(paraphrase)

We were sitting on my couch. I had a crumpled tissue or two in my hand. Meera usually sits closer to the window, so on this particular day she had a rather appropriate halo due to the light and my tears. She asked me many questions and said many things that sent my brain spinning. Those were days when my mouth couldn't form the words (nor my fingers, you may have noticed).

Meera asked, "When did you last feel like yourself?"

Or something close to that.

"I think it was last year, or these past two years, when we were all in school and my brain was cookin' along, and I had all these great friends, and I could call any one of them at any time and they would just be there," I said.

Well, I said something close to that.

As I was saying it I knew it was wrong. Incomplete, at least. I've never felt wholly myself, for one thing. Has anyone? I think I am always a composite of who I am currently, who I have been, who I want to be, and some stranger who takes over when I'm not paying attention. Is this true for everyone?

So it is more truthful to pick out moments that I want to keep as Myself. Like singing in Galway, Beerworks after class, walks with David in the woods or the cemetery, a week of brilliant poetry writing, a kid from the preschool running into my arms, my brother Cripps and I sitting up late discussing metaphysics, comforting friends who have survived wildly varying traumas, distracting Shane from the next day's doctor's appointment, thinking in Latin for a few lightening moments, forming clay smoothly after weeks of rough work, swaying the student senate with just the right words, acceptance letters, good grades, applause, laughter...

A couple of things shine out conspicuously from this list:

1. I value my brain, my sense of humor, my ability to express myself, and my relationships with other people - maybe my power or pull with other people - most in my life.

2. I am very good at forgetting and burying my body.

If I try to dig for moments when I acknowledged my body I come up with only a few. We used to sled on cafeteria trays and have snow wars at Bonaventure - wet jeans, snow packed around ankles, hot cheeks from the exertion and lungs that felt like they'd been sanded by the cold air. I remember the exact smell and feel of the wind coming off the water of Galway Bay at night if I stood on the bridge by the Spanish Arch, how it blew my hair straight back if I looked out on the black water. Nora asleep on my shoulder, her scent, breath tickling my neck, that strange heat that comes off sleeping babies and dampened my shirt. I remember favorite clothes, the period when I wore ribbons fairly often, the way Shane would actually launch himself into my arms like a baby and how he felt - so skinny and light. Dancing, too... with men in Galway, the Italian guy at the wine bar who would sing the wrong words and give me instructions in broken English. He had long fingers and my whole body would jump when his hand grazed the skin of my forearm.

I can't think of how I looked, though. There are some days even now when I'm surprised when I look in the mirror or catch my reflection in a store window. Who is that girl? Am I in her? Is that my skin? Are those my lips? Is that what people see when they talk to me, when I sit on the T, when I buy toilet paper...

Most days I feel like my body is a sloppy thing that I've spent the night sewing together hastily. This'll do, you don't have time, just get out the door. This body isn't mine, is it?

And maybe that's why I haven't felt myself for so long. With the men I've met and let touch me... it's so jarring. Sometimes my body is not really there, I'm only warmth and energy and the body is a detail. Sometimes I marvel at them. Do they see me? Is this all happening right now? A kiss on the shoulder is too much. A whisper of praise breaks me in half. But you don't know, I want to say. This isn't mine. I don't know how to show you...

My words right now are like this, too. They're not quite the right reflection of my thoughts. They're all a paraphrase of what I mean, as my body is a paraphrase of who I am. So I should close this with all the little justifications and caveats that come with the paraphrase, which maybe are the small physical gestures in my life, too. They all say, "It's incomplete, I can't remember exactly, you know what I mean, right?"