Bodies

I know I said I wouldn’t blog on here a bunch and I don’t intend to, but I’m putting this here because I don’t feel like I can tell anyone else about it.

How do you tell people that you feel claustrophobic in your own body?

I looked down at my hands the other day and for the first time they looked so foreign to me. Like they weren’t my own. My flesh has been feeling heavy, cumbersome, and I can’t help thinking that it’s not mine anymore. I wonder if this is because of a short story I’ve been working on about a woman with Cotard’s syndrome and how she feels like she is trapped in rotting flesh. I wonder if I will start to think of my own that way, like a prison, or if this feeling will pass once the story is finished and the personality that is hers is finally put onto a page and into a finished work.

I’m exorcising my own demons. Or I try to.

Physical bodies are cages for our sentient minds, our consciousness, and that body is tethered to the ground and further weighted down through gravity. We are stuck here, dragging this living corpse of ours through our daily lives. I feel like I am covered in chains, like this skin of mine is all steel and led. Liquid metal rushes through my veins. I feel helpless. Even outside, in the open, with fresh air filling my lungs, I’m unable to feel free.

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