There’s this sort of skewer that’s planted deeply into my lower stomach. I would imagine my large intestine is treated as an anvil, and this skewer is struck, white and hot, again and again, drumming this searing froth up to my throat. My skin is buzzing, every pore constricts. It feels like I ran a mile in a West Texan summer. My face is a torch. And just for a second, I seriously consider opening my mouth to say something very stupid.
I’ve learned my lesson on that front. But I’ll never get used to being stranded at the front door of my own brain. I’ve always been a homebody in that sense, a homebody that only frequents the second story. I just don’t understand how the first floor is built. I’m averse to staring at my hands or my feet for too long. Looking in the mirror before showering is like watching newly discovered species behind a pane. Protrusive spinal bones, ribs curving and connecting like they were growing to hug itself, and meat and fat draped over all of it like thick syrup. I’m half fascinated, half grossed-out.
And forget the skewer. The shawl is impossibly heavy, cutting off all circulation immediately. It starts with a blow to the chest, like ink in water. Tingles travel from the nape of my neck and skip all the way down to my navel and elbows. It’s a cold, wet blanket, and my sternum feels like it’s been hole-punched and placed three feet to my left.
It’s in these rare moments my body controls me instead of the other way around. Most times, I have to figure out how I feel, not feel, and then figure it out. Like I said, I’ll never get better at crash landing into the first floor of my damn house. The incandescence of anger, or the weight of sadness slides my brain all the way down my spine and I’m just surprised and confused and starting to panic.
I have no real opinions on my body. It’s more like I–my brain–exists, but also happens to exist inside this, this thing–of cartilage and soft tissue. I have no realistic attachment to it. I think I’m a girl just because I happen to look and to be built like one. If I woke up one day as a man, I don’t think my attitude would change at all.
I got thirty two stitches of my left calf when I was four. My mother wept for the scar that will last my entire life. I couldn’t understand it. I still didn’t understand it when I got another fourteen when I was six, on my left ankle this time. And by the time I was eleven, and tore my left knee open, this time too big for even stitches, I was convinced my left leg was cursed to get banged up in every way possible. I’ve already given up on that leg. Maybe I’ll lose it completely one day. It’s three big bones and some muscle. That would be impractical, but that would be all.
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United States • 18 years old