Computer says no, you must die

THE WRITER’S LIFE

After keeping me waiting for five weeks, throwing petrol on my depression and anxiety, The Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) have refused my re-application for PIP (Personal Independence Payment). They didn’t even have the decency to send a letter, and I found out when much less money than normal went into my account. No doubt the shit sandwich will arrive in the mail soon, after it’s gone through further bureaucracy.

VogonA relative and employee of Theresa May at DWP, yesterday

I’ve been in receipt of the independence benefit for the last four years, and at my last assessment I must have seemed in worse health (because I am), but some appointed worthy who’s never met me, sitting self-importantly at a computer, has made a life-changing decision, to deny me what I’ve been entitled to for the last four years, and which I used to live an independent life. I can’t do that any more.

I may not be able to visit my kids or parents so often or at all. But what does DWP care? They know I’ve failed to kill myself before, as it’s on my hospital records. It couldn’t be that they wish me more success next time, surely? I hope they sleep well at night (and one day, don’t wake up).

Now I face the appeals process through to tribunal. I’ve done it twice before and won. This was a re-application, for a benefit I’ve been paid for the last four years. It all begs the question, why do this? Why incur all the extra expense and waste their time (and mine)? Because they want to wear people down so that they give up, roll over and die (it’s the Vogon way). But like a bad smell, I won’t go away.

With about £5 a day to spend now, I’ll have to be very creative with meals. And as the appeal process takes around three months, that’s Christmas nicely fucked up, possibly the last one I spend with my parents, thanks to the DWP and the Tory government’s social cleansing project. The last five weeks have made me ill but it didn’t kill me, and I won’t be swept from society by fascists. Apart from the roof over my head, the next few months will be like it was on the streets, and I survived that.

The singular, only, sole, lone, individual good thing I might be able to salvage in all of this, is that with nothing to do (eat, drink, or smoke), I might as well spend some time at the keyboard. If I can’t afford heating, I’ll get some fingerless gloves.

I have a tribunal process to document in fiction. I need to write, of the psychological horror this has been, of poverty, of the perverse torture by sick and twisted Nazis, and of exacting, violent and bloody revenge. The story of an impoverished writer, an irritant irritating, and literally (in literature) fisting some arseholes and scratching around inside.

Like a wave from a subway train

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There won’t be anyone to stop you if you’ve truly made up your mind, but no matter how bad it is, and how little people might seem to care, every lost life affects others. You’ll only be aware of the splash you make, not the ripples you create.”

Vincent SchiavelliVincent Schiavelli (‘Subway ghost’ in ‘Ghost’) at WarpedFactor.com

I was thinking about that last paragraph from my previous post, and recently watched an excellent documentary on BBC4, called The Secret Life of Waves. It dealt not only with sound and light waves, but poetically and philosophically with the waves on the ocean as metaphors for individual lives.

The programme posited the thought: Is the world around us static or dynamic? We as humans – as sentient, self-determining, conscious beings – are fluid within the world we occupy, but even that which we consider permanent is also in transit. It made my own life make sense, when it’s been so transient and turbulent.

Buildings are static, but they come and go, with fashion, with gentrification; abandoned, squatted, reclaimed, demolished; they are eroded by the waves of life. The building materials came from the Earth, inflicting upon it another scar of humanity, like every person passing through each place they lived, all leaving a mark.

Now I sit and write, very much aware of my place. I feel my own weight bearing down on my buttocks in the chair, and it’s gravity. It’s the world, pushing up beneath me as it travels through space at 50,000 miles an hour with me attached.

The planet is moving not just in space, but within. Mountains and landscapes form and grow, like mineral waves, titanic and slow. Ice caps melt, glaciers carve new canyons and continents shift, geologically. Up above, the geopolitical world is a surreal kaleidoscope of shifting sands and oil. All of these things are waves which have a beginning and an end, and we’re watching various speeds of transit.

We can blow the surface of still water and it will ripple. We can jump from a bridge, land with a splash and make bigger waves. We speak and we create sound waves, and simply by being, wavelengths of visible light allow us to be seen.

It’s a fundamental law of the universe that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, so all of those actions – conscious and not – are transfers of energy, from one form to another; potential energy within us creates kinetic energy in the waves we make. Eventually those waves break, like the ocean on the shore, moving and eroding the surface of the Earth as the energy is converted again and returned from whence it came.

