I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me that I had a chameleon soul—no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality—just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide as wavering as the ocean. And if I said that I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying, because I was born to be the other woman. Who belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone, who had nothing, who wanted everything. With a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about, and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.