Disclosure of Mental Disability by College and University Faculty: The Negotiation of Accommodations, Supports, and Barriers1

In 2015, Peter Railton announced in a speech to the American Philosophical Association that he has depression and, before his speech, had hidden it for decades: "I couldn't say it. I couldn't say, 'Look, I'm dying inside. I need help'" (Railton, 2015). Other high-profile mental-health disclosures by faculty have come from Kay Redfield Jamison, a professor of psychology with bipolar disorder (1995), and Elyn Saks, a professor of law with schizophrenia (2007). Meanwhile, still more disclosures have appeared through small case studies or personal essays (see, for example, Avinger, Croake & Miller, 2007; Brottman, 2007; Hogan, 2007; Jago, 2007; Pryal, 2014; Skogen, 2012; Snitker, 2007; Tsipursky, 2015; White, 2007). These individual revelations bring attention to the fact that little is known about the experiences of faculty with mental disabilities as a group.2 How often do they disclose, and under what circumstances? What supports do they draw upon? What barriers must they negotiate? For disabled faculty, "rarely are standard policies in place," and, since the Office of Disability Services may work only with students, faculty must negotiate their access needs among "scattered units" at their schools (Smith & Andrews 2015, p. 1522). This problem is further complicated when faculty members feel reluctant to disclose in the first place, as is often the case with mental disabilities.

In an effort to begin creating a more systematic body of knowledge, we conducted an anonymous survey of faculty who self-identified as having mental-health histories.3 We designed the survey with the following research questions in mind:

• How often do faculty with mental disabilities disclose their disabilities?
• To whom do they disclose (if they do), and why do they choose those people/forums for disclosure?
• What accommodations do faculty with mental disabilities request? If they do not request accommodations, why not?
• What accommodations do faculty with mental disabilities consider most useful, or (if they do not receive accommodations) do they imagine would be most useful?
• What supports do faculty with mental disabilities draw upon, and what barriers do they report negotiating?

As noted in the following review of research, most of the available literature comes from individual accounts or small studies. That information, placed alongside the few larger studies that are available, points to the key issues we focused on in our survey: disclosure, accommodation, institutional supports, and institutional barriers.

Current Research on Faculty with Mental Disabilities

Research on faculty members with mental disabilities has appeared mostly in the form of small-scale studies and first-person accounts. Many of these smaller studies and first-person accounts appear in anthologies (see, for example, Myers, 2007; Vance, 2007; LeFrançois, Menzies & Reaume, 2013). Some studies have focused on faculty with disabilities generally; these may be institution-specific ("Faculty with Disabilities Survey," 2011; Shigaki et al., 2012), discipline-specific (Horton & Tucker, 2013), or may look at a particular phenomenon, such as requests for accommodation (Baldridge & Viega, 2006; Baldridge & Swift, 2013). Specialized studies focusing exclusively on faculty with mental disabilities are rare. One such study, from the UK Guardian, surveyed 2,500 academics and found that over half of respondents with mental-health issues chose not to disclose their disabilities at work; one respondent is quoted as saying, "It never even dawned on me to seek help or even to see my situation as something requiring external help" (Thomas, 2014, n.p.).4 More recently, a special issue of The Canadian Geographer focused on "Cultivating an Ethic of Wellness in Geography," with the issue editors stating:

A wider and integrated approach to health and wellbeing in the academy is needed; an approach that considers not only the wider world in which the crisis on campuses is occurring, but also the micro-scale and subtle relationships that are capable of much harm, and the often unrecognized groups within our communities that suffer, often silently, and sometimes from multiple and overlapping forms of distress. (Mullings, Peake & Parizeau, 2016, p. 166)

In the U.S., mental-health issues in higher education, more often associated with students but occasionally with faculty, may be tied to fears about mass shootings. These fears are often discussed in terms of race as well as mental illness (Watts and Erevelles, 2004; Brandzel and Desai, 2008).

Taken as a whole, the existing literature about faculty with mental disabilities suggests the following:

• Faculty with mental disabilities often avoid the "official" route of arranging accommodations through their employers, instead handling their accommodation needs informally or privately.
• Lack of connection with institutional support may occur because faculty are unable to determine which office or person is supposed to handle faculty accommodation requests.
• Faculty with mental disabilities may be reluctant to seek accommodations because they infer that having such disabilities will be judged as a sign of unfitness for their jobs.