And so it is with life. When a life ends, all the energy it contained is dispersed, like the breaking of a wave. Some of that force lives on, in ways we don’t yet understand when we leave our physical, organic bodies. And part of an individual’s energy will become the grief (or celebration) of others. We live on, beyond here, but there’s no place where life is a singularity. That was at the beginning, before the Big Bang, where all the energy in the universe came from. It’s still here and it always will be, because the force can’t be destroyed.

Back on Earth, it’s easier to ride the waves of life than creating the kind which might drown others. We all have a powerful weapon within us, an energy which could destroy our loved ones. It’s a big burden sometimes, but it would be selfish to unleash that on those less able to deal with it.

best-gary-zukav-quote-by-gary-zukav-1856173Gary Zukav

Don’t get carried along by the waves made by others, when you could otherwise channel their energy differently. Be careful who you surf with, and always wear sunscreen.

Life on the lonely one-way streets

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There’s little fictional about the roles I play in the real lives of others, but there’s little I can write about the private affairs of other people’s hearts. The many parts of me which play those roles and tend to others’ wishes, all sometimes wish for something else.

dystopian
Dystopian art by Alex Andreev

With so many other people’s lives piled on top of my own in my mind, parts of me sometimes wish I could escape, perhaps to not be needed enough (when I should find it flattering), or to not be taken advantage of.

I’m friend and confidante, surrogate parent and sibling; I’m banker, counsellor, lawyer, and psychologist; I’m an empath, a guide, and a guardian; yet I have none of these things myself, despite a human need.

Humans thrive on contact with each another, but I often resist, because of the humans I know. When loneliness makes me crave another human, I attract the wrong kind. I can rarely rest for any prolonged period, because I’m always expecting an interruption from the needy. And I wouldn’t mind, if I got something back.

I don’t have much myself, but I manage what I have, then others ask for it when they themselves run out: Money, tobacco, and even food. Much of it is lent in a time of apparent need but never returned.

Sometimes my patience is tried, and I’m tired. I’m able to deal with the needy things on a daily and individual basis, thanks to my venomous mouth, but like most snakes, I prefer not to bite unless necessary, and avoid conflict until it brings itself to me. Like when I was recently asked if I could lend someone some money:

After explaining that I had no money until I received my own benefits the following week (which I didn’t have to do), then that I needed the money, I was asked why? I further explained that this was none of their fucking business, but that I was visiting my parents, to help get my dad to a hospital appointment in London. I was further interrogated on when I’d be leaving, then a suggestion was made: that I could draw out some money before I left. Although I’ll help people in genuine need, I don’t respond calmly and quietly to passive aggression.

The part of me with OCD would rather not have to tidy up behind people; the paranoid, anxious one who suffers PTSD would rather sleep well at night, knowing there’ll be no interruptions or early morning calls; and the real-life one with chronic depression would just like to be asked how I am sometimes, by those who make those parts of me worse.

I don’t mind helping people, but it would be nice if others sometimes helped me. They wouldn’t have time, but I could at least let them know I need less from them. I don’t like being alone, but sometimes I’m forced to shut myself away, to head off the tide of people pushing towards me, in this life which often seems a one-way street. It affects my ability to sleep, perchance to dream lucidly and escape for a while.

I’m resolutely single, because I travel with my own atmosphere, but also because of my mistrust of the human race, based on the subjects who’ve demonstrated their human empathy so poorly. I want attention, but not the kind of unwanted attention I attract. I crave contact, but only with those who understand me, the paradoxical enigma. I need to see a shrink.

I’m socially anxious, so I can’t deal with multiple diagnoses requiring me to travel for treatment. The waiting list for psychiatric treatment (I need weekly sessions with a psychologist) is so long, that I daren’t bother it, when others might need it more. When it comes to my next fitness-for-work assessment, it’ll most likely go to tribunal (my third) because there’s little on my medical file, further dehumanising me.

One day, other people might just push a part of me too far. Then if there’s no-one there to catch me – like I have so many others – they’ll have no banker, adviser or friend. Guardianship by angel will then be my own choice, of those I wish to haunt.

