Lockdown. Here's a word that we used to associate with dictatorship, war, or, in my case, George Orwell's 1984. For a young adult, it seemed unimaginable that I would ever experience times of fear, isolation, and a skyrocketing death rate. It was even more unthinkable that we could get something out of it. Back in March, 2020, staying at home was a chance to recover from life's crazy speed. That is, for most people. Me? I had already been working at home for almost four months as an English teacher for online students in Brazil. There was little change in my routine – I was mostly sorry I couldn't go to the gym, cause I'm an endorphin junky. Of course, we all thought quarantine wasn't going to last. It then became clear we had better get used to Zoom meetings, face-masks, or, in my case, keeping a distance from my family (who wasn't following all the guidelines as strictly as I was – still am). Like all newly bakers, DIYers, yogis, I too put my energy into one task: starting my writing career. With a zillion unfinished stories on my computer and a zillion more in my head, I didn't know where to begin. After all, I was exhausted from all the jobs I had taken thinking they would lead me somewhere, when in fact they were dragging me further from my writing goals. Luckily, I received an email announcing a writing contest for eBooks. And I thought “this is it!” (in reality, I was probably thinking, “why not?”). I only had a couple of months to do what most writers take years to accomplish: finish a story and publish it. After selecting one short-story that wasn't so bad and kind of had an ending, I rewrote it, revised it, then turned it into a great eBook (with the help of my uncle to design the cover). Basically, I was the writer, agent, editor, launch team of my first book. When I sent a message to my mom, with a link for purchasing her daughter's first published book, she had to call me to make sure she got it right: “What is that link you sent me? Is that a book? Your book? How did you do it?” And I was thrilled to have finally done it! After all, I had been dreaming of this feat ever since I drew/wrote a book about a mermaid when I was seven. As a perfectionist, though, I wanted to go further. My self-published, barely revised book couldn't be my only one. That's when I decided to really pursue my career as an author (at last, I can call myself that). So I quit one of my jobs (the one as an English teacher) and started writing a new novel in 2021 – its first draft is already complete, and I'm currently working on editing it (this time, to send to a literary agent). Also, I knew that, as amazing as that eBook was (a true accomplishment for the little time that I had), I needed lots of help on how to write mesmerizing stories, pitch them for agents, build my online platform (which I'm still working on, btw), promote my future books… So, I took some free classes (remember, I quit my job) and sent my draft to a friend who reads the same kind of genre to get some feedback. What I've learned so far from this process? That it only takes a crazy pandemic to make people rethink their life choices and pursue their dreams. Kidding. Sort of. I did learn that there are many master classes, webinars, blog posts, and guides that really are helpful to writers who want to focus on this part of their lives without spending any (or little) money. So let's take those Covid-19 lemons and make some lemonade!

As we know, this covid pandemic has shaken our entire life. It causes my salary cut & this virus has taken away my dad. I live with my mom who divorced from my dad since 18 years ago, but my relation with my dad was fine until mid of 2018 when a problem suddenly emerged that has crashed my relationship with him, after we've gone through a fierce argumentation back and forth via WhatsApp chat. Thereafter I didn't want to contact him anymore like used to be. I felt deeply hurt & very disappointed. I don't understand why he easily relinquished his responsibility as a father towards me as his only child. Actually since the divorce my mom and my close family already told their opinion about my dad's relinquishment towards me and I was the only one who never want to believe that. But his reaction performed towards me by mid 2018 has proven that my belief about him was wrong. He only concerned about himself rather than his responsibility to my crucial needs. I felt so hurt till every time I prayed I could only cry and hoped that my heartache could heal. January 11th, 2020, my mom suddenly informed me that my dad had a cancer, as what he told her. He was hospitalized in North Jakarta which is 48 KM from our home. Before the pandemic arisen, my mom & I could only visit him twice due to its very far distance. When we were about to end our second visit & I said goodbye to him, I couldn't take off my eyes from him like had a sort of hunch as I felt somewhat a whisper in my heart saying “this is your last meeting with him”. After the pandemic started we couldn't even visited him at all. Since end January to March 2020 my dad underwent chemotherapy and most of time he was hospitalized. April 4th 2020 at around 3;00 PM suddenly I got a bad news from my dad's close friend saying that he was critical. I was shocked & immediately checked with his younger sister who accompanied him at the hospital. She confirmed about his critical condition & was about to be moved to isolated ICU since his doctor just found out that somehow he got infected by covid virus. His lung X-rays shown white & his kidneys got suddenly failed. I felt so shocked, deeply confused, hard to believe that covid could attack him while he had been hospitalized. His covid status prevented me from seeing him. Fortunately I got a chance to talk to him despite shortly through my aunt's cellphone & expressed my feeling by saying : "I love you dad" while crying & also said : “actually I've already forgiven you”. He could still hear me & replied me : “I love you too” In the evening around 8;00 PM my aunt intensively communicated with me & my mother, updating about dad's declining condition. At 9;35 PM my aunt told us about his weakening breath. At 9;45 PM she told us that he has gone. I got hysterical, couldn't accept the fact that he died so fast, when my big problem with him had not been resolved yet. His death due to covid prevented me & all of our close family from seeing his body nor attending his cremation process. His ashes was kept in one ashes storage house in West Jakarta. I tried to accept the fact that my dad was no longer around. Remember his kindness, miss the times of confiding in him as he was the one to whom I could express my complaints about anything related to anybody & soothed my heart when I faced problems. But when I remember how he reacted that has crashed my relation with him, I felt again a deep disappointment. My feelings were messed up between longing, annoyance, disappointment, sadness, love, good memories. A week later I followed a big online mass of spirits and submitted his name to be prayed for. I also held a private online mass via zoom to commemorating 100 days of his death and asked our parish priest to lead the mass, joined by close family, friends and Catholic communities in our neighborhood to pray for his eternal peace and happiness. Those all I can do for him. 2 weeks thereafter my mom had an accident fell from a ladder around 1.2 m height, she fell straight on her buttocks and back. Luckily no bone cracks nor fractures happened, so she didn't need to be hospitalized. I took few days leave to take care of her to certain extent. However she needed 3 months to recover 90%, during which she couldn't drive nor accompany me to visit my dad's ashes while I'm not able to drive far distance myself. Only by November 2020 my mom was able to accompany me visiting his ashes. I cried a lot & “talked” to him, let all my feelings out towards him. I prayed for him. Felt rather released for finally I was able to visit him despite only in form of his ashes that was stored in a marble jar. I still need time to accept that he has truly gone moreover as a victim of Covid too. Until now I sometimes cry when remembering his kindnesses but I have to continue my life. He'll be always in my heart. May God forgive all his sins & grant him a heavenly happiness. I love my dad but I believe God loves him much more.

