What’s my name again?
I look down at my hands, and they feel foreign. A sort of perverse, opposite-phantom limb syndrome creeps up my extremities, and though I can see that these hands are mine, I feel totally unconnected to them. I look in the mirror, and the longer I stare into my own eyes, the further away I am. There are three of me, one standing in front of the mirror, one in the reflection, and another one floating above these two, disembodied, but at least cognizant of my consciousness. Despite the disconnect, I am able to move my body through the motions, begrudgingly forcing myself into the cold shower, hoping to send a shock to my system that will force me back into my body.
I stumble out of the shower, and I have my usual breakfast of black coffee (strong enough to make my hands shake), birth control pills (not that I need them right now), and Zoloft (that one, I do need). I chase this cocktail with a morning spliff for good measure, hoping that my boss won’t notice my bloodshot eyes again.
I walk to work. I wish that I could feel my toes. I am afraid that I can feel myself internally retreating, curling up into a ball deep within myself, eyes shut to reality. I’ve already vacated the tips of my toes, and I can feel myself surrendering control of my hands. While my body will continue to walk around, an empty, pretty husk, I am curled up within, protesting being a part of this body that is no longer my friend.