Some days I feel as though my body wants to vomit me up. No, perhaps it's more accurate to say that it's already trying. I can feel it pressing in, squeezing, trying to force whatever essence of "me" is left in this wasted shell.
It has devious ways of making its feelings known. It's that light touch on the wheel as I drive to work in the morning, reminding me that with a slight movement of my hand, I could pull into the oncoming lane and be obliterated in a moment. It's the weight of the knife in my hand as I prepare dinner. The shadow that crosses my gaze every time I'm alone with my thoughts. I sometimes wonder if it isn't collaborating with someone to plan my undoing; the smallest hint of movement in a crowd makes me feel as though a stranger is waiting for me to let down my guard.
I try to placate it with kindness. I attend yoga lessons, run, lift weights. I watch my weight and what I eat, carefully measuring each portion. I leave plenty of time each day to reflect and unwind. All of these things quiet its anger for perhaps an hour or so, and then it just screams. Even when I cover my ears, I can still hear it inside my head for days afterward.
Then the dreams come, as they always do. I wake up in the morning and I'm outside of it, forced out of my own skin. I'm looking down at my body, only it's something else now, a mound of festering skin and muscle slipping free of the bones. I realize that what it really desires is this collapse into nothingness, and I'm the last barrier in its way.
The last thing I always hear, just before my mind stirs from sleep, is its joyful laughter.
It sounds just like me.