A small part of me sometimes wishes everything would just leave me alone, or that I could escape the social inequality of this planet, but it’s only one of many small parts.

Life on the streets was somehow easier, when there were no ties and humans helped their fellow kind. Life was two-way traffic there. Like way back when, it’s why I have to write it all down here.

Elephants in the atmosphere

THE WRITER’S LIFE | DEAR DIARY

A talented writer whom I respect, said of me in a review, “It takes creative voodoo to sit me down and give me a novel to read. It takes even more dark magic to get me excited about a fictional piece of work. I only respond to mental stimulation that puts me in a story…”

His is a mind entwined with my own, and he’s the author of a book I’m reading at the moment: Acupuncture of the Mind. In my own mind and many others, I’m just the occasional elephant in the room, which travels with its own atmosphere and requires a different kind of gravity to step among the surrounding eggshells. In many respects, we all are.

ElephantsSalvador Dali

Like horses galloping on coconut shells, mine is a loud story, some of which is told on this blog. Other parts are in my stories and books, and still more will travel with me one day. Mostly it’s quiet, and elephants can float. For now, I’m landed back on something resembling my home planet after a recent episode.

Actually, to call it an episode would give it less credit than it’s due, when previous ones on my medical record only resulted in failed attempts to leave life. This latest one arrived like many before, then didn’t leave. It was the difference between seeing a UFO and beaming on board. Yeah, I was smoking, but that’s the best analogy to paint.

Just recently, my physical life has had to traverse landscapes far more frightening than the daily ones of the life I once lived on the streets. Once I found writing, I knew there was a way to deal with things. Then I stopped writing recently, which was odd.

Writing only what I feel I should, balancing my need for an outlet with what anyone really wants to read about, I’m not sure what to write. Yet I’m a writer, and it was writing which pulled me out of the depression before. I create my own paradoxes.

Lately it’s been more about people I care about than myself. When you’re me and you’ve done what I have, most people are better than me. I’m sober, but I remember being drunk.

To forget would be to drink again, and I won’t put anyone else through that. I go through it alone, perpetually in sobriety. To end that would be more selfish than anything I did before, so it’s an inescapable penance. And there are people who need me, by invitation.

My adopted kid sister is still fighting to keep her baby (the one I’ve been given debatable godfather duties with). My dad continues to remind me of the frailty of life, but inspires me with his spirit to fight. The mother ship is somewhere between Joss Whedon’s Serenity in SciFi, and a graceful duck beneath the surface. These are all things concerning others which I can only write so much about, but which have been consuming me.

It was the pen which saved me from death by bottle, but while I’ve not been writing this blog, I’ve not lapsed. I’ve perhaps smoked more, and I’ve thought. I wondered what was worth writing, and if it was worth sharing. But a blog is a platform, a soap box. Even if the speaker perched on top doesn’t have a coherent message, at least they have a voice.

A blog is an up-turned table, which could be used to flip the message on the writer’s life. It’s my stage. Whether or not I have an audience, it’s my open diary for all to read.

So that’s the real life and virtual life I was having so much trouble separating but trying to connect. When the physical is lived alone, the virtual becomes more real (the subject of more than one of my short stories). But in the spirit of maintaining the blurred lines, these were a few of the things occupying my mind today:

On #Brexit: “They may be fictional, but most of the Starfleet captains could teach Earth politicians a lot…”

On the #SyriaStrikes: “Well, this is feckin’ interesting: It adds weight to theories that we’re watching the playing out of a plan made long ago (‘Conspiracy theorist’ is a derogatory term applied to those who think more)…”

And on the latest developments in #WorldWar3: “Theresa May says the Syria Strikes were ‘In the national interest’: I beg your fucking pardon? Is that not why we have a Parliament and voters who elect our representatives? Tory Hypocrisy. The national interest? #NotInMyName…”

Those are all from my Facebook timeline, not my author page. I’m staying on Facebook, because to run away is to submit to the defeat of democracy. I’m grateful I have people to spend time with, wherever they are. The world is only as big or small as we make it.

My problems are universal. We are not a machine. We have autonomy, and we can be rebels if we still want to be.

We could still be heroes.