Our survey5 sought to substantiate these "hunches" by conducting a study on a wider scale. We also sought to learn more about the circumstances under which faculty disclosed and/or requested accommodations (or chose not to do so); how they identified themselves vis-à-vis mental-health diagnoses; and what supports and barriers they experienced in the course of their jobs. The survey asked a detailed series of questions about disclosure: why respondents did or did not disclose or seek accommodations on the job; to whom they disclosed; and how they felt about those encounters. We designed the survey to go into detail about the contextual factors surrounding disclosures because prior investigations, especially those in the Disability Studies literature, indicate that disclosure of disability is a highly complex endeavor—an issue seldom acknowledged in studies from other disciplines.

What Does It Mean to "Disclose" Disability?

Within Disability Studies, theories of disclosure as a complex and multi-faceted rhetorical process have been building for over a decade. An early argument, from philosopher Cal Montgomery in Ragged Edge, suggested:

Dismissing that which is unfamiliar to us as "invisible" (and suggesting that it cannot be discerned rather than that we have not learned to discern it) is another way of throwing the responsibility for social justice back on the individual who carries the burden of injustice. (Montgomery, 2001, n.p.; emphasis added)

In other words, the "visibility" metaphor implies accountability: it assumes that the disabled person who is "invisible" is responsible for making himself visible, or discernible. When we make this assumption, responsibility for alleviating injustice is placed upon the person suffering the injustice in the first place. Oppressed persons should not bear the burden of educating and reforming their oppressors, and yet, that is what the visible/invisible metaphor asks of disabled people.

Montgomery's ideas paved the way for influential articles including Ellen Samuels's "My Body, My Closet: Invisible Disability and the Limits of Coming-out Discourse" (2003) and Tobin Siebers's "Disability as Masquerade" (2004). Both of these articles argued that the act of disabled passing reveals the instability of the category "disabled" in the first place, while also disrupting the assumption of a passive disabled person: "The passing subject may be read not as an assimilationist victim but as a defiant figure" (Samuels, 2003, p. 243). This turn away from simple metaphors of "visibility" or "coming out" also impacted the tendency to refer to "the closet," and was explored in later studies such as Margaret Price's Mad at School (2011), which suggested replacing the metaphor of the closet with the image of a "hall of mirrors" (p. 179). In similar fashion, Annie Irvine's (2011) study of mental-health disclosure in the workplace argues that it makes more sense to consider a "continuum of mental health" (p. 187) rather than to adhere to strict labels of disabled/nondisabled, in order to account for the many contextual factors that construct the process of disclosure. More recently, Stephanie Kerschbaum's (2014) "On Rhetorical Agency and Disclosing Disability in Academic Writing" has moved forward from the general acknowledgement that visibility and closeting are inadequate metaphors, arguing for a theory of disability disclosure as an emergent, negotiated process involving speakers/writers, their audiences, and the settings in which their interactions unfold. A review of mental-health disclosure research by Brohan et al. (2012) confirms that, upon analysis of 48 studies focusing on workplace disclosure, it is more accurate to describe disclosure as occurring through a number of dimensions rather than adhering to a "dichotomous view" (p. 12).

The growing awareness of the complexity of disability disclosure sometimes overlaps with scholarship in critical race studies and queer/gender studies. Some works, including Brune and Wilson (2013) and Dawkins (2012), have brought these areas of study together, resulting in a more nuanced understanding of the phenomenon called passing, which is not always a clear-cut choice or decision. For example, Dawkins (2012) noted that, "passers are [conventionally] expected to fail and suffer at their own hands rather than challenge collective notions of racial identity and typecasting in popular culture" (p. 126); in other words, passers in the conventional imagination have caved to the status quo rather than challenged it. Yet, as Dawkins's and many other accounts have shown, disability passing may be a trickster strategy, one that disrupts the status quo through subversive means (see Brueggemann, 1999; Samuels, 2003). Moreover, a person may pass against their will: Siebers (2008) argued that "Closeting involves things not merely concealed but difficult to disclose—the inability to disclose is, in fact, one of the constitutive markers of oppression" (p. 97). In other words, a disabled person may remain "invisible," or be mis-recognized, despite deliberate efforts to be apparent.

