It’s not just a literary device. When I talk about the workings of my body this way, when, for instance, I describe shame as fog, I do this because it feels entirely real to me, about as close to literal as the physiology of being can get for me.

On the Sunday that I listened to Ella Shohat speak, I left the conference halfway through to sit outside in the cold. I imagined that somehow the chill would seep through my skin and maybe dispel the murk that had claimed as its own, for weeks now, my mind. There is a level at which I cannot talk about how I feel (emotionally, mentally) without talking about how I feel (physically, biologically).* This a level at which I write and do not speak. The language I use for the second is the only language I have to speak of the first – except for saying, not writing, “I’m fine.”

Which, well, I mostly always am. I mostly always am fine. I manage to function without exploding into shards of flesh, so this must mean I’m fine. If I weren’t fine, I wouldn’t be here. Is how the logic goes. So, you ask me how I am and I tell you I’m fine, which is entirely true. Occasionally, I’ll tell you I’m tired, but that’s just a familiar shade of fine.

But underneath the fine rage cellular insurgencies, each battle bringing with it damages specific to the confusions being fought in in my mind, my language. Continue reading this entry »