I go along nicely, hopeful, living with it, being patient, taking it moment by moment, not over-analyzing, riding above the pain...AND THEN I WAKE UP and realize that my CROTCH IS IN PAIN ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME. ALL THE TIME.
And then I lose it.
(I'm trying to keep my finger off the shift key.)
When I was a teenager, I despaired in my teenage way that I would never be able to leave my body while in existence. Why can't I be the sunset? Why can't I be that tree? Why can't I be a tire, or a puddle, or a cute toaster? It drove me CRAZY (ahem). And then I got addicted to wriggling my body randomly to music because it was the closest I could come to being a sunset.
I think that was prescient of me -- I think I knew that someday my body would become its own torture chamber and that I would be bound not only within its skin but under the incessant doings of an invisible lobster's claw, a netherly mace, the scrape of the devil's fingernail.
Thank Chevy for my car, in which I scream all I want and pretend no one can hear me. Driving back from school tonight, I cursed everything that has failed me recently -- Microsoft and the city of Cleveland and dimwitted landlords and idiot mechanics -- and I saved the final and ultimate execration for my crotch. Because it fails me every day. My body fails me every day.
I've been trying to escape it since before I had reason to. Now I have reason to, and oh, dear lord, I just want out.
Please note that I have sardonically tagged this post as COPING.