lately, very frequently, your head feels fuzzy, the way it does when you haven’t eaten enough & lose touch with your body. you can’t focus, can’t concentrate, can’t divide your attention, can’t anchor enough within yourself to even think of thinking. you wonder if this is what dissociating feels like–the balloon of your head tethered to your body by a string, your ears fuzzy with gauze, your eyes fixed in a stare, unmoving but continually searching, scanning, your breaths so shallow you are barely breathing.
whatever this is, you are barely aware of it–of being sucked into a soundless, lightless vacuum–until it spits you back out. your whole life, you’ve mistaken it for lightheadedness, dizziness, having been the sort of girl who is too busy & too unkind to herself to nurture her body the way she should, but in the context of the path you chose to walk down in november when you attended your counseling in-take appointment, you wonder if it has always been something else: protection, disconnection, the will of your mind greater than the will of your body or desire: to connect, to speak, to make love, to remember. instead, the will to remain intact, survive; to continue waking & breathing & dreaming; to rest, protected from the torments that haunted you as a child: the ruby-eyed rats racing up the dark basement stairs, the gnome-like men waiting to grab your arms & hands as you left the bathroom & shut off the light.