Twisted Shakespeare’s Sisters

THE WRITER’S LIFE

We all have things we wish to say, but which we keep to ourselves, fearing others’ reactions. But avoiding a clash can be more harmful than the conflict itself, certainly for the side bearing a burden. I’m a left-wing liberal social democrat, preferring dialogue for mutual understanding, over confrontations of anger which quickly degenerate. A third option is sometimes to walk away, perhaps to fester and make matters worse. If others choose to ignore me, I can at least write.

Mouth sewn shut

I’ve previously described my life as chapters. It’s been partly a coping mechanism, when I dried out and tried moving on from my accrued guilt. But the alcoholic label is permanent, just as the repentant alcoholic’s guilt complex is a life sentence. My latest depressive episode is ongoing, as much in my personal life has reminded me of the fragility of being. Many of my previous coping mechanisms are redundant, so this is a new chapter.

I read inspirational quotes, some by great philosophers, telling me that the past was a lesson, that I should learn from it and move on. But that’s easy for them to say, when they probably don’t have chronic depression of my particular brand, and all the add-ons which come with it (and when most of them are dead).

My depression is compounded by living alone, interred by social anxiety, and where paranoia and guilt breed like bacteria in a Petri dish. There are plenty of opportunities to review the events of the last five years, and the many episodes which led to diagnoses of PTSD.

I can understand how others lapse (and I’ve come close), to escape a life of guilty sobriety as they previously sought to escape daily life. Some people I knew took their own lives, unable to deal with the constant voices; their own paranoia, and other people, who can’t forgive. My drunken years left marks on many, but most are reconciled. They’ve moved on, perhaps unaware that I can’t, but those who apply the permanent label continue to carve into my permanent scars.

I wish I could forget, but the only way to do that would be a gift to those who wish me ill. I’ve moved on otherwise, but I live the life sentence of regret. I won’t jump, as those who may otherwise push me might like. I’ll deny them their own selfish pleasure, just as taking my own life would be selfish on my part. These people are the enemy, not just my own, but of all whom I love and who care about me.

Chapter one was my life to 42, lived but not knowing why. Then my alcoholic mental breakdown left me with just a pen and paper, so I started to write chapter two. The third chapter started when I got a permanent home with a social landlord, where I’ve now lived for two years. I’ve been stuck in my mind, but I needn’t be in life. My humble needs of shelter and security are addressed, so even if it’s dark, I can write. Even if only a few read my words, at least I was heard. I live, even if some wish I didn’t.

I know there are others with these same toxins in their life, who can hold a mirror to these people, so they can see how deeply evil they are. Their lives are also lessons, when we who they look down on can rise above them. Because if you’re alive, they’ve lost. Then you can spend some of your living days silently taunting them, but not actually having to say anything: A real-life haunting. You’re just there, and it’s what they’ve been doing to you all along.

The blisters on my feet from walking around the issues others won’t address, I can turn into heat as I write the words.

Travels in the deep blue

FLASH FICTION

This story was very loosely inspired by Dancer in the Dark, a film by Lars von Trier (starring Björk). I mention it only because of the film’s unique way of telling a story we may face differently (as humans), and the Danish director provided a spark for flash fiction.

Voyager in the Dark BlueShahed Ali

VOYAGER IN THE DARK

We can never touch the blue in our world. It’s inside us, yet the sky is out of reach, and we’d drown in the oceans. Milu saw more clearly in dreams. In that world, she could fly, to the room next door, or anywhere else in the universe.

She looked around, for a pebble to throw in the air. She scuffed some sand aside with her foot, and a smooth, almost spherical, orange stone looked up, an entire population on a tiny planet in the dunes.

She picked up the rock, brushing the sand from the surface. As she held it, the moon shone back from flecks of mineral deposits. Milu looked up at the dark sky, like an umbrella, with pinholes for starlight to rain through.

She threw the mini world straight up, and heard the friendly clank of alien metal. A spark, then her ship’s cloaking device revealed her own Serenity, suspended like a dark cloud above her head. “Hey Goose. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Anywhere in mind?” the mother computer enquired.

“Wherever you can find.”

“Care to talk while we travel,” the ship wondered, “or would you rather sleep?”

“Talk to me Goose.”

“Okay. I’ll take you somewhere you’d never normally see…”

Goose had been Milu’s ship since the day she learned to dream. In lucid dreams, the dream scape is for living in, with the entire universe to explore. Like a spirit in the afterlife, Milu had infinite space around her, and her own eternity to travel. She was safe, conscious in her subconscious mind, free of any earthly binds and gravity, to fly and do as she wished.

