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2022-10-01 / 9:51 a.m.

I want to leave the house. I want to move more. I want to make more. I want to feel more valuable. I want to do something that makes sense, that makes it feel like I belong here and that I’m doing exactly what I was made to do. I want to one day not be so lonely. I want it to feel natural to talk to strangers. To feel necessary to talk to friends. I want to exist with such a fervour, such a quiet, content energy that I actually want to be here. I want. I want. I want. I want as if there’s nothing else to be done for it, nothing else to be said for it. I want with a desperation that makes me swear I’d do anything. And yet, I don’t do anything. I lie on my bed in a way that hurts my spine, and I think about how I should move, and count down in my head five four three two one, saying that I’ll move and do something, anything, when I get to zero, but zero comes and I tell myself that that one didn’t count. And so I go again, and again, and again, but time passes as though it belongs to somebody else.
I dissociated in 2004 and I haven’t found a real way back into my body. I’m a chalk line on the floor, but I don’t fit the stencil when I lie down within the lines to take a rest. I’m always resting and still don’t feel rested.
What’s it like to live in another body? What’s it like to feel as though the simple act of being actually makes sense?
I’m so anxious and so full of nerve pain that I’m certain that if you were to wire me up and plug me in, I’d blow the electrics in your house.

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