~~Her eyes glance to the SonyPMW that glares a red LED light. She exaggerates a moan as her bottom lip tucks under her bite. 5-digit imprints begin to welt and ecchymosis starts to surface. He thrashes her body into the Kingsdown cushion.~~ My body hosts a habitat for not just one, but two. Beyond my classic blonde ringlets and wide blue eyes lurks a predator. I call her Vixen. She is a lecherous creature infested in my mind. I cannot rid her. We share the same body, but she deludes my cognition. She is the entity of our illness that resides in our ventral striatum. The conflict between us does not cease until I swallow the colored beads engraved with a systematic arrangement of numerical and alphabetical configurations and close my eyes. My mind disintegrates into a trance. Peace―finally, until REM generates its own unconscious version of Vixen, for Vixen has no regard for serenity. In fact, she preys on calmness. I have wild conversations and battles with voices in my head. The relationship among us is hardly fathomable. The only means I have to express the delusion and insanity that unfolds inside my cranium is through abstract metaphors. And even then, oftentimes I lose myself in the psychobabble and pronouns. There are too many identities. Is my nonsense merely a figment of my distorted reality, or is it true? I don't know. I am not her. She is not me. We drive the same car and run on the same fuel, but there is only one wheel. For some months she used her bondage to leave me tied and helpless in the trunk. Vixen drove me down unpaved roads and scuffed our tires. I persisted to plead for a break, but one of Vixen's chief qualities is her apathy. After months of intense therapy and rehab, I finally escaped the trunk. I shifted from the passenger and back seats, contingent on how much time could elapse before the car required a refuel. After innumerous efforts to achieve 30-day abstinence, Vixen took the passenger seat. I hesitated to touch the wheel―afraid I would wreck both of us. I had not forgotten how to drive, but I forgot the traffic rules. Simple guiding principles like stoplights were difficult to realign myself to conform to. The only light in Vixen's world signaled “go;” even red meant “keep going”. It seemed unnatural to stop and “yield” did not exist in Vixen's vocabulary. My folly was a recipe for relapse. Lest our psychosis lost you, allow me to elaborate. I am a recovering sex addict. In order to grasp a clue at who controls my behaviors, I compartmentalize. As such, I personified the part of my mind that is plagued with an illness. She, Vixen, is like an escape artist. She's mastered the skills to escape what is real and deny what is true. She abducts our body into her alternative universe and I return with black and blue and welted evidence of our travels. My unadulterated self is impaired with shame and disgust. I see Vixen's graffiti plastered on my body's canvas and it reminds me of her grueling obsessions and masochism. Not that I would ever desire to, but even if forced, I could never escape to the places Vixen is so familiar with. It is her realm, not mine. Thus, I struggle with dissonance and impulses on a daily basis. Dissonance is a frustrating state that devours my energy and cognition. Denial worms its way into my head despite my efforts to banish it. Rationalization, minimization, ritualization, manipulation and crazy-making are only a handful of potent enablers. The constant questions of “who” and “what” confuse even the simplest of ideas, hence the medication to keep me functional―if you would even call us that. Despite failures, I can now intellectualize my behaviors, but whether that belongs on my excuse list or my sobriety strategies: I do not know. But I do understand that ignoring Vixen only intensifies her outbursts, like the one I endured prior to my first lapse―the prerequisite to a relapse: Salty, fiery tears streamed down my cheeks and collected in a damp puddle underneath my bed. I clung onto the metal framework, hiding from voices that echoed off the innards of my skull. White noise screeched in the background like nails on a chalkboard. I am amazed that my neck did not snap while I tucked my head into myself like an isopod crustacean. I gasped for air as if I were being water-boarded by my own tears. I felt like an ant being tortured under a scorching microscopic light with malicious eyes watching its every movement. I could not help but wonder if death was the only escape. My fingers type anxiously as I complete this work. I have so many voices to speak for, but such little language to communicate with. Delusion skews my vision of reality. As I prepare to close my thoughts, Vixen insists to secure the last word, but no. Patrick Carnes' are the words I want to conclude my piece. “Addiction is an illness of escape….it cripples the core ability to know what is real because…rationalizations and delusions make it impossible to cope with details.”