Before I begin: Apples is not cancelled, it's ongoing, just slow. Chapter 10 is coming, I swear to you. I love this story too much to discontinue it.
Yes, I hate doing these mid-story updates. Frankly, it ruins the flow, baits you into reading when I don't publish, and personally, I think it looks messy when you've written 10 actual chapters but there's 11+ parts. Anyway. Here's a picture of the Joker to keep you.

I would like to share a secret with you.

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Hello, daaarling readers. You all know how much I hate making excuses for myself, especially when I talk about slow updates. It would be selfish of me to pull the mental health card considering how some people have it much worse than I do, but if you want to know the honest truth about why Apples is taking so long, it's because I have recently discovered I have, and am going to be diagnosed with, social anxiety.
I know it's a very personal thing to talk about, especially on social media, but Wattpad is always the place I come to talk about the more private things in my life- because I am mostly anonymous and I trust each and every one of my readers, and hold you so dearly that I feel I know you and can relate to you. Suppose this place feels like a sanctuary to me, a little diary that only the kindest of eyes (you) may pry into. However, the reason I want to tell you about my mental health, as personal, invasive and revealing as it is, is because sometimes (not all the time) I feel that some people put me on a pedestal- which is not bad at all, I understand that some of my stories have a lot of reads and I guess that makes me 'popular'- and I understand why some people might fangirl if I follow them, or respond to them, but it's something that, while flattering, is so unnecessary. I just want everyone who idolises me in that way to know that just isn't... me, I guess. I may seem like I'm outgoing on my profile, which, given, I am, but I'm also behind a keyboard. The reason I try responding to as many people as I can whether it be a comment, inbox, or just a 'thank you' for following, is because I want to break that weird 'popular status' some people may think I have. I love responding to comments and appreciate every single one of them, I feel so excited, like I'm receiving a personal perfumed note from every one of you. I love it. It means that you read what I write, and that you care. Which is why I'd like to tell you about my mental health.

Yes, I know, it's so cool to have a mental illness now, huh. To anyone who thinks that, it fucking sucks, by the way. I have social anxiety, or social phobia, which seems to be the illness that everyone wants, because it's cute, ditzy, and adorable. Let me shed some light here: it isn't. When I was 13, I thought it was trendy and I wish I had it- all those angsty thoughts were the hottest aesthetic, I guess. Now, at 17, I guess I finally got what I wished for. And I wish I hadn't.

I'd always been kinda shy, and know that I'm very socially awkward, but get to know me and I'm loud, obnoxious and very passionate about what I do. I'm really chatty. I'm very open about myself as a person. I talk about my opinions, likes, dislikes, my sexuality, my love of movies, cinematography and comics (but my Joker stays a secret). People tell me I'm funny. People tell me I'm smart. People tell me I'm good at English and that when I speak I sound smart, articulate, use big words. They say I know a lot about books and can ask me the definition of any word and I'd give it to them. I'm normal, I guess, and that's the thing- mental illnesses are invisible, so it's crazy how some people think to wear it as an accessory. It's poetic, perhaps. Except that it's not.

I had a job interview about a week ago, but it was a very different kind of interview. Not one-on-one. Many people were there who also wanted the job, and we were paired into groups with each other to work as a team- my biggest phobia lmao. Before I start- no, I didn't get the job, and I'm glad. The minute I got there, seeing all those people, I wanted OUT. Immediately, I thought to myself: I don't care about the job, I want to leave. I was the youngest there. The palest, the shortest, the quietest and stood in the most peculiar, introverted way. I felt, in a room of about twenty people, the centre stage of a circus act. A circus in which nobody was watching anyway, but one where it just seemed everyone was laughing at me. Even then, I knew nobody was looking at me. I knew nobody cared. I knew I was fine. But that wasn't how I felt. I was shaking, I hardly spoke, I never made eye contact with anyone- I couldn't, I tried but I couldn't. Every time someone spoke to me I felt my whole face get really hot and I knew I must've been blushing like an idiot. That scares me- when people know I'm anxious. I only said one thing during that entire hour: "I'm better at writing than speaking, I guess". And thinking back on it, it's so true that it scares me. (A funny thing about me is that I, despite being good at writing, have a speech impediment. I stutter when I have too much to say. I think that quirk to be rather poetic.)

