Issara Simone Edwards's Blog, page 10
January 31, 2022
Who Are You?
Wednesday 8th of January 2020
I think I’m disappointed in myself. I’ve been avoiding writing here, in seeing myself reflected in you, in seeing myself in general. So, here’s what I’ve been avoiding.
My aunty came around after Christmas, apologised for the pre-Christmas cancellation and the ghosting after that. Then, she became the mirror of my mother and said the words I’ve heard her say so many times. She didn’t want to visit, she didn’t want to reach out, because she feels like it’s one-sided. We know where she is, if we want to reach out. And the result, neither of them reach out. I suppose I’m the same.
Except, I’m also holding on to the disappointments of childhood, and those disappointments have become expectations. I expect her to not show up, to cancel, to have better things to, to forget to call. The strongest memory I have of her is a memory she’s not even in. It’s me, waiting by the front door because she promised to take me to a theme park, and not showing up. It’s of my mother telling me, she knew she wouldn’t show. It’s of her not even mentioning it when I saw her again a month later. So, why is it my responsibility to reach out to her?
Yes, I could leave room for change, for growth, but there’s more to it than that. Her not showing up in my life has made me not need her in my life. She’s like my dad in that regard, I forget they exist, from time to time.
When I do remember, I feel guilty for forgetting. I’m programmed with the notion that family is meant to be more than a few gifts at Christmas, a ‘have a good day’ on birthdays. But I also expect absence, and give what I expect in return.
Changing that expectation feels like asking for trouble. My life functions pretty disconnectedly. I’m sure it’s the same for her. Her life functions perfectly fine without us in it, if it didn’t, we would probably hear from her more, at some point that’s just obvious. Her comment was just a transference of guilt.
My reaching out to her feels like forcing something that doesn’t want to be forced, like pushing my way into something I have never been a part of. Childhood wounds aside, I don’t trust her, I’ve never trusted her, I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone. Well, maybe not never. Five, about five was when I stopped trusting. I probably need to work on that.
Our parents, our families, they’re are first example of love and trust. When we learn we can’t trust them, everything falls apart from there.
When we learn that love can be withdraw whenever another decides, love becomes something we feel we don’t deserve unless someone else tells us we do… and even then…
There’s so much damage in me, how do I fix all that?
I don’t want to reach out and get my hand slapped away again.
I want to be around people I can speak my mind to, who don’t make me feel too different to fit. I want to be around people who don’t talk about me behind my back, like it won’t come back to me, or like I’m not in the next room. I want to be around people who defend me not instantly believe the worse of what they hear. I want to be around people whose love isn’t conditional, but I’m not sure unconditional love can exist in a world like this.
January 24, 2022
Another Year Approaches.
Sunday 29th of December 2019
It’s early, almost one in the morning, so, I’m going with early. I just came across the concept of a no-spend-year.
This is relevant because earlier, or yesterday, I’m going with yesterday, I was pondering over ways I could change my feelings about money. There’s that theory that in order to manifest money you have to act like you already have money and spend, spend spend. I can’t help but think this sounds like a capitalist, elitist trick to keep the poor poor and consumerism… consuming. So, a no-spend-year sounds like the exact opposite and somewhat intriguing.
A no-spend-year isn’t about, well, not spending, it’s about reprogramming, shedding the ideas that a lot of people have about money, that I have. One of those ideas being, that wealthy people spend and buy, therefore to be wealthy, I have to spend and buy.
It’s not about denying yourself anything but freeing yourself by learning what is personally essential and what is cluttering your life. It’s learning the difference between what you need and want and what advertising and the opinions of other are telling you that you need and want.
I think it might be an interesting experiment, a little adventure to go on.
The first step is deciding what is essential, beyond food and toiletries, bills and so on. Some of my essentials would be candles, art supplies, herbal teas.
The second step is finding activities that require little to no money, which is probably harder but not impossible, and it seems like an interesting challenge, don’t you think?
Anyway, it’s late, or early, depending on the angle. I should probably get some sleep.
Later:
Sleep hasn’t helped me decide if a no-spend-year is for me or not. On one hand it’s an interesting new challenge, on the other, it seems like something I already do. I already talk myself out of things, limit myself, I can justify not spending money on something better than anyone. It is an interesting challenge, but I don’t think it’s my challenge. Huh, maybe I did decide. Well, let’s put some more thought into it. What could I gain from exploring this?
