I didn't really want to hurt myself. I just wanted my old body back. That, and my old sense of normalcy, which may not have been all that normal to begin with, but it was nothing like this. This was the exact opposite of normal. This was a David Lynch movie.

The panic was there, staring me down in the face, all the time, like I had a hoodie on backwards and I couldn't get it off.

I don't want to hide. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to wander off into the desert in shame and die and become vulture food. Or end up keeling over just because I'm too self-conscious to leave the house. Cause of Death: Unnecessary Loneliness.

Sometimes, you can learn something completely mind-blowing in yoga and then totally forget about it the minute you need it the most. Or just kind of choose to forget it. 'I don't need no philosophy, I need fixing.' Which isn't to say nothing ever goes wrong, because it does; or that they're aren't parts of you that you just can't bring yourself to accept or maybe even detest at times (which I know is a strong word but it does apply), because I'm sure there are; or that there's no such thing as catastrophe, because there is. Oh my god, there is. And sometimes all you want to do is fix it.

One thing's for sure, everyone has something. Not everyone has a giant scar or a missing limb to show for it, but it's there. The indelible mark of that thing. It's that thing that will not just go away quietly. That thing you resent because it can't let one day go by without making you think about it no matter how hard you try, until you end up depressed/angry/drunk/isolated (at best), disassociated (middle) or utterly self-destructive (at worst). It's that thing that went and branded you without your permission.

I'm in hell. I'm separate from everyone and everything. I'm John Travolta in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.