This Winter

by Alice Oseman

Maybe, eventually, I’ll just stop sleeping altogether and become a vampire. I’d be good at that.

Charlie and I have discussed at length how it’s possible for Oliver to be related to us, since he’s the literal embodiment of joy and we’re both miserable fucks. We concluded that he must have got all the happy genes.

Mum has this thing where she avoids talking about anything even slightly deep or emotional. Dad’s the same, but he makes up for it by talking about books all the time. We all get along fine, but I don’t feel like we ever talk about anything important.

Today’s going to be difficult for everyone, but everyone has difficult days, I guess.

I hate the way people react when they learn Charlie spent a few weeks as an in-patient. As if it’s the most horrific thing they’ve ever heard. It’s because it automatically makes them think mental asylum and crazy people, instead of treatment and recovery and learning to manage an eating disorder.

And it made me realize that my coping mechanisms—the restrictive eating, the self-harm, and my other compulsions—are just that: coping mechanisms. It’s not about just stopping myself doing those things, it’s about figuring out why I feel those impulses. What the emotional stuff is underneath.

Look, boyfriend jumpers are the best, okay? Big, comfy, and they smell good.

When people know you’re mentally ill, most people either want to ignore it completely or they treat you like you’re strange, scary, or fascinating. Very few people are actually good at the middle ground.

The middle ground isn’t hard. It’s just being there. Being helpful, if help is needed. Being understanding, even if they don’t understand everything.

“I think sometimes you’re so scared of being a burden that it makes you terrified to ask for help. But you have lots of people around you that would be there for you, if you opened up about what help you need.”