a note to the pain holders
I bleed in flight; the clouds turn red
I let a tear from my left eye devour me
I cough
My lungs behave like an empty cardboard box
filled with tennis balls
You have a picture of that?
Mama held me as if I would never return
Every time, I wonder whether everything will look the same
Whether everyone alive now will still be alive
including me
Whether They will endure another one of my flights
Perhaps the body, too, becomes distorted
by carrying so many passports
Some are worth more than others
I have a document saying that I am sick
I don’t know what that actually means
This morning, Marla. I woke up again to throbbing, pins and needles, weakness, and tears. No drama. Just my body reminding me about the holes in my brain. Good morning, Chemnitz. Thank you for the clouds and the cold. I mean it.
Sick Girl* Strategies was, and still is, my urge to build a community and make space for sick autotheographies. But it was also my way of telling my friends, colleagues, and lovers: I am in pain. Every day. Stabbing pain in every muscle. Fingers too weak to hold things. A body that keeps spilling, dropping, and failing to contain itself. When I speak about it, I feel misunderstood. I feel like I have complained too much. Like a drama queen. Like an impostor inside my own diagnosis.
Because: Girl, you look amazing
I, girl, look amazing
Without the hyperactivity and compulsion to express myself that my grandmother nurtured in me, I would spend my days in bed.
Dear colleagues, friends, and lovers: neuropathic pain is “fake” pain. Pain produced by damage to the somatosensory nervous system. I am pained in this bodily space.
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