I come from a complex context and was born in a violent continent after a lot of disgrace in our timeline, but I don't want to bore you with the romantic details. 

 

What you need to know is that, after spending one year guarding me from COVID in my first official accommodation in London, I realised the amazing truth. This world and its panic gave me the chance to focus on my psychological life work and also the confidence to develop creative projects with awareness of copywriting laws and visual ethics. By the end of the year, I was full of energy, ready to change my middle-class life for whatever would make my country proud. 

 

What went wrong? Mainly 3 points (and a +),

1- My support dog was on the other side of the world. 2- The guy who made me believe that a sane love was possible rejected my feelings.

3- My work environment was chaotic, and despite the record of my results, I felt like an unnecessary product for the factory.

PLUS I moved in with the wrong people because my inner child wanted to play “the cool house” to bring friends over, since when I was growing up, my mom turned our small flat into her personal office. 

 

By November 2020, I was living in a hostel, accepting the painful decision to go back home and disappoint my grandpa with what, back then, felt like a sack of failure. I left the U.K. with a diagnosis of functional depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress. All this information about my health came to light after I opened up to my psychologist about smoking weed and revealing hidden trauma. 

 

Following his advice, I also spoke with NHS professionals. I explained to them my situation, with special emphasis on the fact that I was scared about falling into stronger substances and that the green habit was no longer sustainable for my finances. The outcome? I was officially under psychiatric medication. 

 

Now I will skip to another important part since this is getting long and I haven't processed all the storm yet. I failed to my fears and got into stronger substances and won a new diagnosis—paranoid schizophrenia. My faith broke, and the crisis got worse. My values were clear: I don't get into debt, and I sell my pride to survive. 

 

If you want to know more about my life stories or my experiences in London's dark neighborhoods, write back to me. I will be happy to answer particular questions. 

 

The current goal is to exceed Jose’s £50 donation; the standard donation is £5. 

 

Thanks for reading,

Sincerely

Alessandra Certa