In the name of the tightening in my heart at every dawn. In the name of my inflamed joints. In the name of the stories my tongue never told, stories every pore of my skin memorised instead. In the name of the daily jolt that accompanies the beginning of my sleep. In the name of insomnia. In the name of anxiety…
Did my body sense it? The way animals sense an earthquake, or a tsunami? Even if my body did sense it through the constant sound of drones and the accumulated memory of a body living within an ongoing war, perhaps somewhere in my unconscious I was preparing for it.
She often felt that women spent their entire lives inhabiting their bodies as though they were rented apartments. They were not allowed to choose the furniture, the colour of the walls, or even the terms and duration of the lease.
Her limbs move with perfect precision, painting a picture, telling a scene, while she sinks into it with full awareness, letting her body take the helm. With complete fluidity and calm, it carries her back and forth towards the truest places, perhaps the most peaceful.
This insomnia and overthinking were nothing unusual for me. The nervous system does not wait for us to reach adulthood before it starts warning us that something is wrong, or that there may be danger.
A whole patriarchal system had produced this. It created standards of beauty and placed women at their mercy, making them spend more and more in order to fit them.
Many years passed before I understood that this fear had not appeared inside me from nowhere. Something happened on that distant day, a day whose details my mind has mostly erased. Something that left scars on my body and my spirit and never truly left me.
Five years of prison for my body. Deprivation of everything, movement, and freedom. Why? This is the price of politics in my country. Whom do I consult, complain to, scream to, or question? God.
