Helena Busia

I have been thinking about what was the most appropriate way to document my trip to Morocco. I began to write a post-trip travel diary, but then realised my intensely detailed style of rambling would not be apt to write about a three week trip. I could do it as a daily thing, but 19 days worth of ramblings?! I don't think so.  So, I thought I'd give a little post on my experience volunteering. A little context for you: I left on the 24th of June, returned on the 10th July. I volunteered with a company named Original Volunteers, sharing a Riad (Moroccan apartment) Bab Doukkala with other travellers. Our work was mainly with kids, at youth projects, orphanages and schools. Here's ten thoughts that popped to mind when thinking about the trip... 1. The People I honestly had one of the best times of my entire life out there. This is largely due to the brilliant, hilarious and downright weird people I met. From drunken nights out, kidnapping...

When someone commits suicide, who is allowed to talk about it? I have never lost anyone particularly close to me. I have never known someone to take their own life. How do I therefore, have any right to talk about this? Isn't it the old saying- " Write what you know".  But I don't know.  In hearing the news of someone taking their own life, I feel intrusive to their loved ones and to the deceased, commenting or writing about their situation. I can hear voices saying " Well you barely knew her". I feel selfish talking about how it's affected me; how a girl I barely knew's death has made me cry quiet tears.  Nevertheless, I'm going to try and talk about this, in the best way I can.  I have been lucky enough to be part of a family through my theatre projects. A loving, crazy, slightly dysfunctional family, full of show-tune-belting theatre kids. Tonight, I found out we had lost one of the members of our family.  I didn'...

A year ago today, I sat at my laptop, and read over something for what must have been the hundredth time. It was something scary, and something I didn't think would amount to much. That something was " Where is My Sugar Free Happy Ending" . It was an essay-come-catharsis-type piece that detailed my issues with Diabulimia. Before writing that original post, I had lost my lust for life. In all honesty, the prospect of death didn't scare me. I showed no fear in response to the fact that starving myself of insulin was as good as suicide; I was thin, so what else mattered?  One year on, I can tell you that life matters.  A year on, I can tell you that I am able to study for my A-Levels, my brain is no longer foggy and clouded, I am filling my brain full of power- no longer letting an addiction put my ambition on hold. A year on, I can tell you how elated I am to be going out with my friends, finally feeling what it was like to laugh again. A year on,...

I have always had a fear of failing.   I've found it to be my greatest motivator, and greatest curse, throughout my life. I'm pretty confident in estimating where this fear stemmed from. I narrowly missed ( And I mean narrowly- 1 bloody mark! Not that I'm bitter or anything... ) the pass mark for the "Eleven Plus" exam. Just like that, I differed to all of my classmates who were deemed "worthy" of an education that I, somehow, was not deserving of. There, within that pale envelope, was the black and white proof that I was a failure.  Ever since then, I have strived for near perfection, fixated on never having to experience that crushing feeling ever again . It's been a motivator throughout my life, providing me with the mantra "Why bother doing it if it's not done well". Largely, it's worked! Full marks in my English coursework and an excellent (bar maths!)  academic record, I have found my perfectionism to work out ve...