Кадр выше наш. Полное медиа с Facebook запрошено — подставим его сюда, как только приедет.
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I shouldn't be writing this. But I can't keep it in any longer. Before you keep going — just so you understand properly: I'm not the type who puts their life on display. Never have been. I'm the type who stays quiet. Grits her teeth. Smiles when she wants to scream. Twenty-three years I've managed on my own. No complaints. No posts. No "feel sorry for me." But three people I told this to in person — when I literally couldn't breathe anymore — all said the same thing: "Mel, write it down. Other girls think they're alone in this shit. They're not." So here it is. One time. No bullshit. Who I am. My name's Mel. I'm twenty-three. Grew up in Luton. You know Luton? Yeah. That Luton. The one everyone takes the piss out of. Mum worked at the airport. Cleaning. Dad fucked off when I was twelve. We never had money. We just survived. Mum. Old spinal injury. Slipped on ice years ago. NHS gave her co-codamol and told her to lose weight. The surgery she actually needs? The specialist in London? Not on the NHS. Not fully. Private. Twenty-five grand. We never had that kind of money. Not even close. I moved to London thinking I'd make it. Earn the cash. Save her. London didn't give a shit about me. A bar in Shoreditch. "The Broken Whistle." Ten hours on my feet. Floor sticky with spilt lager and worse. Manager's a proper wanker — fines you for being two minutes late. Drunk lads from Essex grabbing my waist on stag dos. Old blokes who should know better grabbing my arse. I smile. I say nothing. Tips are shit. Flat in Ilford. Not even a proper flat. A room in a shared house. Seven hundred quid a month. Mould on the ceiling. Other housemates are loud as fuck. Kitchen's always filthy. Window looks out at a brick wall. Never any sun. Every month I send Mum two hundred quid. I scrape it from food, from my Oyster, from everything. She never asks. But I hear her voice on the phone. Tired. Trying to sound like she's coping. And I send it anyway. On paper I'm getting by. Reality — I'm drownin
