She used to be a writer - she loved it. Words appeared in a steady flow in her head, sometimes so insistently that she felt dizzy until she wrote them down. She thought in stories and poetry - as if there was a silent person sitting in her mind that she had to explain herself to. She played herself short films in her head to send herself to sleep; she read new and exciting books in her dreams; she awoke with ideas on her tongue. But she found that she needed to look after herself, to an extent, for when the waves of weary depression found their way too deep inside they washed away any thought at all.
She wasn't always writing, reading, thinking - words came to her when she was upset, sad, alone. They were her comfort blanket. Her parents and friends became redundant as she withdrew into her mind. She didn't notice, she had her thoughts, her pencils and paper. Her mother, who used to say that her daughter had such a way with words, worried about the change in her child. But she was perfectly content, writing about addiction, deprivation, loss. She'd pour all her stress and sadness onto the page and smile as her headache relieved.
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