Although Disability Studies and other minority-studies disciplines have explored the rhetorical complexity of disclosure, higher-education literature often treats disclosure as an easily identifiable, singular event. For example, the American Association of University Professors' "Accommodating Faculty Members Who Have Disabilities" (2012) states that "it is incumbent on the individual [disabled faculty member] to bring the matter to the attention of appropriate institutional authorities" (p. 3), but does not discuss the many reasons this might be a fraught endeavor; indeed, that even what it might mean to "bring attention" to one's disability might be difficult to figure out (Kerschbaum et al., 2013). Rochelle Skogen in the Harvard Educational Review (2012) takes a similarly straightforward view, reporting that "in spite of what may await me after disclosure [through this article's publication], the process of writing and sharing my story has, in many ways, emancipated me from the stigma of mental illness" (p. 508). However, this understanding of disclosure—as an easily identifiable, even emancipatory event—does not reflect the more nuanced understanding that has emerged in Disability Studies and other minority-studies fields over the past 15 years.

Instead of being a single occurrence that leads to subsequent understanding, disability disclosure is better understood as an ongoing rhetorical process in which faculty members repeatedly need to address their disability for various audiences, across many different contexts (Kerschbaum et al., 2013). Moreover, disability disclosure is inevitably entangled with other identity markers, including race, gender, academic rank, and so forth. Unfortunately, higher-education policy and practice usually operate according to an individual model, which assumes that individuals must disclose, negotiate accommodations, and thereby obtain access (Venville, Street & Fossey, 2014). The notion of universal or participatory design—in which "access is conceived not as attaching to a disabled person but to the broad physical, social, and intellectual environment of the university" (Samuels in Kerschbaum et al., 2013, n.p.)—is difficult to find in practice, despite its long-standing theoretical recognition across multiple disciplines (see Dolmage, 2008, 2015; Glass, Meyer and Rose, 2013; Hamraie, 2013; Titchkosky, 2011).

Methods

This is the first survey to sample a large group of self-identified faculty with mental-health histories across a range of institutions in the United States. We were aware when designing the survey that this group had not been sampled on a broad scale in prior research, and we were also aware that stigma might be a factor in participants' willingness to respond (see Venville, Street & Fossey, 2014). For these reasons, the survey was designed to be anonymous, with no possibility of identification or follow-up.6 Participants were recruited by posting announcements on listservs across a range of disciplines, and by direct emails to human resource departments, disability-service offices, and professional associations. This approach was used in a similarly novel study of the experiences of U.S. college students with mental illnesses (Salzer et al., 2008; Salzer, 2012). Some individuals who received our call for participants passed it along to members-only listservs (for example, the faculty within a particular department or college).

The information in recruitment messages directed potential participants to a site where they obtained additional information about the survey, including the following:

For the purposes of this survey, person with mental disability means someone who has received mental-health care and/or a mental-health diagnosis. You do not have to identify as 'disabled' to participate in this survey; you may alternatively identify as a mental-health services consumer, a psychiatric survivor, a person with mental illness, a psychocrip, or simply someone with your particular diagnosis.

The study received IRB approval from the universities where the two lead authors are employed. A total of 267 surveys were completed and analyzed using SPSS 22.0.

The survey was divided into four sections: Demographic information; Mental health background; Disclosure and work modifications; Barriers and supports. The survey's language was designed to achieve both inclusivity and clarity. The survey was accessible to screen readers and laid out in a predictable visual pattern; in other words, we adhered to established standards of Web accessibility. The survey was also designed to maximize respondent autonomy and minimize potential distress from questions that might bring up painful experiences. For example, in addition to being given a list of diagnostic labels that they felt best described their mental health condition, participants were offered the option to write in their own identifications "if you identify your mental health in terms other than, or in addition to, diagnostic labels."

Understanding that mention of hospitalization might be traumatizing, we carefully considered whether to include a question about respondents' previous number of psychiatric hospitalizations. We chose to keep it, in order to gain a better understanding of the ways that participants' mental-health issues affected their lives, but included a content-warning note in the introductory page of the survey to indicate that this question would be coming:

This survey will ask about topics including diagnoses, medication (although we do not ask what specific medications you may take), hospitalizations, relations with co-workers, and experiences of disclosure at work.