Maybe I’ll begin to appreciate what I have more, the things I can do more, the things I can do for myself rather than the things I can buy. I don’t know, even thinking about a no-spend-year is reminding me of my childhood.
I would hide school trips from my mum so that she wouldn’t feel bad about not being able to afford it, or have to give up something else just so I could go. I would feel separate when I went out with friends and they had money to spend on nick-knacks and food and I didn’t. I’d feel guilty and ashamed when they’d buy things for me. I’m still carrying all of that.
What would a no-spend-year do for me besides bring all that back up?
The art of seeing things clearly. Knowing something, understanding, it’s different from forgiving, somehow. The older I get, the more I learn, the more I understand the people around me, that’s a given, I suppose.
My grandfather for example, I understand, I see. He was a black immigrant, living in England. He worked as a cleaner, something I didn’t learn until I was a lot older. He would always say he worked for Royals Royce, leaving out the cleaner, letting the implication that he was some sort of care expert sit in its place. He was ashamed of his job, of what he’d been reduced to in England. He did the work, no matter how demeaning it felt to him, to support his family. He was surrounded by racism, by class politics, the rage directed at him.
I understand now, the rage he must have felt, the shame he held from not being respected as a human being, let alone, as a man. Was it too much to ask to be respected in his own home?
Although I never intended to disrespect him, none of us did. My bluntness and curiosity, my oblivion to what he went through on a daily, activated his wounds, causing him to lash out in ways he couldn’t else where.
In doing this, he created wounds in me, woke up deeper, ancestral ones, just as I had done in him. Our relationship just became a viscous cycle of activating each others wounds. I’m starting to think that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. You have to be aware of wounds to begin healing them. Maybe this is me forgiving him.
January 20, 2022
Chestnuts.
Friday 27th of December 2019
I got chestnuts as a Christmas present, which is fun. I haven’t tried roasting them yet, I’ve just looked at them, held them, smelled them, I’ve never seen them not baked into a pie before so it’s fascinating to me.
I love how smells are associated with memories and emotions, and guess what I feel when I sniff a chestnut. Curious, a little on edge and loved. And the memory, my grandparents and their house on Clare Road. Apparently their house smelled like chestnuts and now I have an association in my mind, who knew.
I don’t know how old I was when I first met my grandparents, maybe a year old. Apparently, I was the reason they let my mum back into the family. They kicked her out because they didn’t approve of my dad, so she was on her own for a long time.
The story goes that one day, one of my aunties secretly took me to see my grandparents, and they were all like, “We have a grandchild now! Let’s put the past behind us.”
After that, we visited every Sunday. Until my parents got back together and it was all, “Grandchild? What grandchild? Daughter? Nah, never heard of her.”
And then history repeated. My aunty took my sister to see them and we were allowed back in again. She was about eight months, I was eight, and I remember thinking how ridiculous and repetitive my grandparents were. But I also remember feeling loved and wanted, honoured to be let back in. I didn’t want to lose that love again. The smell of chestnuts brings all of this back, the warmth of being loved, and the fear of doing something wrong and losing it again.
The smell of chestnuts reminds me that there was love, from both of them, that I did feel safe, even if that safety was conditional. I was loved, for a while. Then I grew up and became ‘disrespectful’.
I read today that the black sheep of the family is usually the one that sees the truth and tells it like it is. That statement doesn’t need words, just a solemn nod.
January 18, 2022
Spirit Chaser.
Canvas print available from Society6, follow link – https://society6.com/product/old-era-prints5173541_stretched-canvas?sku=s6-20369268p16a6v28Tuesday 24th of December 2019
Happy Christmas Eve.
I have weird dreams, we all know this. Long dream short, a few nights ago, a dream told me there would be two teachers in my life. The first would be Jordan River.
In this dream he was barefoot and the soles of his feet were black as though he’d trekked through dirt and darkness to get to his position, the position to teach from.
The second teacher was Morgue. But I was told to be aware that Morgue is just a messenger. Once I’ve learned from him, I’m supposed to surpass him, become the one he learns from. I thought this was very presumptuous of my dream.
