My illness has imprisoned me in this room; it’s the place where I serve my sentence.
Winter. While I observe how the view from my window changes with the seasons, my mother switches the small seasonal decorations in my room. I try to feel joyful while looking at the ornaments.
Spring. Only a lonely balloon is left from the May Day celebrations.
Summer. Every single day, I’m dependent on my mother’s care. She brings me my meals three times a day.
Autumn. I felt such joy when my long-distance partner surprised me with a bouquet on my birthday in September.
The only moment when the curtains are fully open, and the daylight fills my room, is when I eat.
My life is reduced to such an extent by severe ME that I feel more aware of how humans should be part of nature, and I miss that dearly.
The snow looks beautiful on the branches, and you can see how it weighs down the spruce.
I’m waiting for my mother to change my bedding. The shape of my body is carved into the mattress.
I miss the smell of fresh air. I miss being outside. Every morning, my mother opens my window so I can have fresh air in the room.
Every seasonal holiday and celebration is hard when you are ill. You feel even more left out while others gather together to celebrate. I try to keep my spirits up and enjoy small glimpses of these moments. My mother wore her graduation hat when she came to my room to celebrate May Day.
I’m very aware of how differently the light changes and plays in the corners of my room depending on the season.
Eventually, the leaves will grow on the nearby trees. Seeing that somehow cheers me up a bit; maybe it’s the nostalgia of knowing the summer is around the corner.
It’s weird to see nature flourish while you suffer, but I try to enjoy the view during my breakfast.
My illness makes me follow the exact opposite of nature’s cycle: when it thrives, I have to drape the darkness around myself even tighter.
Summers are mentally and physically hard for various reasons. I always feel worse, and in recent years, I’ve permanently lost some of my capacity.
The last rays of summer penetrate the woods and cast a shadow on the closet’s doors. I won’t see this kind of light in my room again until next year.
The days are getting darker and darker, as it is already dark when I finish my lunch. The only moment of brightness has been stripped from me.
A rare glimpse of sunshine during the darkest time of the year.
I loved how the window framed my mother while she was washing it. The windowpane that separates me from the world is now clearer than ever.
My mother works hard around our house; this time she went outside to wipe off the generous amount of snow from the window.
The first snow of the year covers the ground as my mother looks out of the window. The moment takes me back to the carefree moments of childhood, and to how my mother always told me it had snowed when I woke up.
While the snowy landscape in the background reminds me of where I am, the music helps my mind to travel to places far away – places I’ll probably never see.
It’s been two years since the last time I was outside of my house. Being out there, surrounded by intense smells of nature, and having that strong breeze on my skin have now been reduced to a memory.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m trapped in my bed just like every other day of the year. The clock is nearing midnight, while my mother and her friend are lighting sparklers outside my window.
