to get me. I saw things and heard things – one day I was sure the oven in the kitchen had exploded and couldn’t understand how it was in one piece the next time I went in. I couldn’t acknowledge it back then and hadn’t told anyone about it, but it was those that eventually made me make an appointment with one of the uni counsellors.
Classes had been on for about a month and a half and I’d been in uni for about two months by that point. I’d only had the one episode of self harm but I was utterly miserable. I missed my family and friends from my home town, I hated drama and was feeling increasingly blocked out of my friendship group. I’d failed completely at making friends in my classes and whenever I asked Emma or the others to go out for a meal or the cinema they never had any money, yet when they wanted to go to the pub they could afford it. I’ve never liked pubs or clubs and still don’t; I find it difficult to be around so many people and loud music. I was sinker deeper into depression and I had no idea what I was doing. Even work, which had been fun at home, was making me feel awful.
That’s how I found myself walking into a small office with Francis, a male counsellor. There were ornaments and bits of African souvenirs in there which I always found quite distracting. He asked me why I had come and I didn’t really know what to say so we sat there for about 5 minutes in silence before I could think of anything.
‘Well, I guess I’m not feeling very good at the moment and the Dr suggested I come and see someone here.’
Annoyingly he said nothing and just stared at me. I had no idea what to do – I had never been good at volunteering thoughts and feelings related to my low moods.
‘My gran is ill.’ What? My gran was in hospital and was sedated – she’d had a triple bypass and had picked up an infection. We’d been told she had a 50/50 chance of surviving, but I’d not told anyone. How on earth was it relevant here?
‘Er. I guess that’s been the cherry on the cake of all this.’
He still said nothing. The remainder of our 50mins passed awkwardly; I had no idea how to say anything and he barely made a noise. As I was going to leave he asked if I wanted another appointment. I declined, feeling hopeless and went back to my room.
I got in and started to cry. It eventually turned into body racking sobs and I lay on my bed clutching my stuffed bear. I felt completely empty and broken and had no idea where to go next. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about my gran, but after mentioning it I couldn’t get her out of my head. How were so many things going wrong?
October eventually ended and nothing had improved. I had been impulsively buying DVDs and became nocturnal. I would get up for my lessons and then go back to bed, sleeping until around 5. On nights I had clubs I would go to them but mainly I left my room only for food and then stayed up all night watching House and films. I hadn’t self harmed again but I was completely sleep deprived and isolated. One spark of light was that my gran had eventually started to come through. I hadn’t been to see her as I hadn’t had the chance to – though I spent a lot of time in my room I had to leave it every day for classes and work. I was drifting through time, unaware of life continuing without me.
I am always surprised when I think back to my first semester of uni. I did well in my writing modules and not horrifically badly in my drama subjects but how I managed to do them at all astonishes me. I feel great pain and anguish when I think about the wholly miserable existence I was leading.
I was getting dressed for a 9am class when my phone rang. I thought it was Penny calling to tell me she wasn’t coming in today but it was my mum. I couldn’t think why she was calling me.
‘Hello?’
‘Max, you’re up.’
‘Yeah, I have a class, why?’
‘It’s your granddad, he’s in hospital and, well, they don’t think he has much time. He’s haemorrhaging badly and the Drs have told Danny to get ready to say goodbye.’
‘What?’
‘Your dad and I and Niall are heading up there in the car and we can stop off and pick you up.’
‘Ok, yeah, when will you be here? I have a lesson.’ Panic. Panic. Panic. What happened?
‘You should be ok to go to that. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘Ok.’
‘Keep your phone on you just in case there’s any news.’
‘Ok. I’ll see you later then. Bye.’
Penny knocked on my door as I hung up. I grabbed my things and headed to the studio, filling her in as we walked.
The first thing I did was explain to the lecturer why I had my phone on loud and why it might go off. She was very understanding and told me to do what I needed to do. As she was marking in who was there my phone went off. I took it and went into the foyer to talk. It was my mum again, she was in the car and my granddad had taken a turn for the worse. Everyone was being advised to get there as soon as possible; this meant me taking the train as they were going to drive straight there. I barely took the time to tell the lecturer I was leaving before rushing back to my room to throw my stuff together. I was wearing my last pair of clean underwear so I had to pack some laundry to take and chucked everything else into my bag. I quickly checked the train times and I had just enough time to get to the station for the next one.
