My husband had a stroke six years ago and has been bedridden ever since. He also has dementia and suffers from delusions and paranoia.

It was a lot to take care of him physically and emotionally because of my old age. But I couldn't talk about my stress with anyone because I was ashamed.

I was imprisoned for the first time when I was 70. When I shoplifted, I had money in my wallet. Then I thought about my life.

I didn't want to go home, and I had nowhere else to go. Asking for help in prison was the only way.

My life is much easier in prison. I can be myself and breathe, however temporarily.

My son tells me I’m ill and I should be hospitalised in a mental institution and take it easy. But I don’t think I’m ill. I think my anxiety drove me to steal.