I had an interesting chat with my dad yesterday. He told me he was supposed to have an operation on his eyes but he told the doctors to cancel it, because he didn’t want anyone messing with his eyes. I told hims that I dreamt that, I dreamt him telling me that story, because I had. Then he surprised me by telling me about several dreams he’d had throughout his life that had come true.
He told me about dead people who would visit him in his dreams and give him advice or predict the future, about gambling tips he’d received that always turned out to be winners. Why can’t I get dreams like that?
Point is, do I get my dream thing from him?
The problem with my dreams is that they only become ‘messages’ or predictions, after something has happened in waking life, until then, they’re just dreams. How is one supposed to tell the difference before hand?
So, my dad has psychic dreams and my mum was apparently an astral projector when she was younger. Why is it starting to feel like some sort of selective breeding intervention has gone on, like, let’s see what happens if these two breed, what kind of a child would that make?
I vividly recall astral projecting when I was a kid, five or six, then a few times when I was older, ten, eleven. Then it stopped, it’s like I became more attached to my body, stitched in by puberty.
I also remember no one believing me at the time, I suppose it also didn’t help that I didn’t have a name for it. I would just say: “I was flying over the bed.” or, “I flew downstairs and into the kitchen.” and “I was flying outside, I flew up and up until I couldn’t go any further, something kept pushing me back down, telling me to go back.”
All I would ever get was: “You must have been dreaming.” And of course I’d argue because I knew I wasn’t, and I wanted everyone to know that too.
January 12, 2022
Maple Syrup.
Tuesday 17th of December 2019
I worry too much about what other people think of me. The end.
Okay, let’s dive deeper, or divert to a different subject all together. Honestly, I have no idea which direction I’m going to go in. Let’s see.
I have such a fear of being abandoned, left behind that I want to do everything I can to make someone want to stay in my life. I make myself into something that needs that person, because, if I need them, and they know that, they can’t possibly leave. And, if they do, well, I just didn’t do it right, I failed. I didn’t reduce myself enough, or I just wasn’t worth it.
I see my abandonment issues, I do, I see them clouding everything. I thought I was fine, I thought I had dealt with them, processed my dad walking out on us three times, my family shunning me like we’re in prehistoric times. I didn’t realise it was my mother’s abandonment that still an issue. She’s never even really abandoned me, well, not really.
During a meditation I was asked if when my mum went into hospital to have my sister, leaving me with my grandparents, if I feared she wouldn’t come back. My answer was no, to which I was met with the response, “Really? Are you sure?”
Then the disembodied space voice asked: “Did you feel betrayed, abandoned by her?” My answer was again, “No.” And I could hear the audible disbelief in the silence.
I didn’t want to look there, but it’s funny the places you’re forced to look.
My grandparents weren’t talking to us, we weren’t allowed in their home anymore. My dad had driven away in his red car. I don’t remember him saying goodbye, just watching him drive away from the upstairs window and my mum telling me he was gone now.
Then she went into hospital for two weeks, and with nowhere else to go, my grandparents reluctantly took me in. They made sure to tell me that. There was no visiting, no phone calls, not that I remember, but there must have been, right? Then again, they still weren’t speaking to her, so it does make a twisted sense. But there must have been more? There must have been more than just hours of not speaking to anyone? More than just days of not being hugged or even touched? Sounds a lot like my life now, actually.
When my sister was younger, I had this mini phobia of her. I didn’t like it when she hugged me or touched me. I wasn’t used to it I suppose. In a way, I’m still not. I believe in personal space, I flinch when people come to close. My whole life suddenly makes a lot more sense.
My mum’s not big on physical contact either, she gets that from her mum, who abandoned her when she was a toddler. My mum was raised by a neighbour and then later, nuns. She only formed a relationship with her mother later in life, and even then, it was rocky. Being touched deprived seems generational. How did we end up here?
I read about a study that said humans need at leas ten hugs a day for optimal mental and physical health. If not hugs, then some sort of physical contact with another living being. I can truly go six days without some form of physical contact, honestly, I counted. No wonder I live in my head so much, I’m never alone or touched deprived there. But what I can imagine isn’t real, and that’s the point, isn’t it?
Two minutes to midnight.
One minute.
Midnight.
I don’t want to go to sleep. Let’s hang out instead.