"The body faught to survive, it evacuated toxins in any way it knew how. It made clots to stop the bleeding.Bones would find the quickest ways to heal themselves. It made scar tissue. In the face of violence towards it, it would become violent. It was amazing, yet excruciating. "
Sinking into a free seat as the train waited at the platform, I could feel time slow down and hold me back from getting to my granddad. I was terrified of not getting to see him alive one last time. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had seen my grandparents but it had been at least a couple of months. I couldn’t concentrate on anything so I sat clutching my phone for the entire journey. I got a taxi from the station to the hospital and prayed I wouldn’t get there too late. My uncles, parents and younger brother were already there. I went into his room and was shocked – he didn’t look like my granddad at all.
There were no wires attached to him or coming out of him, he only had an oxygen mask on. He looked pale and drawn and had lost a lot of weight. What disturbed me most were his hollow, sunken cheeks. They had taken his dentures out and he didn’t look like himself at all. It was devastating to see my strong granddad so weak and vulnerable. I knew he had been ill for a long time but I never anticipated his death. I had always assumed he would be there for my wedding, my kids – I couldn’t entertain the thought of a time without him in my life.
We took it in turns to stay in the room with him – mainly the adults were in there and my brother and I sat outside, merely pretending to watch a DVD on my laptop. One of my uncles had done a food run but the sandwiches were on the table, untouched. I eventually managed to coax my brother into eating one and half heartedly took a bite of one myself. It was such a surreal situation to be in – we were waiting around for someone to die. Someone we loved. I couldn’t stand the circumstance and paced the ward. If anything it made everything worse. It was full of elderly people but they were all awake, not always completely alert but they were interacting with the staff and their visitors. Why couldn’t my granddad be like that? Why did he have to die?
We later found out that the night before he died he had tried to leave the hospital to go back to Beeston, to his house. We were told that it was quite common for older people to have that agitation and insistence before they died. It made my heart ache even more; all he wanted to do was go home to be in his own house when he died. He had moved in there with my granny when they were married and he had raised his children there. He had his grandkids there from babies to adults and had grown old with the woman he loved there. Even now my heart hurts to think about it. He hadn’t seen his wife for 5 weeks – he was too ill to be allowed to visit her in ICU. He had been ill, he hadn’t been dying. I still find the facts too difficult to deal with.
It was about 4pm when we all gathered in his room. Every time he breathed out my heart skipped in fear that he wouldn’t breathe in again. He didn’t stop breathing, he started breathing out blood. He literally drowned in his own blood. All we could do was watch helplessly as his oxygen mask slowly filled and his chest stopped rising. That was it. There was no drama, no flurry of activity or alarms, he went peacefully, unconscious. There was a funny smell in the room and I realised he must have been wearing an adult diaper. I’d not seen anyone come to change it since we had been there. I suppose they wanted us to have our time with him and be there but it just made me sad. He never would have wanted to die in soiled undergarments.
My brother started crying; it took me by surprise and all I wanted to do was hug him but he was across the room and I couldn’t make myself take the few steps to him. I don’t think he would have appreciated it either. I just stood there in shock. My dad and uncles were visibly upset and my mum ushered my brother and I out of the room with her. At the time I was vaguely annoyed – he was our granddad and we were upset too. Now I realise they needed their time to cry and comfort each other. My brother was still crying and I was completely numb.
We went back in and one of my uncles left; he visited my granny at 3pm every day so she would know something was wrong and needed to be told. It was a very strange afternoon; we were hanging around in a room with a dead body. I refused to cry in front of my family and didn’t know when I would get the chance to. We did have to leave eventually but I asked to stay behind for a minute. I hated the thought of leaving him behind, alone. I just held his hand and cried. Once the tears started I couldn’t stop. How do you say goodbye to someone you love? ‘So long and goodbye granddad’? The door opened behind me and I was startled by my uncle who had forgotten something. He wasn’t in for long but I lost the tears. I went to the bathroom to grab some tissue and stayed in there for a minute to try and compose myself. I found it very difficult to leave his room and ended up opening the door, whispered goodbye and left. My dad was waiting for me just outside the ward and gave me a one arm, walking hug as I came out. Tears threatened to fall again but I held them back, thoroughly exhausted by the day.
We all headed over to a different hospital to see my granny. She was doing very well and despite having an obvious plaster covering up the hole from her tracheotomy tube she looked almost back to full health. She had taken the news very well and admitted to suspecting something had happened when no one visited or rang. I suppose you do reach an age when you know that one of you is going to die at some point but she really did seem unruffled by the news. I suspect she grieved on her own, in her own way and part of this involved getting his things out of the house before she went home a couple of weeks later.
I spent one night at their house with my parents and brother. I only remember hanging up my laundry, nothing else, not even putting the washing in the machine or taking out. It felt very strange being in their house without my grandparents. We must have eaten something, talking about something and slept but I remember none of that, just the overwhelming heart ache.
