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My Body, Myself

“Being an adult is easy, it’s just not my thing.” Randy Hickey

My body is not a part of me; it’s more like an extension, an artificial set of appendages that I strap on to get some feel out of the obvious senses.

It’s not an extension in the sense of a Cheyenne warrior and his pony – it’s more a white-guy-dancing kluge of add on’s -- fins and anti-structural chrome stuck on aged cast iron.

I know that when I look in a mirror I am seeing myself backwards and upside down. I know that my mind is supposed to flip things around, but mostly it doesn’t bother.

We don’t make decisions together, I listen to what I want to hear, then wall myself off in a room and decide. I tell the body when I am ready – it tries to do what I tell it.

The disconnection is getting worse. Things are not getting done the way I see them in my head. I think my boy is getting passive-aggressive on me.

I’d see someone, but am not sure it would be fair to a therapist.


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