I’m not where I want to be. I’m not where I want to be. Where do I want to be? Not here. Not real. I want to be imaginary. Imaginary things don’t get hurt. I’ll be pulled out at playtime and bored times and need someone to talk to times, I’ll be like you. I’ll be like all the players in my head, just part of a game, not real, not here. I’ll be somewhere safe, contained and perfect. Somewhere with rules and structures and the ability to forget and erase. Undo. Undo. Undo. Rewrite. Rewrite. Rewrite. I’ll be a video game avatar, that’s what I’ll be.
January 11, 2022
Foreign, Witchy, Nighttime, Love.
Sunday 15th of December 2019
A woman just hugged her dad on my screen and it brought tears to my eyes.
I don’t think my dad has ever hugged me with any sincerity. It’s always felt like ‘This is what I’m suppose to do, right?’ There’s always a question tagged onto the end of it. ‘Is this the right thing? Is this what dads do?’
I’ve never felt connected to him, like I came from him or like I’m a part of him. I’m that foreign body part that sprang up out of nowhere, now he doesn’t really want to touch me, or know what to do with me. I more something to be afraid of then something to love.
I’ve felt this a lot, and always from the people related to me. I’m a distant thing, something over there, something they’re unsure about getting too close to.
I like to think I’ve been learning a lot, working on understanding, my grandfather in particular. Seeing him through ‘adult’ eyes rather than scared child eyes. It’s showing me myself as well as him, revealing where my fears come from and showing me how to work on moving past them. Colouring in my fear of men and my hatred of women. On that note…
I got an organiser for 2020. The first page, where you write your name, address, number, in case you forget who you are and need to be identified by your yearly planner, I always leave blank.
I always skip it because writing my name in a book that’s meant to be about me, feels wrong. My name isn’t me, it doesn’t even feel like my name. It’s a sound people use to get my attention from time to time. That being said, I like my name, it’s a beautiful name, it’s just not me. Which brings up the obvious question: who is me? There is no better way of saying that, trust me. The grammar of that question is perfection.
Why am I so separated from my own name? Why did I detach from it? Is it because it’s just something people say when they have something to say to me, and usually, what they have to say to me is something I don’t want to hear? Is it because when ever I hear it, I hear a distancing in it? Is it because I’ve attached my failures to my name? Is it that others have attached their disappointments in me to it? Maybe it’s because it’s the name of the person I was, a person I don’t want to be a part of me anymore. I’m still ashamed of my past, of mys mistakes with people. Even though, like I’ve said, it’s like being ashamed of a child who didn’t know any better. I know better now, I’ve grown up. But, that defensive child is still in me, and I’m afraid of returning to that state, of ruining what I have left.
There’s so much more to write here, but, you don’t get everything. Goodnight.
January 10, 2022
Welcome to the New Dark Ages.
Saturday 14th of December 2019
I’ve been trying to do things in order and in doing so, bring order to the chaos of my life, of this world I’ve found myself in. But, in doing this, I’ve been suppressing my natural inclination towards the chaos of spontaneity.
I get scared that doing mote than one thing at a time distracts me, slows my progress, and that doing things out of order is equal to self-sabotage. A voice in my head tells me, if I stick to one thing, one direction and follow through, I’ll start to see real progress. And, although I believe that voice, there’s something irresistible about running off the path and into the dark, to chase that spark of light.
January 7, 2022
Old Age Comes Alone.
Thursday 12 of December 2019
Is it technically a new day since it just turned midnight? The foxes are out. But nothing seems at all important and this hour.
My grandfather has a lot of children. He has children with my grandmother and children from two previous relationships. None of them want to help him, not can’t, don’t want to. So why am I the one who feels like I should do more? He’s not even my grandfather, technically, we’re not related by blood, a point he has frequently expressed along with his general dislike of me.
The, see things from all sides, part of me rationalises that people say things that they don’t mean when they’re upset and angry, frustrated, lonely. It must hurt that none of his actual kids want to spend much time with him. But it hurts me when I get verbally abused in my own home, or when I see my mother get treated like his slave, or when my aunty says things like: “I won’t have him in my home because of the way he treats my daughters.” But it’s okay for me to get treated that way?