I went to see my granny again the next day before getting the train back to university. It seemed quicker going back – eager to launch me back into another reality, equally hated. I got straight back into it; went to my classes, socialised and didn’t speak to anyone about what had happened. It was the time of year that we started thinking about accommodation for the following year. At the beginning of November I had spoken with Emma, Dan, Jon, Charlie and Penny and we all decided to get a house together. It was exciting to think about living in a proper house and we started thinking about rotas and practical things, even though it was 8 months before we’d be moving anywhere.
Although I was struggling I managed to abstain from help harm except for a couple of minor incidents. I never told anyone other than online and I went out of my way to avoid everyone, especially my friends, from finding out – I hadn’t been back to the Dr or counsellor. I didn’t feel like fighting for help but I was managing ok. I still wasn’t sleeping much or eating well but I made it through the days. Because my granny was still recovering when he died, we had to wait a few weeks before we had the funeral.
I took the train to Nottingham again but this time my dad met me at the station. I travelled on Thursday for the funeral on Friday. Thankfully I didn’t have to worry about lessons and I had the weekend to spend with my family. He had wanted a cremation so we all travelled in the black family car of the funeral home behind the hearse. The flowers at the crematorium were scarce as they had asked for donations to Macmillan cancer relief instead. Both of my grandparents had been involved in fundraising for as long as I could remember.
The room was full – my granddad had been very social and well loved. It was incredible to see so many people there to say their goodbyes and honour his life. I remember none of what was said by the pastor or my uncle, but then it was my turn. I’d been asked to sing and I thought I would be ok but I ached all over with sadness. Nevertheless I went up to the podium and tried to keep my composure as I sang for him. I’ve never been able to sing ‘Panis Angelicus’ since without thinking about that day. My dad went next and all I remember of his talk is him saying how he should have spoken before I sang. He seemed close to tears and all I wanted to do was go and stand next to him. After he had finished the curtain closed around his coffin. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t ready, it wasn’t time yet and I didn’t want him to just disappear. My younger brother started crying again but I couldn’t shed a tear; it felt like part of me had disappeared behind the curtain with him.
We had a traditional Irish wake for him at a local pub. His remaining siblings (he had been one of eight) had come over from Ireland and everyone was drinking. They had the bottle of whisky on a table with glasses and picture of him – honouring the tradition of everyone drinking a shot to him. My younger brother, who was only 16, discovered that he could get served at the bar and as a result was drunk by the end of the evening. One of my uncles also had a bit too much and was a bit of a state at the end too. The only drink I had was the shot of whisky, which was revolting. I mainly just floated around and talked to relatives I hadn’t seen in years. To be honest I was glad when it was time to leave; I didn’t really know what to do with myself and just wanted to go to bed.
The weekend was filled with visitors and takeaways. We could barely sit down for half an hour without the doorbell going. I mainly retreated to my room to try and get some uni work done. My brother shad spent the night being sick but was nursing his hangover with food and TV. I kept my phone near me, hoping for a text from someone asking how it went and how I was. They all knew I had gone for my granddad’s funeral and that was what friends did, wasn’t it? Apparently not. I heard from no one all weekend and as I got the train on Sunday I wished I could be going anywhere but back to uni. It was late when I got there so I took a taxi back to uni and went straight to my room and went online to talk to friends there.
I didn’t see anyone until after my class the next day. It was a clear day, but cold and I was heading across the courtyard when I bumped into Emma.
‘Hey.’
‘Oh, hey.’ I waited for het to ask about my weekend.
‘Do you have a minute, we need to talk.’
‘Oh, ok. What’s up?’
‘Well, me and the others have been talking and, well, we decided a 4 bedroom house would be easier to find than a 6 bedroom one.’
‘Right.’
‘So, we’re just letting you and Dan know. It’s not that we don’t like you, it’s practicality.’
‘Ok.’
‘So, that’s ok? You’re not upset or anything?’
‘No.’
‘Ok, well, see you later.’
I was stunned. Not only did I get to go to my granddad’s funeral that weekend, I also got to find out that I had no one to live with the next year. Everyone had chosen future house mates and started looking for houses. Where the hell was I supposed to go? I was starting to see them for who they really were. Aside from anything else I had looked at student houses and 5 or 6 bedrooms were more prevalent than 4.
