# Born to dysfunctional family, an alcoholic for a father and a drug addict for a mother, I am a prostitute living on the streets. We are what we do.
# They retrenched me at work, the bank repossessed my house. I sold my car and went back to my mother’s house, at the age of 42. We are what we do.
# I had based my entire existence on our relationship. I lived for him and my whole being revolved around him. One day I found him in bed with the girl from next door. I died, at least not physically, but mentally. As I write this, I am held captive in a mental institution. We are what we do.
|Sometimes, our grief is not a result of our choice, but the choices made by those around us|