The survey was vetted by colleagues in a range of disciplines and then piloted among a group of 10 people (both with and without mental-health disabilities) to test its usability and accessibility. Feedback from these sessions was incorporated into the survey's final form.

Results

Disclosure

All participants were asked, "To whom at your workplace have you disclosed your disability?" Of the 267 participants, 62% (N=165) indicated they had disclosed to at least one person. Respondents were able to select more than one option, if applicable, for this item. About half (49.8%, N = 133) of respondents indicated that they had disclosed to a colleague, 21.0% (N=56) disclosed to their Department Chair, and 19.5% (N=52) disclosed to students. Much smaller percentages of respondents indicated that they had disclosed to a dean or provost (6.4%, N=17) or to the Office of Disability Services (3.7%, or N=10).

About a third of respondents to this question (34.1%, N=91) selected "No one" in response. This group was then asked to specify why they had chosen not to disclose their mental disability to anyone at their workplace. Again, it was possible to select more than one option, if applicable. The largest percentage of this group selected the responses "Feeling that it's not other peoples' business" (61.5%, N=56) and "Feeling that it's not relevant to my work" (50.5%, N=46). The next largest percentages of selected responses had to do with possible negative outcomes: "Possibility that people might avoid me or treat me badly" (46.2%, N=42), "Possibility that the request would affect tenure/promotion" (31.9%, N=29), and "Possibility of not having contract renewed" (26.4%, N=24). Smaller, but still significant, selections within this non-disclosing group were the options "Possibility of losing job" (16.5%, N=15) or "Possibility that the request would affect salary or benefits" (13.2%, N=12). As with the previous questions, this one included a space for open-ended response. Again, privacy was an important theme, as was stigma. One participant brought up an interesting issue of double diagnosis:

I also have two other disabilities that are visible, so often use those as rationales for any accommodations I need for mental health issues (e.g., instead of saying "I had a bad night sleeping because of anxiety," I would say, "I was up all night with my health condition." People at work know about the other disabilities and I talk about them freely.

From this participant's response, it seems that the fear of stigma may be less for disabilities other than those pertaining to mental health. This phenomenon, called "selective disclosure" by Tara Wood (in press), has been observed in other studies of disability in higher education.

Participants who indicated that they had disclosed to someone at their workplace were asked to characterize their experiences of disclosure to each of the eight previously mentioned groups (colleague, department chair, dean or provost, office of disability services, faculty ombudsperson, office of human resources, other staff member, or students). Only respondents who indicated previously in the survey that they had disclosed their disability to a particular person or group at their workplace were included in the analysis for those categories. Frequency and percent of responses for each category are presented in Table 1. It is noteworthy that 88 out of 128 (68.7%) and 32 out of 51 (62.8%) of those who disclosed to faculty colleagues and chairs, respectively, felt it was received positively (Very, Moderately, or Slightly Positive, combined), while only 3 of the 11 individuals (27.3%) who disclosed to Human Resources personnel felt it was received positively. Of all groups, respondents felt students reacted most positively to disclosures (44 out of 49 disclosures; 89.8%).

Table 1. Experience of Disclosure*

* Note: The totals for experience of disclosure to individuals and groups may not add up to the total number of respondents who indicated they disclosed to that group, as respondents who were missing 10% or more of data were excluded. While the survey provided participants with the option to report on their experiences disclosing to faculty ombudsperson, no respondents selected this option and, therefore, it is not included in the table.

Table Description: This table shows respondents' ratings of their disclosure experiences with various people and offices; the ratings range from positive to negative. The people and offices listed, which occupy the left-most column of the table, are the following: Office of Disability Services; Dean or Provost; Student(s); Department Chair; Office of Human Resources; Colleague(s); Other Staff Member. The scale, which occupies the top row of the table, includes the following range: Very Positive; Moderately Positive; Slightly Positive; Neither Positive nor Negative; Slightly Negative; Moderately Negative; Very Negative. As discussed in the body of the article, the most total reported disclosure events were made to colleagues, then department chairs and students, respectively. Among these three categories, the largest percentage of "very" or "moderately" positive disclosure events occurred with students, then colleagues and department chairs, respectively.

