All I took with me, in the end, was a couple of changes of clothes and a few of my favourite books. And a Bible. No diaries were allowed, no phones or iPods. In fact, I didn’t really care about that, because although I could read well I was still a beginner at writing and I didn’t own a phone or any sort of MP3 player. There was no point: I hardly ever went out of the house.
When I arrived at the hospital, my sister left me. I’d refused to let my parents come because they were tearing my life apart. From the moment I stepped over the threshold of that door, I knew it would be a while before I saw my sister again. I was right. They took me away into a small room and told me to put on the clothes they gave me. I didn’t want to. They were dull and grey, like the hallway, and scratchy too. Plus, I hated skirts. I told them so and they got me a pair of shorts. Then they took me up to a small, grey room and gave me the books and the underwear and the Bible from my suitcase. They took everything else away.