Home of the Exoskeleton

By Georgia Bowan

Colour disfiguration in the face.

I told the man who hears my thoughts about how, when I was a child, I was afraid of my own wrists. I didn't like the colours or the shapes inside them, didn't like the veins or the blood inside them. I was scared that, one day, they might pop out and spray all over me.

I was six years old then.

My mother says, that to avoid this, I used to suck my thumb and play with a strand of my hair that was right near the cranium of my scalp. Apparently, that made me feel better, she said. I wonder if you can write when you feel good? He asked me that, the thought man. But it seems, just like how when I used to draw, words only come to me during times of discomfort and bereftness.

If I had been able to write at six years old, I wouldn’t have sucked my thumb raw.

I wouldn’t have fucked up my two front teeth and wouldn’t have pulled out strands of my hair. If I had been able to write, then, maybe I could have written it out of me instead. One might wonder, why does this matter now? Aren’t you matured? Are you, not a grown woman now?

Not even close.

The man who hears my thoughts said that sometimes when we are suffering, we display our pain in physical ways. He said that some people get headaches, nauseous stomach aches or maybe a rash on their elbows and knees. For me, I suppose, I begin to feel my body function from the inside out. I suck on a lime, drink something strong, three sleeping pills and a cup of tea. Try to distract from my pulse.

This helps sometimes, but I could do better.

I wish I could write when I feel good but I don’t know what I’d even say. Nothing worth hearing, probably. I’m not a full-time sufferer now, I know this because I used to be one. That’s an improvement, that’s what the man told me. And I have the man who hears my thoughts to thank, he taught me to suck on a lime, not on my own fingers. He taught me to pull on my heartstrings, not on my hair. He taught me that the colours of blue and red in my wrists are okay, but I should find other things to do with my day. Instead of trying to pretend I dont have the entrails of an animal, I should realise I have an exoskeleton, like an insect.

What I feel comes out on the outside, and that’s just how I am.

Although I can’t write when I feel good and I am still a sufferer at heart, I have him to thank for the realisation that, ultimately, it's just my body, not me, and that’s okay.