I walked into the kitchen later to hear Emma telling them I had taken it better than they had expected. I smiled at them, said hello and sat down with them. They were sorting through papers – papers from an estate agent. I then found out that they had a viewing for the next day. It was the middle of November; surely house viewings were a little premature? That and the fact that they had obviously been looking for a while and didn’t have the decency to let me know earlier. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I sat there and looked at the houses and talked about them and commented on how much fun they would have.
I don’t know why but I am still surprised when I become the outsider of a social group. It’s something I first experienced when I was 9 and my best friend, a boy, decided that being friends with a girl wasn’t good any more. He found a new best friend. I managed to form a group with 2 girls, but by my last year of primary school we barely talked and only occasionally did things together out of school. It was a pattern that continued and has followed me through my education and into my adult life. Yet it still surprises me. Most days I accept that there’s just something inherently wrong with me. Other days I just don’t understand.
That is very sad, but the story is just amazing. I am egarly wanting more all ready.
"The body faught to survive, it evacuated toxins in any way it knew how. It made clots to stop the bleeding.Bones would find the quickest ways to heal themselves. It made scar tissue. In the face of violence towards it, it would become violent. It was amazing, yet excruciating. "
“The good things don’t always soften the bad, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.”
“Nobody important? Blimey, that’s amazing. Do you know, in nine hundred years of time and space I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before.”
“If it’s time to go, remember what you’re leaving. Remember the best. My friends have always been the best of me.”
Thanks everyone. *Blush* A little later and a little less than I thought it would be, but your update. *Bows*
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The end of term was growing closer and I was completely overwhelmed. I had lost my footing and slid straight back down into self harm. I had masses of essays to write and no idea what they were about as I couldn’t concentrate on the reading for them. I hated the whole situation and didn’t know how to deal with it. I was still working but the threat of a breakdown grew stronger with every shift.
It was a Thursday evening and the fourth night in a row that found me clutching an increasingly stained towel to my arm. On a rational level I knew it needed stitches, as the others had, but I knew that I would still not set foot in A&E again. I didn’t bother cleaning myself up, I just waited for the bleeding to stop and went to bed. I couldn’t gauge how deep the wounds were on my lower arm any more, as the old scar tissue prevented them from gaping as much as they should. I was utterly exhausted and had no sense of care for myself. I had an expected fitful sleep and woke up the next day un-rested.
I dragged my sluggish brain through my last drama class of the semester and managed to retain almost none of the information relevant to the set essay. I spent my afternoon watching DVDs and headed to work in the evening. I felt my arm screaming at me in protest but ignored it, willing the 3hrs to go quickly. My co-workers never noticed when I wasn’t doing well and I was thankful – it meant I never had to try and explain myself. In fact, no one ever said a thing to me. Whether no one noticed or just didn’t care, I don’t know. I didn’t care.
Deadlines were on the 14th December but my dad was driving to pick me up on the 9th for the Christmas holidays. It was Saturday the 3rd, my dad’s birthday and I’d phoned him to wish him a happy birthday and lied through my silent tears as he asked how I was. We hung up and I sat back down in front of my laptop, willing myself to write something. I had taken the weekend off work, which meant I didn’t have to go back until the end of January as I would be working in the restaurant back home. I had taken it off to get on with my university work, but I’d managed to write the title and had gotten no further. I felt useless and stupid; I didn’t really understand the essay subjects or reading and I had no idea where to start. Mercifully I had managed to do some of my writing assignments but I still had a lot to do. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t focus. Instinctively I reached for a blade.
I succumbed to tears of frustration afterwards. I had no one to turn to, to talk to. My parents would be disappointed if they knew how badly I was doing and how badly I had messed up. I had the occasional brief talk with Emma, but I hated the thought of sharing my misery with other people in case it was infectious. I chose, once again, to bury my head in the sand. I cleaned up, ignored the papers strewn across my desk begging me to work and switched on the latest DVD I had bought. I had started university with 7 DVDs and by that Christmas I had all the seasons of House and Scrubs available and another 60 or so films. I always had a brief feeling of happiness whenever they arrived in the mail. I tried to fill my feeling of emptiness with everything – food, alcohol, shopping, cutting – with no results. I honestly have no words to describe the depth of misery I was in.
The last week I had to do work in was the shortest of the whole semester. I managed to write sporadically, though in no great quantity and then it was Friday night. My dad was arriving the next day at 3 to take me home and I had massive amounts to do. I went out and bought copious amounts of coke in the hope that the sugar and caffeine would help with the all-nighter I had to pull. Somehow I miraculously managed to get it done and had it printed and handed in to the resource centre at midday. I had done no research and had pulled random segments out of very few books to back up my reasoning and prayed that it would be enough. Instead of the relief I thought I would feel after getting it all done, I just felt empty. I packed up my stuff for the 6 weeks I would be at home and wondered if I would actually come back in January. I hated it so much that I never wanted to be in the city again, let alone at university. The city was too busy, and in my eyes, miserable. University was a pit of hate and I felt incredibly isolated and lonely. I wasn’t at all sure if I wanted to carry on with it.
