Last night I dreamed about being in Fiji.

There was a sunset, and I was running on the beach in the sunset singing Matthew Wilder’s ‘Break My Stride’.

The thing about the dream was that it actually happened.

It’s a memory I have.

I was nine, and we went on a holiday to Fiji. When we arrived at our resort, we saw all these kids around my age dancing in a circle.

And, sometimes, one of the kids would dance through the middle of the circle, holding a baton.

Once he’d finished his dance, he would shuffle out of the circle and hand the baton to someone else, who would then dance through the middle of the circle and hand it to someone else.

This one kid had great moves.

He’d hold the baton and shake it over each shoulder, going ‘Cha, cha, cha,’ like it was a maraca, while pulling a crazy face.

I remember walking past with my parents and thinking: before I leave I wanna do that. I want to dance through the middle of that circle going, ‘Cha, cha, cha,’ while pulling a crazy face.

On our last night, there was a party.

I’d been standing on the edge of the circle, not really dancing.

Not really participating.

But then the baton was shoved in my face, and someone pushed me from behind.

And I just went for it.

Threw my body into different shapes while making a crazy face and yelling, ‘Cha! Cha! Cha!’

And when I handed it to the next person, someone patted my back and said, ‘Nice.’

It was so awesome.

I seriously felt like life could have ended right there.

It was the first time I can remember feeling nervous about anything.

But I still did it, because when you’re nine you don’t give a fuck.

And in America, the most important thing I learned was that you are an individual and you are special and you are made of everything you own.

And America: you made me feel nervous.

You taught me to give so many fucks.

You made it hard for me to breathe in the early hours of the morning, when I’d wake up from another dream, sweaty and hyperventilating, with my hands clenching and unclenching, making fists as I walked to the bathroom, making fists that I held up against my cheeks, pushing, pushing, trying to force out the bad, the things that made me shake, and sometimes I’d sit my arse on the cold tile floor and close my eyes and I’d try not to think, and sometimes there would be nothing and sometimes a voice would appear, and sometimes the voice would say, ‘You are here and your brain is here and I am here too. We are here together; trust me, things will change. I promise. I promise,’ and I’d listen, trying very hard to remember, repeating it as I returned to my room, whispering, ‘Trust me, things will change; trust me, things will change,’ and I’d turn off the stereo under the window and lie on the floor, smiling as the sound cut, staring at the green word as it faded from the stereo’s interface: goodbye.