It sounds like an oxymoron, but I am an immigrant in my own home country; a native immigrant. When I left England at the tender age of seven, I would have never imagined the twenty year journey I would have to embark on just to get home. I’m not from a war-torn, drug-infested, or communist country, but I had so
As if by magic, it seems I disappeared for a while. And yes, I have. I do apologise for being gone so long. Consistency does not seem to be a friend of mine recently, and neither does life. I cannot seem to find a rhythm long enough to develop a routine with the constant battle with depression.