I am no longer human, merely another number. Nothing more than cattle, to be done with as they see fit. My face is invisible; all that matters is the string of digits tattooed on my skin—this is me, I am theirs. This is my identity, this is my prison. Do I exist? Am I alive? …
"I read your last blog and what you said about being sixteen and asking yourself 'why do I have to have my beliefs?' resonated with me. I'd love to read how you came to terms with having certain beliefs or convictions that limit you from living the 'normal American' life. Assuming that you have come …
Continue reading How I’ve Come To Grips With NOT Being Normal
The Girl Who Doesn't Exist 