If not being there for him isn’t a problem for them, why is it for me? Or maybe it is a problem for them, maybe they do feel guilt, but unlike me, their guilt doesn’t weigh them down, it doesn’t make them give in. Their guilt doesn’t outweigh who he is. It’s hard to love someone who’s bullied you your whole life, I get it. He wasn’t all bad though, not all the time. But now that I’m older and look back, even the good moments were tinged. They were always tense, there was always a knowing in the back of everyone’s mind, keep him calm, keep him happy, anything can set him off. Know wonder I’m such a worrier now, I learned how to worry young.
I wish I could be cold and distant and not feel for my grandparents, although I’m sure that’s how I seem to them anyway. I hope that when I’m old and need help and support there’s at least one person who loves me enough to be there. Not has to be there out of a sense of duty, but wants to be there.
I know that I’m not psychologically strong enough to deal with him, I know that, but I still feel selfish for putting my mental health first. I remind myself that he has a family, and he’s thrown me out of it multiple times, for bullshit reasons, because he was a child throwing a tantrum. I can forgive him when I see it like that, I can’t be angry at a child and we’re all just children really. So, why is it so hard for me to forgive my grandmother.
All my life, she has stood, mostly in silence, by his side, letting his angry be directed at others because it spared her from it. Was it just fear? Is love that blind? Did she get some sort of pleasure from sitting back and watching, encouraging?
The other side of it of course is that she was a scared women who had kids too young and needed someone bigger and stronger than her to tell her what to do. That the beatings and daily abuse was probably worse for her than anyone else. That she was probably told, just like she told us, that these are just the things women have to bear.
But I still feel disappointed that she wasn’t strong enough, that in her eyes, putting up with him is strength, in her eyes staying silent is strength. I don’t see it as strength anymore.
My mother told me once that whenever he would start on me, she would want to jump in and defend me, protect me, but she would revert back to a little girl and be too scared to. It’s hard to be angry at that, but sometimes, I still manage it. I just wanted one person in my life to be strong for me.
The last argument I had with my grandfather started because I was defending my mother. It was a fight I shouldn’t have started because I quickly lost it. She stood there in silence as he explained to me how I’m less than nothing and owe him my very existence. My grandmother sat next to him, nodding in agreement. Then she told me to leave my own house so that he could calm down.
Am I supposed to view all this as consciousness experiencing itself from different perspectives? Is being angry at someone really just the equivalent of being angry at myself? I am, I am angry at myself. I don’t want these people in my life, I’m not evolved enough, let them deal with the consequences of their actions by being alone. I’m not strong enough, I’m not a good enough person and I know that they’ll never forgive me for that.
Time for bed. We’ll pick this up later.
Later:
In a few hours I’ll be 34. I’ve got nothing else. I’m okay with it oddly. This could be the first birthday, in a while, that hasn’t come with an existential crisis.
I had goals in mine, for the new year, for my life. I haven’t left them behind but, at the same time I’m entertaining the idea that projections of a future me is hurting who I am now. Is it stopping me from exploring my current self, current potential and experiences? This all sounds ridiculous, because it is. I feel like I’m just waiting for something.
I got junk mail the other day, selling me life insurance, for my family, if the worse should happen. This company saw my age and was like: “She’s got a family by now, right?” 34, what do I do with that? Live I suppose, experience, love. I can do that. Instead of wishing for who I could be, instead of aiming at a future self. How about I just live for a year and see how that goes. You could be my co-pilot, recording my adventures. I promise to keep you up to date.
Let’s start now. What should our first adventure be?
January 5, 2022
Self Care Day.
Wednesday 11th of December 2019
Be responsive to your own body, not combative.
Bare feet dance across the ground in a rapid race towards motionlessness. Spiralling energies, black and blue, two forms, two forces, swimming around each other, coiling, but never touching. This is the dead space, the emptiness between where touch should be. “Hello” it says, “I’m ready. I’m waiting. Where are you?”
I’ve been thinking about my grandfather today and feeling an incredible amount of guilt for not being the perfect woman, the perfect granddaughter I’m supposed to be.
There’s a wound in me, it sits in the centre of my being and sends out pulses. Today, this pulse would take on the word and identify itself as VIOLATE.
Everything my grandfather has done has been an act of taking something from me and saying it was his in the first place. In his eyes, his taking was always a tit for tat. He felt violated, he felt shame, so he made others feel that way in response.
