Hi readers,

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

I'm about to get really personal—more profound than I've ever written before.

If topics like assault, abuse, self-harm, or depression are triggers for you, I completely understand if you choose not to continue reading.

Not many people know that I write or read fanfiction. In fact, the only ones who do are my cousin—who introduced me to this beautiful world—and my therapist. If any of my other friends or family are into fanfiction, I wouldn't know. But if they read this story, and now this post, they'll likely figure out who I am.

Fanfiction has always been something I've loved because it allows you to take a book, a movie, a TV show—anything—and create your own little world to add to it.

Reading and writing became an escape for me. It let me leave behind who I was and become whoever I wanted to be. That's why I especially love fanfiction with OCs. The much-maligned "Mary Sue" genre was my favorite because she was perfect, and I was not. I struggled with self-esteem, battled anxiety, and lacked confidence in myself. So, I read. I fantasized. And sometimes, I wrote. The things I wrote when I was younger were terrible, but it didn't matter—they were just for me.

I grew up in a small village in the north of England. Surrounded by a big family, I was never truly alone, but my anxiety and lack of confidence meant I didn't have many friends. I had schoolmates and girls I'd occasionally "hang out" with, but for the most part, I stayed home, watching TV or reading.

When I was a teenager, I got sick and had to miss several months of school. By the time I returned, my friends had moved on without me. My anxiety skyrocketed, and my ability to trust others plummeted. Fanfiction became my refuge. I connected with others on Tumblr and Fanfiction.net, bonding over shared interests. It wasn't the same as having friends nearby, but it was enough. I decided I'd rather be lonely than constantly worry about everything.

Years later, my family grew concerned about my anxiety and lack of social life. They encouraged me to take a job in London—a huge opportunity. So, I packed my bags, had an emotional goodbye with my parents, and moved in with a family member and her partner. Let's call them "Jane" and "Joe."

Jane and Joe lived in a beautiful house about 30 minutes from central London. It was a house I'd envied as a child, filled with happy memories. Jane had helped me land the job and was technically my boss's boss.

At first, the job was fantastic, and I met some amazing people. But over time, I became someone I didn't recognize.

Jane and Joe established rules for the house. I couldn't eat fast food or drink sugary drinks. Despite paying a high rent for a single bedroom, I was expected to clean the entire house weekly, help cook dinner, and contribute to grocery shopping. Initially, it seemed fair—even though the rent and travel expenses were steep.

But things quickly became unfair. I was the one cooking dinner almost every night—meals I didn't even like, such as salmon and vegetables or cod and rice. I love cod but can't stand salmon. They didn't care. I stayed quiet because I felt indebted to them for letting me live there and helping me get this job.

Cleaning meant scrubbing the entire house—even though I only used my bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. And then came the punishments.

One morning, I overslept and left my bedside drawer slightly open. My bed was made, but rumpled. That day at work, I received an email from Joe (his preferred communication method), with important family members CC'd.

In the email, Joe declared I was to be "punished" for leaving my bedroom in "his house" messy. My punishment? Doubling my rent. Additionally, I had to attend a quarterly meeting to discuss how I could "improve myself," starting that weekend. For the first meeting, I was tasked with writing a list of my life goals, everything wrong with myself, and all the ways I'd been "living incorrectly" both in London and my entire life.

And still, I said nothing.

This became a daily mantra: "I owe them, so I'll say nothing."

When I was too loud, I was forced to take a shot of vodka as punishment—supposedly to "cure" my Yorkshire loudness.

When they called me irresponsible, they made me cook Christmas dinner for seven people entirely on my own, with no help.

When I left a wardrobe door ajar, they told me my parents—who were visiting the next weekend—would not be allowed to stay in their house. My parents had to find other accommodations.

Things worsened when they began planting seeds of doubt about my relationship with my mum. My mum is my best friend, and we have an incredibly close, loving relationship. We spoke every day while I was in London. But Jane and Joe discouraged me from talking positively about her. They'd bring up things my mum "should have done better" when I was growing up, chipping away at my trust.

At work, Jane was constantly watching me—not as a manager, but as someone monitoring my every move. At home, Joe would berate me at every opportunity.

And yet, I still said nothing.

Then came a trip to Australia to meet newly-discovered family members, thanks to Jane's family tree project. It was emotional, but the divide between Jane and me grew even wider.

That divide exploded five days before Christmas. I had been off work with the flu, and Jane and Joe decided it was unacceptable for me to miss more than three days.

Then came the blowout.

I've never been the type to:
A) Confront people, or
B) Stand up for myself.

But this time, I did.

