Here is me in my body. Here is the weight of my bones, my blood, my lungs.
Here is me in my body pushing against gravity, exhausted, frustrated that every single thing takes up so much energy.
Here is my claustrophobia, my cement feet.
Here is the way my breath shallows as the weight of frustration comes in.
This is exhausting. How does anyone stay in their body for so long?
Here is my irony.
Here is my hollow leg. Filled with spirits. No, not vodka.
Here is me settling into the reality of how weird I am, how I gnash at the strangest things because I don’t feel like I belong.
Here is my humour. Here is my grief. Here is my past and the way that my present is all about catching up.
Here are the charnel grounds I’ve walked through.
Here is me mourning the loss of all the invisible things.
Here is my fear. My resistance. My disbelief.
Here is why I can’t explain why I don’t belong.
There is me as a sunshine six year old playing double dutch with my imaginary friend Mikey.
Here is me, in my body for long stretches at a time now. Fighting the fear, then surrendering to it.
Here is me wishing I had someone to hold my hand.
The only thing about having an imaginary friend as a kid is that he can never hold your hand.
Here is me praying on the train, in the bathroom, on the floor.
Here is me sensing and then feeling the cold, praying for it to be sent away.
Here is me trying to make sense of the fact that sometimes cold air is just cold air.
Here is me opening my heart.
Not believing anymore in happy fairytale endings, but wanting one just the same.
Suffering in the space between.