How it feels to be trapped in a body that does not do what my mind tells it to do:

It is hell. Young, you waste, by messages from your mind errored by your boggy body that you mask as “I’m greeting saturated insanity.” You learn “I’m not trusty powered by my ordering my own nutty neurons.” You try to heart understand “I’m a freak.” In I, tread I tears I cannot rest, as I try to sweeten my thousand horror thoughts that confirm “I’m errorer of me.” I live scared of my own body, fretting that I cannot move it as my mind requests, upping red fears I will fail, wasting in agony yet another opportunity.

There I’m not understood. Pity pouting distresses in I get punishing, shaming my heart and stripping the reason to live right out of I.

It is how you supply I with poignant, sured, kind, pured support that I hunger for, that best ceases my hell.

How could anyone possibly imagine trapping humans with the painful infliction of powerful electric shocks being anything but traumatic, abusive torture to tryers like me?

Link to “31 Shocks,” New York Magazine, Jennifer Gonnerman, September 2, 2012

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