There are masculine wounds, the wounds caused by the idea of masculinity. It’s his wounds that always opened up mine. His masculinity crushed me, suppressed me, made me small underneath it, took what it wanted and left nothing behind it but fear, hate, shame and guilt. He took my voice, took my confidence, my respect, my love, my belief, my trust. And I let him, as though it was his right to take and my right to be taken from. This is the feminine wound, the wounds caused by the idea of femininity. The female should be giving and receiving, at all times.
My idea of men is formed on him, and other men like him, the bullies, the takers. The only way to heal the wounds of femininity is to let masculine energies in. The only way to heal the wounds of masculinity is to let feminine energies in. A balance must be found between the two.
(And do I really have to explain the ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ are just words, that have been notoriously misused and had flawed ideas about what they mean and should mean attached to them? If I do, I don’t mean these words in the way you’re thinking, not really.)
I’m alive and I love being alive, even if I forget that sometimes. I want to live my life and I want to live it without so much guilt.
January 4, 2022
A Letter to Another Human.
Sunday 1st of December 2019
Dear Friend,
I’ve been struggling a lot, the past few years, to reconcile two opposing theories. There’s the school of thought that we are all one and should strive for oneness. This means forgiving, letting go, connecting and communicating with others, even those we have issues with.
There’s also the path of cutting people out like you’ve got a brand new pair of scissors and nothing but time on your hands. But seriously, removing the people from your life that are toxic, that hurt you, that impede your progress rather than help or even honour it. But this is…
Let’s start this letter again.
Hello Friend,
Let’s talk, for real. Let’s tell each other exactly what the other needs to hear. This is an open letter, to everyone, for anyone, and for certain people in the world who I hope will find it.
Life’s been hard, it’s been hard for all of us, and it’s hard for one overarching reason, at least, from my limited perspective.
We’ve been given a word and told that it’s meant to mean something, but we were never told what the meaning was.
We were given this word in infancy, by our legends, by our giants, the people who raised us, and we assumed, that because they gave us this word that they knew what it meant.
So, we did our best to emulate them, to live up to their example. We did our best everyday to be human.
Then it happened, we finally reached their level, we became an adult. We did everything right to get to this point, maybe with a few slip ups on the way, maybe more, but we made it to adulthood. And we realised, we still have no idea what it is to be human. We were meant to know, we were always meant to know, right?
So, what went wrong? How did we fail? Is there something we missed?
If you’re like me, maybe you look back, look to the people around you, to the people who seem to have figured it all out. You look closer and closer, deeper and deeper, and realise, they were all pretending. We were never taught the meaning of the word because no one has ever known it.
So, what do we do? Join the ranks of the pretenders? Or realise there’s nothing wrong with admitting we don’t know and that maybe life is just about trying to figure it out.
There’s been so many people that I’ve been mad at in my life, so many people I felt failed by. There’s been so many times that I’ve hated myself for feeling like a failure to grasp something so simple.
I’ve cut people out, I’ve distanced myself from people, from the world, because I felt worthless, I felt ashamed for not living up to who I was supposed to be. And I felt anger towards the people who made me feel that way. I felt that, if this was the way being around people made me feel then cutting them out was the right thing to do. Maybe it was the right decisions to make at the time, but I’ve been struggling with this lately. I know something I didn’t know then. No one knows what being human really is, we’re all just making it up, pretending and trying to figure it out, and that makes us all the same.
So, this is where this open letter becomes and open invitation.
Can we all stop pretending, please?
Let’s meet up one day and have a conversation, face to face, with no pretending in between us. Let’s be honest enough to say that we’re both figuring it out, that sometimes it’s hard and it feels easy to give up.
I’ll tell you that when you pretend, it makes me feel small, like I’m nothing, like you’re superior to me and it makes me want to pretend to. It makes me embellish, lie, leave things out that are important to me, things that I would like to share with you. Maybe you’ll tell me it does the same.
You’ll tell me that we’re all stuck here, trying to figure out what we are, who we are, if there’s a point to it all. That some of us think that we have a pretty good idea and some of us are just pretending we do. Underneath it all, we’re all explorers, questioners, we’re all children, still learning, and that’s the journey we pass on to every generation.
Maybe someone down the line will truly figure it out, until then, we’ll keep passing down the torch, we’ll keep connecting in whatever way we can, because we are connected, we’re the same question spinning around on the same rock. We’re the same, and that’s something I see now that I didn’t see before.
