Out of Skin
I jump out of my skin each night before bed. The cool breeze stings my muscles and flesh. I try to warm myself, but my arms are bare, red, and pulsing, sticking together ever so slightly when the two arms graze each other. Curling into a ball and hoping for warmth against the sky, the missing skin becomes more apparent and barer against the cruel cold air.
When I awake, I ready myself for the day. I enter my closet where my skin is hanging up, ready to be worn again. Why do I always allow this to happen? I think. I put it on carefully, wary of the stinging sensation brought with putting it on each day. I zip up the back (with a zipper similar to a wetsuit, long and easy to use). It always catches a bit around my neck, so I wiggle the zipper a bit and succeed in pulling up over my skull. Now it is time to start my day.
Breathe Deep
Looking for relief, I breathe out the air in me hard and I catch my breath in my hand. It feels like a cold small hard glass ball, expelled from my body like a smooth, clear marble. Now I can see what it feels like to be a breath in my tight lungs.
Seeing this delicate piece of life, my throat drops into my stomach, and I swallow it, thick and dense, where it lays like a plump rock in my stomach too large to slide into my intestines. The lump continues to sit and throb, pressing against the lining, unable to digest, filling my stomach like a balloon so I no longer desire food.
Needles
Needles horrify me. They are a sensory word where it sounds like the tender piercing of skin, grazing the flesh and as I say this I feel queasiness coming out of the insides of my elbows. That is where they prick you and try to hit a vein (my stomach flops thinking of this) and if they miss all of that bubbling fear overflows into something resembling nausea.
I think about the needle entering me about 24 hours before it happens. I anticipate it compulsively, over and over, the way that it will penetrate my skin. Maybe I think about it too literally. Too graphically. But the medical precision of it all makes it worse. The smell of alcohol, the starkness of the room. As a child, I would think: I wish they could just take my blood from me when I skin my knee, because I never mind that as much as I do a needle. Or I wish they could prick me in my sleep, unknowingly, so that I wouldn’t have to think about the needle with clammy palms for a day and a night.
I still feel that way.
Out of Skin (Extended)
I jump out of my skin. The cool breeze stings when it blows upon my muscles and flesh. I try to warm myself, but my arms are sticky and bare, red and pulsing, sticking together ever so slightly when the two arms graze each other. Curling into a ball and hoping for warmth against the sky, the missing skin becomes more apparent and barer against the cruel, dark night.
Looking for relief, I breathe out the air in me hard and I catch my breath in my hand. It feels like a cold small hard glass ball, expelled from my body like a smooth clear marble, so that I can see what it feels like to be a breath in my tight lungs.
Seeing this delicate piece of life, my throat drops into my stomach, and I swallow it, thick and dense, where it lays like a plump rock in my stomach too large to slide into my intestines. The lump continues to sit and throb, pressing against the lining, unable to digest, filling my stomach so I no longer desire food.
I am not able to expel this new orb from my stomach but work hard to push it up to my chest. It is dense and thick, requiring obscene effort to remove it from me. Slowly, it enters my chest, where my small lungs catch it, careful to mold it into a shape that will fit elsewhere. The throat makes room for the mound. Pressed against what could be an Adam’s apple, it fills all the space in which air exits and enters. Eager to remove it while struggling for breath, I use my hands to massage it out of place. Suddenly, it dislodges, a black, gelatinous sphere that moves around in my hand as I grasp it. Nearly opaque, it has a shine to it and a murky black inside. Happy to see it made its way out, I place it into a wooden box with a latch. It barely fits, so I must push it in to make the space fit it. I throw in the clear glass marble and slam the top shut, hopeful the latch will sustain the orb.
What to do with my collection? I chuckle to myself. This is an hourly activity. Sometimes there are more large orbs than others, sometimes a collection of marbles are expelled. Each a bit different, but always a sphere, and always clear or black. I put them into my little boxes, but some days there is no time for that. I throw them into the closet door, where visitors will find a large closet, filled to the brim with my collection of orbs (if I invite them in). I open the door quickly, the balls are surrounding me now, on shelves, in boxes, piled to the ceiling and smooth to the touch.
Thankful for my discovery, my skin is hanging up, ready to be worn again. Why do I always allow this to happen? I think. I put it on carefully, wary of the stinging sensation brought with putting it on each day. I zip up the back (with a zipper similar to a wetsuit with a long string attached so I can pull it up over my head and this way I spare myself the embarrassment of asking my roommate to do it) It always catches a bit around my neck, so I wiggle the zipper a bit and succeed in pulling it all the way over.
Finally done in my closet, I make sure none of the balls have rolled up. I shove it all in but they continue to roll out again. Quicker this time, I roll them all in and slam the door shut, so nothing can escape.
Now it is time to go to work.
Banishing Spell for Fear
Brew a cup of tea and chant this as you swirl a spoon in the cup!
When the ceremony is over, dump the tea out somewhere to be disposed of!
Banish you, banish you, from my life
When day becomes night
You won’t see the light
Be gone with you, I won’t live in fear
Phobia and fright will not persevere!
I banish thee in my cup of tea!
Swirling fear will not control me!
When day becomes night,
You won’t see the light
Phobia and fright shall not delight!
Glaser Media + Writing 