This Isn’t Mine

Do you ever feel like you don’t belong in your body?  Like, the things you feel aren’t yours to feel.  And like there are things you know the body is feeling somewhere, but you can’t quite connect with it, like, you know you’re sleepy but you can’t feel it.  Or, you know you’re happy or sad or in love or pissed or that you have a headache or a knee pain but you, yourself, can’t feel it?  Like you’re just sitting in a hollowed out shell of a costume and if you could only take the head off, maybe you could breathe or better yet get out. 

Like this body isn’t yours and you feel like you’re suffocating inside it. Meanwhile someone else is desperately trying to push you outside of it because you don’t belong there. 

This isn’t yours. None of this is yours.  “Get out of my skin!” It seems to say. 

Do you ever feel like that?  Like you watch as you say things or do things or feel things, like there’s a one way mirror where you can see the control room to your body, but you can’t quite make it there.  Your voice seems strange and far and wrong.  Your experiences seem to happen through a foggy lens. 

That feeling sometimes scares me, especially when I’m driving because I just don’t feel present enough to control things and make sure I’m driving safely.  But usually I don’t realize it or care. Usually I just think, “Whoever this is, she’s doing a good enough job.”