While Jane and I were screaming at each other about everything that had happened in Australia and every perceived flaw she found in me, Joe decided to intervene. Instead of diffusing the situation like a decent human being, he grabbed me by my neck, dragged me into the entryway, and shoved me against the staircase.

In my shock, I pulled away, but he grabbed me again, his hand tightening around my throat. He forced me against the stairs and ordered me to calm down.

Never in my life did I imagine someone I considered family would put their hands on me. I never believed Joe could do something so cruel. And instead of stepping in, Jane simply told me I was pathetic and that I deserved it.

In that moment, I felt utterly exposed, like I was standing naked in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Vulnerable, humiliated, and unsure of what to do, I fled upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom. I ran the bath to hide the sound of my sobs and looked at myself in the mirror.

And there it was—clear as day.

Handprints around my neck.

I had been physically assaulted by someone I trusted, someone I thought of as family.

The next day, I went to work and avoided Jane entirely. I wore a scarf to cover the bruises and made sure it stayed in place all day. When my shift ended, I pretended to stay late, doing extra work to avoid going home until Jane and Joe were asleep.

I told no one—not even my mum, not even my best friend, who was traveling in India and completely unaware of what was happening.

On Saturday, I left the house early and drove to another family member's home. My best friend was returning the next day, so I focused on making a cheesy "Welcome Home" banner to distract myself from the trauma of the attack.

When I got back to the house that night, Jane approached me. She admitted things had gotten out of hand and said that Joe "shouldn't have done what he did." Then she added, "That's a big deal—Joe never regrets his actions."

But Joe didn't apologize. Jane spoke for him.

And, because of my guilt and my dependence on their roof over my head, I broke down and apologized.

Yes, I apologized.

Jane hugged me, saying she "understood," and that was the last time we spoke about the incident.

The next day, I picked my best friend up from the airport with her boyfriend. We grabbed Chinese food, and as we sat eating, my scarf slipped. Both of them immediately noticed the bruises. After some arguing, I finally told them what had happened.

Their first reactions were to demand I call the police and tell my mum.

But I couldn't. I felt ashamed, humiliated, and scared.

I started leaving early for work and staying late to avoid Jane and Joe. I turned to fast food for comfort and began gaining weight. Nightmares plagued me, and I could barely sleep. Soon after, I started experiencing severe pain in my neck, shoulders, and back—pain I couldn't explain or escape.

For Christmas, I house-sat for a friend who was visiting family. Being alone was difficult, but it gave me a reprieve from Jane and Joe.

A few days after Christmas, I finally called my mum. I broke down and told her everything. She begged me to quit my job and come home immediately. My dad insisted I call the police.

But I still couldn't.

I told myself I had a responsibility to the job I loved. Walking away wouldn't solve anything, so I gave my 30-day notice and used my holiday leave to spend two weeks at home.

Handing in my notice was one of the hardest moments of my life. My boss happened to be out sick that day, so I had to give my resignation to Jane. The shock on her face was evident.

The next day, I got on a train and went home for New Year's. Being with my mum and dad again brought comfort, but the memories and the pain lingered.

Determined not to let the attack define me, I threw myself into job searching. I landed an interview quickly, and after a phone screening and a face-to-face meeting, I got the job five minutes after the interview ended. I finally had a way out of London.

The last ten days in Jane and Joe's house were bittersweet. The pain in my body was worsening, and saying goodbye to my best friend was devastating. But when I packed the last bag, left my keys on the counter, and walked out the door, I had never felt so free.

I thought that once I was home, the nightmares and flashbacks would stop. I thought the pain would go away.

It didn't.

It got worse.

I started my new job just five days after leaving London. While I loved my colleagues and the shorter commute, the pain was unbearable. It felt like a constant, burning toothache spreading across my shoulders, neck, hips, and back. The spasms were like being stabbed, and the lack of sleep only made everything worse.

Doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong, so they kept prescribing painkillers. But nothing worked. The pain and the flashbacks were relentless, and eventually, I started having suicidal thoughts.

I thought about how much better the world would be without me. How I wouldn't have to endure the pain—physical or emotional—any longer.

Work tried to help by adjusting my workspace, providing a new chair, and letting me avoid rush hour commutes. But nothing stopped the pain or the intrusive thoughts.

Six months after returning home, I was signed off work. I was no longer able to function. That's when I was diagnosed with depression. My mum was told to keep a close eye on me, watching for signs I might hurt myself. Most days, I just sobbed in her arms.

After months of tests, I was finally diagnosed with fibromyalgia.