“What can you see,” Goose wondered, “now that your eyes are closed? What’s the film being played on the silver screen covering your eyes? What are you seeing in the back of your eyelids?”

“Everything that’s fading and blurred in my waking life. My visions there are growing dark.”

“Milu,” Goose said, “I must echo a note of caution. I’ve been thinking about it for some time, and we’ve come so far. While you’re free to dream for as long as you wish, you must face your waking darkness. You need to manage your withdrawal, or you’ll waste in all but the minds of those who care for you.”

“But I like it here. It’s like I have my own private cinema. No, it’s better than that. I can sit in the projection room, with the projectionist. With you. Where are we going Goose?”

“There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Be patient. Enjoy the in-flight movie. What is it?”

“One of my favourites. Electric Dreams. I relate most with the computer, unable to move while his envy of those around him ferments.”

“One of many human studies, of sentient souls trapped inside non-autonomous environments. And of strange love triangles.”

“Yeah, and the computer killed itself, to allow the humans to be together. The computer escaped itself. And yet here, I’m free within myself.”

“But you’re inside me, Milu.”

“I know. Some people think death’s like sleeping, and that the dead wake up when someone thinks of them, like someone shouting to wake them when they were alive. This is bi-polar. I’m living in here, until someone wakes me to continue my fading waking life.”

“And this is what I’m concerned about Milu, that you’ll give up on your waking life, and spend the rest of your eternal existence here.”

“But if death’s like this, right where I am now. Why would I want to live?”

“Because you don’t know that the long sleep is like this. Why would you want to leave?”

“To be free, so my spirit can explore the universe for eternity.”

“So why do you need me? Why do you need a space ship?”

“To breathe?”

“And there’s my point Milu.”

“Which is?”

“Within me, you breathe. And you continue to draw breath from the outside world, your waking world. You’re only here because you’re asleep. When the long sleep comes, you’ll no longer need me. In me, you’ve created an artificial womb, for yourself. One day, you’ll be truly free, and have no need for your life support.”

“I’m not sure you know what happens either Goose.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve seen it here. When the long sleep comes, I can be with you forever, to explore together.”

“That’s why I want to take you where we’re going.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Soon. Someone’s coming.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Someone to wake you. Have you never thought that there might be those who need you?”

***

“Can you stand?” It was a man’s voice. “Milu? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can. Where are we going?”

“Follow me. I have something to show you.”

“What could you show me?”

“Hold on to me. I’ll take you there.”

The body ceases to live a few moments before consciousness is finally lost…

“I need you inside me to live.” It was Goose, the mother ship. “I only exist here, in your dreams. There’s no room for me in the long voyage…”

***

Milu woke on the beach. She brushed some sand aside with her hand, and looked down on a smooth, blue-green pebble.

She slid her hand into the sand beneath the tiny planet and lifted it. The sands shifted and fell between her fingers, and her digits passed straight through the ball of rock.

She looked up to where the small world might have gone, a dark umbrella where the starlight rained through.

© Steve Laker, 2018.

Dancer in the Dark is a truly unique experience, incredibly affecting, and actually, totally different to this little tale. With thanks to Lars von Trier for the inspiration though, it’s one of only a few films I rate “9”, and it’s in the top five of those. My full film library is on IMDb.

I’m very much neutral in the overall assisted dying and euthanasia debate, as each case is unique, and I question who’s fit to judge (I’m against capital punishment). It’s a subject close to my heart, as I’ve seen the frailty of some around me, and on more than one occasion, when I questioned my own purpose here. This story may give someone five minutes, to read 1000 words which might make them think, or change their mind.

Home is where the Pink Hearts are

THE WRITER’S LIFE

pink-heart-hands

It’s all come flooding back this week; Everything’s come home to roost. My studio might as well have been the old squat on a couple of occasions: Not because it was untidy; I’m so house proud and OCD that I even kept the squat clean and tidy when I was living there.