Support

All respondents were asked, "To what extent have the following people or groups been valuable in providing support for you at your current institution?" using a response scale from "not at all" to "extremely" indicating the degree to which they felt different people or groups were valuable in providing support at their current institution. The frequencies and percentages for each of the categories are presented in Table 2. The strongest supports were offered by spouses and significant others, with more than half of the survey respondents (52.7%, N=109) indicating that their spouse or significant other was "extremely" supportive, and another 22.2% (N=46) indicating that their spouse or significant other was "very" supportive. On the other end of the spectrum, four groups were identified by survey respondents as "not at all" supportive: their professional organization, on-campus mental health services, staff members, and supervisors.

Table 2. Support at Current Institution

Table Description: This table shows respondents' ratings of how supportive they find various people or offices at or outside their institution. The people and offices, which occupy the left-most column of the table, are the following: Spouse or significant other; Friends; Psychologist or psychiatrist not on campus; On-campus mental health services; Family (other than spouse); Colleague (at another institution); Colleague; Supervisor(s); Staff Members; Professional Organization. The scale, which occupies the top row of the table, includes the following range: Not at All [Supportive]; Slightly [Supportive]; Moderately [Supportive]; Very [Supportive]; Extremely [Supportive]. As discussed in the body of the article, the strongest reported supports were spouses and significant others, followed by friends and off-campus mental-health professionals. The four groups identified by most survey respondents as "not at all" or only "slightly" supportive were their professional organizations, on-campus mental health services, staff members, and supervisors.

Discussion

We discuss our findings in terms of four assertions drawn from our data.7 Our primary findings are these:

1. Most faculty with mental disabilities lack familiarity with accommodations that are available to them.
2. Faculty with mental disabilities tend not to request accommodation.
3. Among faculty who have disclosed their mental disabilities, a range of experiences was reported, with more instances of disclosure reported as positive than neutral or negative.
4. The most important supports reported by faculty were their spouses or significant others, friends, and family members as well as colleagues on- and off-campus. The least important supports reported by faculty were their supervisors, their professional organizations, and on-campus mental health services.

Conclusion: Wondering Forward

The results from our survey demonstrate that colleges' and universities' current mechanisms for accommodating faculty with mental disabilities are inadequate. Although U.S. faculty should be protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which explicitly includes mental disabilities, the enactment of these protections often breaks down, as faculty do not have a strong record of success in bringing suit under the ADA (Abram, 2003)—or, as prior research and the present survey show, faculty may be reluctant to request accommodation in the first place (Baldridge & Viega, 2006; Baldridge & Swift, 2013).

In many cases, faculty do not know what protections are available to them; or, even if they have a vague sense that there is some protection in place, they are not aware of the types of accommodations they could request. Moreover, procedures for requesting accommodations are often confusing, uncertain, and/or risky. While some survey respondents indicated that they do not need accommodations, many others pointed to accommodations that would improve their work lives, including items such as flexible scheduling; offices, classrooms and meeting spaces with natural light; and access to quiet spaces away from noise and distraction (see Kerschbaum, O'Shea, Price and Salzer, in press). In some cases, faculty reported not making requests because they feared stigma.

Stigma was mentioned in many participants' open-ended responses, and plays a critical role in faculty members' work lives. Members of the academic workforce—administration as well as faculty and staff—must focus not only on the needs of individual disabled people, but also on the environments and attitudes that are constructed within universities. Revision of policies and legal frameworks for accommodating mental disabilities are only part of what is needed. As our results suggest, and as other researchers have pointed out (see Anderson, 2007), the presence of legal protection is not enough to alleviate the fear that many disabled faculty experience. Thus, we also need "proactive [policies] that generate access and connect people to each other" (Anderson, 2007, p. 185; see also Kezar et al., 2008). Achieving diversity in higher education cannot simply be hoped for; active leadership is required.

Such active leadership could include developing policies and practices that enable accommodation without requiring disclosure, in keeping with the principles of universal design (UD) (see Dolmage, 2008, 2015; Glass et al., 2013; Hamraie, 2013; Hehir, 2002; Minow, 2013). UD aims to create accessibility for the greatest range of bodyminds possible, but its concepts go beyond practical measures to include values as well. It also assumes that the way spaces are designed has much to do with the designers' beliefs about "who will (and should) inhabit the world" (Hamraie, 2013, n.p.) In other words, from a UD perspective, the design of a space ("space" here indicating social and attitudinal as well as physical features) constructs the person who is assumed to be the appropriate inhabitant of that space. In turn, inhabitants who "misfit" with this design (Garland-Thomson, 2011) will have difficulty inhabiting it, or will be absent altogether.