Back home it was incredibly easy to slip back into bad habits. I went back to full time work at Pizza Hut and started my visits to the walk in centre again. My sleeping habits hadn’t improved, so I was working 10hr shifts on as little as 2hrs sleep. My parents either didn’t notice, or chose to say nothing and I was walking around like a zombie. Whilst I was at work, I put on my smiles, served my customers well and helped out and joked with my co-workers. The world was blissfully unaware that I was falling apart.
A few days before Christmas I was back in the walk in centre at around 3am; I had damaged muscle again and was half way through being stitched when a psych walked in. I had seen him before and he told me he had seen my name and came by even though I had declined the offer to talk to someone. He commented that it seemed to be getting worse, and then asked if I would talk to him. I agreed and after the stitches were done I was led into a non-treatment room.
‘So, Max, we haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Yeah, I started university in September.’
‘Oh, that’s good. How’s everything going?’
I spent the next half hour detailing my time at university. I explained how I hated the course and felt isolated. I very nearly ended up in tears as I explained how I was falling apart and how no one seemed to want to help me. He just sat and listened, I don’t recall if he made any notes, though I don’t think he did. I poured my heart out to him and went silent when I ran out of things to say.
‘Max, do you think we can give you a care pack?’
‘A what?’
‘It’s called a care pack. It has gauze, a dressing and some steri-strips in it.’
‘Oh, ok.’
‘Hopefully it’ll mean you don’t have to come here so much.’
I had needed internal and external stitches and he wanted to send me home with steri-strips. I nodded dumbly and he went and got me one. I stood up and took it and went to leave.
‘Oh and Max?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m so glad you’re at university. Good for you.’
I made it back to my mum’s car before I started crying. I felt irreparably broken and worthless. I hated going to the walk in centre and that visit had compounded my belief that I was wasting their time and resources. I had never felt so ignored. After all I had said; how university made me suicidal and that I wasn’t coping. He was glad I had gone. Had he really not listened or was he just glad that I was no longer a problem for my home town? I don’t remember getting home but that night I slept soundly, dreaming that I would never wake up.
I made it through Christmas and thankfully enjoyed the festivities with my family. The good feeling from that lasted into the New Year and I successfully staved off urges and just focused on work. I may not have always enjoyed work but I revelled in the knowledge that I was earning money and paying my own way as much as I could. I loved the social aspect at the restaurant in my home town – I spent time with a few of the people I worked with outside of work and regularly went out with them. All too quickly the end of January approached and I had to decide whether or not I was going to go back. It would mean leaving my family and a Pizza Hut I enjoyed working at to go to a place that seemed to promise only more misery.
I had a short discussion with my parents about it and decided to give it another go. In their eyes I was a bit homesick but I would get over it. In reality, well, that’s been said and I didn’t want to disappoint them. My dad dropped me back a couple of days before the new semester started and once again I was fighting tears. I had never been one to cry, but I had begun to feel like a leaky faucet. He seemed oblivious and waved to me as he drove off. I reluctantly went back to my room to unpack. It wasn’t until later that evening that I bumped into anyone. I’d gone to the kitchen to get a drink and Emma and the others walked in. We compared Christmas notes and work that we had to do for the new semester. They commented that they weren’t sure if I had been going to go back. I laughed it off and said it had just been a rough couple of months, all the time wishing I were still at home.
I admit to being pessimistic about how the new semester would pan out, but it was soon better than I thought it would be.
I started socialising with a few of the friends I had made in my drama classes and found it more fulfilling than time spent with Emma and the others. I was even more delighted when, after I had a moan about having nowhere to live the next year, one of them was in the same situation. Lucy explained that her ‘friends’ had also bailed on her and asked if we could look together. I was relieved, grateful and a little hopeful.
"The body faught to survive, it evacuated toxins in any way it knew how. It made clots to stop the bleeding.Bones would find the quickest ways to heal themselves. It made scar tissue. In the face of violence towards it, it would become violent. It was amazing, yet excruciating. "
This is absolutely incredible!!!!!! I was feeling a bit down and went on this website to see what I could find and I am just completely awstruck at the story line and amazingly descriptive words within it. I love it and look forward to hearing more!!!!!!!!! Thank you for writing the feelings that I for one, am all too afraid to admit.