Fibromyalgia is a chronic condition that causes widespread pain and profound fatigue. The pain feels like burning or aching from head to toe, sometimes worse in certain areas or during specific times.

The doctors told me my fibromyalgia was triggered by the attack.

Hearing the diagnosis brought relief and heartbreak. I finally knew what was wrong, but I also knew there was no cure.

It took two years to regain some control over my condition, and during that time, I turned to writing. At first, it was just journaling. Then it became short stories.

Netflix became my companion, and I started binge-watching The Vampire Diaries. Ideas began to swirl in my mind as I watched:

What if this? What if that?

The "what ifs" soon overtook my nightmares. Writing fanfiction became my escape—a way to focus on something other than the pain. For a few precious hours, I could forget everything and create worlds where I was in control.

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Aella Bennett was born during the darkest mental state of my life, when my fibromyalgia had taken over everything I once loved doing.

Aella was me.
She embodied my quirky sense of humor. She was the person others could rely on. She was everything I wished I could be.

It took me a full year to gather the fragments of her story and finally tell myself, You've created something good here—start writing. So, I did.

I wrote on my iPad on days when I could barely move anything but my hands. During sleepless nights plagued by nightmares, I organized my scattered notes into a cohesive story. Everything in my life revolved around Aella, and for the first time in a long while, I felt happy.

I still remember the day I posted the first chapter on Wattpad. I was sick with nerves, but I wanted so desperately to share Aella with the world. I wanted her to bring joy to others, the same way she brought it to me. Those first likes and comments were magical. I constantly refreshed Wattpad, hoping to see more, and they came.

From the start, I promised myself this story would never be abandoned. Sure, I might take a while to post updates due to personal struggles, but I could never give up on it. Aella saved me, and I'll never let her go.

So, why am I sharing all this with you?

I never set out to write for praise. Writing has always been for me—a deeply personal escape. Sharing Aella with the world was my way of offering others a little brightness in their day.

Now, An Elemental Difference – AIR (Book 1) has grown to over 200,000 words (so far). It's received 5,000 votes, 195,000 reads, and 2,000 comments. -- Update at the end of 2024: An Elemental Difference is 303,995 words and has received 34,697 votes, 1.3 Million reads, and 111,000 comments. WOW! Thank you! 

Mind blown.

Two weeks ago, I read an incredible story. I was hooked from start to finish. Feeling the author deserved to know how much their work meant to me, I spent an hour crafting a detailed review. After sending it, I realized something—no one had ever done that for me.

Don't get me wrong, I've had amazing conversations with many of you through DMs and comments. You've made me laugh, cry tears of joy, and given me so much inspiration. Those moments are priceless.

But I sometimes wonder—does my story resonate with you? Do you see the effort I pour into every chapter? Or do you just think, That was okay. Update soon!

When you read, do you notice the significant changes I've made? How do you feel about them compared to the original timeline? Do you like the direction the story is heading?

I pour everything into this story—my pain, my anxiety, my depression—and it can be disheartening to see other stories with far more views and comments, even when they've done so little.

Many fanfics reuse the same formula: inserting a character like an identical twin sister and changing nothing about the storyline. Yet those stories rack up millions of views and votes.

Meanwhile, I work hard to ensure that Aella's arrival fundamentally alters the timeline. Her presence creates a ripple effect—like Hulk's chat with the Ancient One in Avengers: Endgame. Aella changes everything, creating an entirely new timeline. I wish more fanfics embraced this concept.

Writing hasn't been easy for me, especially during flare-ups of my fibromyalgia. Christmas is an especially tough time, but even when I'm unable to post, I keep writing. I don't want to let my readers down, because I know how disappointing it feels when a story you love is discontinued.

But I also have to ask myself: Is it worth it?

If the validation isn't there, should I continue at my own pace, focusing only on my enjoyment?

That's not who I am, though. I know how it feels to wait for updates and worry a story will be abandoned.

What I'm trying to say is this: when you read something that:

Transports you into another worldMakes you feel connected to a characterShows noticeable, impactful changes in the storylineSparks an intense emotional reactionInspires an idea or prediction

Please, let the author know.

Tell them you appreciate the hours they've spent crafting their story. Even constructive feedback can help an author grow.

I've said from day one that I love connecting with my readers and building friendships. Online friendships can be just as meaningful as those we have in person.

I'm not entirely sure why I felt compelled to share all this, but something in me needed to.

Please know my inbox is always open. Whether you want to chat, share a similar experience, or connect as a fellow fibromyalgia warrior, you're welcome here.

This is a safe space.

Peace and love to all.
xoxo