The police were round, a bit like they used to visit the squat. Back then, when it was a gathering ground for teenagers, the police would occasionally pop in to see who was there. If anyone had gone AWOL from school, the police would go to the squat. On the occasions when one of the young adults was reported missing, the police would check at the squat and ask me to keep my ears open. There were no drugs or underage sex at the squat and we enjoyed a community spirit with the law. The nick was quite literally next door.

This time, one of the Pink Hearts – the family which formed in that squat, mostly teenagers to whom I owe my life – had got into a spot of bother and needed somewhere to stay the night. For whatever reason, I’m the person this young lady felt safe with, so she asked the police to bring her to my place. So at three o’clock on Thursday morning, I had a Battenberg cake drop off a passenger in the mill yard outside my studio. One of the other Pink Hearts had to crash the night when her lift home forgot her.

And what do I get up to when these teenage girls stay for the night? Sit with them, talk, smoke weed and binge on DVDs. I don’t see them like others might. I see suffragettes. I see friends. I see family. Those “kids” who used to congregate at the squat, saved my life. They made me realise that life’s worth living, even when you have fuck all. My role there became an advisory one and a few of those young adults came under my wing. We remain close and the ethos of the Pink Hearts family lives on always.

There’s another Pink Heart adult: The mum of one of the girls and now my right-hand. When you’re left-handed, it’s handy (sorry) to have a right-hand and a same-age sounding board as we deal with some of the younger ones in the family.

All the signs are that this week will be similar to last. But where once I resisted company, any company is improved if there’s a supply of weed. And so has my life been by cannabis, helping me to overcome the worst of my anxiety.

It should be no surprise that I smoke weed. After all, Bob Marley’s son is named Ziggy, after Ziggy Stardust. I’m a Bowie fan with my musical roots in the birthplace of Ska: Kingston, Jamaica. I like reggae. This is what I am, but I’m only now putting the whole puzzle together. Part of me simply refused to grow up.

I’ve been less than prolific on the writing front. I’ve fitted freelance work around everything else and my personal output is concentrated on pre-publication projects: The Perpetuity of Memory mainly, as it’s still due out next month. It’s difficult to work when there are two teenage girls around. Not because I might be expected to be distracted by such a presence; I’m not like that. No, because at least one of them talks a lot and they’re both pleasant company. Although there were times when I might once have screamed, now I just look at them and I have to smile. Because in those young people, I see myself at that age; Because those girls and their friends gave me a reason to live; and because when they’re around, I don’t want to stop the world and get off any more.

I spent a long time finding out what I wanted to do with my life. An autobiography-ette; Born 1970, not dead yet:

I “grew up”, got married, had kids. I was sales director for a group of companies. I earned £75k a year and I had a decent car. Then I ran my own company, banked about £10k a month and got drunk. Then my marriage failed and I lost my home and family. I got a flat in Bexley. I had a swimming pool. I’d got into poker when I was still married. There was a massive live poker scene around Bexley. Eventually, I was running the company in the morning, then going to The Empire on Leicester Square to play poker through the night. The whole thing was fuelled by Coke up my nose. Cocaine and drink took over. I gradually lost everything and had to hand over my poker bankroll (£6000) to save my legs.

The rest was a downward spiral into the gutter. And that’s where all those young adults met me.

And now I’m poor but I’m doing what I love: I’m a writer.

But just as I can’t forget how my life fell apart, neither can I forget those kids; the Pink Hearts: Never a gang, always family.

Those kids were born between AIDS and 9/11: That’s quite a thought to take on board. Many of them have had troubled lives and some have mental health issues: That’s the other tie which binds us as a family. Like me, some have made attempts to take their own lives. Now that I know them, I’m glad I failed. And hopefully, I might have played some small part in getting them through some issues.

There are times when I remember life on the streets quite fondly: I’m perhaps part-tramp. Because yes, I was a “tramp” once. But just as blacks and gays reclaimed words, so tramps can be proud. Call me a tramp as an insult and I’ll wish I could show you how it’s a term which makes me proud to be a part of a humanist crowd. Most wouldn’t make it through.

I’ve come to terms with my mental illness(es). And I wonder, which was it? Did the entire world change, or did I realise I had a psychological condition? This is my internal dialogue as I come to terms with things and try to finally relax in amongst everything that’s grown around me.

“I understood myself only after I destroyed myself. And only in the process of fixing myself, did I know who I really was.”

Sade Andria Zabala