I've forgotten a lot about that night. I was in such a state of panic that I've practically blacked the whole thing out. I don't want to think about it. I had never felt so awful in my life- a completely normal situation and all I did was panic. I went home that night and cried. I cried so hard and told myself, I'm not healthy, I'm not healthy, this is not normal. I try to suppress my worries of anxiety, saying that I'm just shy or need to get out more. I feel like this in school. I've skipped entire days of school before just because I'm so afraid of walking into a room where everyone is already sat down- scared of standing out for the wrong reason, I guess. That night I finally researched the symptoms of social anxiety, knowing that this had been going on for too long, and I applied and related to every. Single. One. Everything. This whole time people have told me that I'm just shy, I've been struggling with a mental illness I was too afraid to admit I had. There's that stigma (that I know now to be complete bullshit) that really mentally ill people go to hospital, and since I'm not exactly that level of ill, I must be fine. But I'm tired of it. I'm tired of saying that just because some have it worse, that I don't deserve help too. So after months of my parents telling me that I'm healthy because I'm not dying, I sat down and talked to them. I'm not particularly close with my family- my father never sees me anymore, I hate my stepfather and he hates me, my mother and I argue a lot, and to top it off I'm LGBT in a homophobic household (bi/pan and have been with girls)- so this was a huge deal for me. Telling them what I feel is not normal, not healthy, and actually just speaking to them. And I'm finally seeing a doctor and hopefully getting treated.

So one, that's why updates are slow. I've been bearing this burden, this immeasurable weight for so long that I didn't even know I was carrying it. Sure, I'd had my depressive bouts now and again but this was something else. And I'll admit: I'm proud of myself. I'm so proud that I'd made it this far, dealing with something I didn't even know I had. I'd been wading through these past few years or so, struggling to grasp why I felt so inept in situations that seemed like a breeze to everyone else. Public speaking. Reading aloud. Answering in class. Having a conversation with a stranger. This whole time I had been sick, and hadn't even realised until it left me broken down and crying- and I'm so happy. I'm happy because even though I shouldn't have suffered any of that, I feel strong. I did something by myself for once. I usually always have guidance with things- except in writing. Writing has always been my thing, self-taught, self-evaluated, and put out there online on my own accord. Nobody monitors my updates or edits- I do. Anyway. This, finding my mental illness and doing something about it, it feels good. I feel in control. Like I've finally got a grip on things.

So that's it. I'm not sure what the moral of this is, if any. I guess, for one, if you think you are mentally ill, get it checked out. I would tend to avoid doing it because I believed it to be pointless, but now that I know I'm at least gonna be able to talk about it, to someone who won't put the blame on me for it, with someone who won't just tell me 'we all get shy sometimes', feels so good that it's almost as if I'd had treatment already. I feel good knowing that I'm aware, and can at least target what's wrong with me. So please: if you're struggling, get help. You hear it all the time, I hear it all the time, but bite that fucking bullet.

And I guess I'm also posting this to show to the people who think I'm on some odd 'celebrity status' who I actually am. A person. I don't hate you, I just want you to not feel like I'm some deity, some unreachable person because I don't want to be that.
Here's some things about me: I'm seventeen. I wish I was still a child. I am emotionally mature for my age but wish to stay, look, and be younger  than I am. My age is something I am very insecure about. I like older men- a lot- mainly because, as cliché as it is, I have daddy issues. I trust older men too much for my own good because I feel as though they could fill that void of a missing paternal figure. I'm lazy. I failed Physics and barely passed Math, but had top grades in English. I slack a lot, but still bullshit my way through school somehow. I get pimples. I have bags under my eyes and suffer from chronic fatigue syndrome. I was a child prodigy but failed to live up to expectations. The only thing I am confident in is my writing, yet my strongest muse is a fictional clown who does not exist, but I am still blindly convinced had to at one point in time. I like seafood. I have jealousy issues. I never do my homework. I'm not some famous person on Wattpad with the perfect aesthetic, perfect confidence, perfect writing and if you've seen my Instagram, perfect life. I'm not some manic pixie dream girl. I'm just like everyone else.

I'm flawed, is what I'm trying to say. I'm at a point in my life where I'm starting to find confidence in myself- first with my appearance, then my personality, and then, hopefully, my writing. I want to be published some day, and I cannot if I am insecure. But even then, I will always have flaws. Never, ever, ever be ashamed of that. Romanticise every little thing you don't like about yourself. I have sticky out ears and have wanted them pinned back since I was a child- but now I've embraced them and say that they're cute, and adorn them with pretty earrings. I used to want blue eyes because I thought brown was boring- now I look at them in the mirror every day just to swoon and sigh at how beautiful and big and innocent and round they look. It's just a first step of many but if you're self-conscious just please... try it. I promise, only good things can come out of trying to better yourself.

Wow. That was a lot. I've never shared so much about myself in my life. If you've made it this far without getting bored or put off, thank you. Thank you, thank you, God, I wish there were more ways to say it. I needed somebody to talk to... and I care about you all that much. Here it is, my heart in your hands... treat it nicely!!

Anyway, that's all my feelings for now. I've come to terms with all of my flaws and honestly, I've never felt better. I never thought I'd get to where I am with loving myself but y'know, after all that struggle, all that hurt, everything the world has thrown at me... I'm here.

You'll get there too.