In My Head

Jessie Stafford '21

UNTITLED, SERENA ZHANG '24

In My Head

Jessie Stafford '21

Waking up on the cold marble floor of my eight by three foot shower is not an uncommon experience for me.

The water drops fall out of the showerhead and onto my face, the droplets race down my skin and onto the floor, as my ears start ringing and drowning out the noise of the water that is sprinkling onto the tile floor; my eyes drift shut and my vision blurs with white sparks of light each time they open, only becoming heavier and heavier. I turn off the ninety eight degree water. Sitting on the floor my eyes close. The world feels empty. My heartbeat quickens. On my knees I push the glass door open and lay on the floor outside of the shower. As I wait for the ringing to go away, time feels nonexistent, but also like an eternity. I do not know how long it is. Probably only a matter of minutes, but it feels like hours. I feel in control of time in my state of semi consciousness. I write to manipulate time.

My family is one that does not understand my jittery, moody, palm sweating, leg shaking, heart racing, teary eyed almost snap of the finger, blink of an eye changing anxiety; they ask questions to which I can only answer “I don’t know why,” or they tell me “it’s not a big deal, just take a deep breath.” I am learning. I am learning how to communicate these emotions with them and how to let people in when I need help. It’s difficult to do that when I always feel like I am oversharing. The second I say something slightly personal, I feel violated. Writing is my hideaway, my cocoon. It gives me a place to feel safe while I grow into the skin I am learning to be comfortable in.

My writing is the blemishes on my forehead, the bags underneath my eyes, my untamed eyebrows, the stubble on my legs, the bit of skin that rolls over my waistband, the dimples of cellulite on my thighs, the split ends, the coffee stained teeth, the scars and bruises that appear on my legs. Without all those little details, the flaws and imperfections, the things society deems as ugly I would not look how I do. My writing is mine because of its quirks. The substance that it holds that nobody else would write. The unintentional things that make it beautiful. Writing is my escape from the standards, of beauty, of intellect, of social interaction. I write to avoid looking in a mirror. Writing lets me look deeper into my character. It is more than a two dimensional copy- paste, it is a glimpse of my thoughts. Writing is my internal gateway, my passage beyond my surface.

I write to talk to those who won’t listen. I write to read to those that will. I write to feel alone. I write to feel surrounded. I write to understand. I write to feel understood. I write to find what is not there. I write to resolve. I write to relive. I write to the spirits I feel surrounded by. I write to escape. I write to my curiosity. I write to my boredom. I write to the living. I write to the dead. I write to the complexity inside my head.