Of course, it's easier to call for UD in the abstract than to implement it in specific locations. As Dolmage (2008, 2015), Price (2011) and others have pointed out, the "universal" part of the UD moniker is an aspiration rather than a destination. Access requires ongoing, ever-shifting responses to the changing features of individual disabilities, local contexts, and other factors (Hamraie, 2013, 2016; Nishida, 2016). For this reason, we hesitate to offer a checklist of desirable behaviors, which might imply that the problems identified in this article are relatively easy to fix (Wood, Dolmage, Price and Lewiecki-Wilson, 2014). However, our findings do indicate that universities and colleges should prioritize clarity and transparency when attempting to improve access for faculty with mental disabilities. It should not be assumed that a single "disclosure" conversation with a single person or office will provide all accommodations needed. Moreover, faculty with mental disabilities should not be responsible for doing all the awareness-raising and education on this topic. A culture of access, emphasizing collective accountability, must be fostered (Brewer, Selfe & Yergeau, 2014; see also Nishida, 2016).8

But how, concretely, might that be done? Aimi Hamraie (2016) describes "meaningful access" as something that can be achieved only in relation: it is "learned through interaction and materialized through reciprocal encounters" (p. 266). Such interactions and reciprocal encounters unfold over time, and look different in each new iteration. An example9 comes from Mia Mingus (2010), who narrates the experience of a collective of disabled people at the Allied Media Conference as they shared responsibility for movement, food, bathing, paying for basic needs, keeping fragrance-free and maintaining shelter.

Mingus's account emphasizes that this extended moment of collective care was grounded not just in logistics, but also in feeling:

[With collective access], when I say something is inaccessible, you don't just think "there's no ramp" or "there are no places to sit" or "there's no close, accessible, free parking." Instead, you feel. You feel the weight of what inaccessibility means to us. You understand inaccessibility to mean isolation, shame, exclusion, disappointment, loneliness, anger, privilege, sadness, loss of community and disconnection. For eight days, it was amazing to be with people who know what "accessibility" means; who know and feel the weight of it; and who are working to transform it.

Mingus's (2010) point about the centrality of feeling may help explain why access, so long considered a general good in academic life, is nevertheless so often ignored or obstructed. Inhabitants of academic space are usually encouraged to think of access as a logistical problem: stairs, hallways, time limits, equipment, services (see Titchkosky, 2011). But access is also an affective problem, one that can be emotionally devastating for those barred from spaces or experiences, and one that perhaps requires feeling to push forward the collective sense of urgency and accountability that is needed to effect change.

In addition to imagining collective accountability in academic spaces, we also want to "wonder forward" (drawing upon Titchkosky's (2011) "politics of wonder") about what sort of research might be needed. Our survey, by necessity, was limited in its aims. For example, we did not attempt to measure the prevalence of mental disability among the professoriate as a whole, nor did we attempt to achieve a representative sample of respondents. Our efforts to reach out to a diverse pool of respondents, especially with respect to race, fell short; this is indicative both of our own locations as white researchers, and also of the need for Disability Studies to continue listening to and learning from scholars such as Nirmala Erevelles (2011), D. L. Adams and Nirmala Erevelles (2015), Tamika Carey (2016), and Sami Schalk (2017), who help show that critical race work surrounding disability, health, and wellness must be grounded in the work and experiences of people of color. We hope that this first large-scale survey of faculty with mental disability will lead to more investigations.

But there is much more to do. As we've talked about this survey in professional contexts, we've been asked—What about graduate students and staff? What about violence on campuses? What about comparative work between U.S. campuses and those in other countries? These are important questions. We situate the present survey as a beginning, one that we hope will serve as a basis for researchers in future investigations.

Improving access for mental disability in academia will require both idealism and practicality. While constantly reaching toward the ideal of accommodating all bodyminds, we must simultaneously acknowledge that solutions are often partial and limited, and that injustice—the simple (or not so simple) refusal of access, the abhorrence of difference, the perpetuation of violence—will continue, and must be resisted. Our ongoing efforts to construct and sustain space for faculty with mental disabilities will, we hope, be a part of radical change for all inhabitants of academic life. And life.