A late and unorganised thought. I do not feel a lot of connection with my body. I decorate it like a bedroom: a reflection, but nothing more. I move a lot. It’s not important. A mind with a body, never the other way around.
Having a body is an annoyance. I take pills to be coherent, to be without pain. I am at the mercy of medicine’s side effects. I cannot get things done. I am tired, distracted. I am sick partly out of character, but also chemistry. This furthers the distance, I think.
I dressed initially for protection and then to achieve a goal. I like to be a certain way, to align myself a particular way. The flesh, however, does not interest me. I cannot accurately express this. I tell my doctor, and I wildly wave my hands, ‘I just don’t care.’
After things really fell apart, after I was really hollowed out, when there was really nothing left on the inside, pretty was what I needed. I had a pretty job, a pretty wardrobe, pretty hair, pretty face. People said the word back to me.
I am so nauseated at the thought of initial attraction belonging to my body. I am so confused, always, so distraught at being a building at not its occupants. Pretty did not work. Pretty felt more like the constant threat of bodily harm. Having men approach me, speak to me, shout at me, touch me in public, this was all a strange assault. I don’t even know what to do with this. I do not relate to this.
I keep things uglier now. More dishevelled. Ugly is safe. And no more or less true than pretty. Never more, never less.