Article by Stella Epstein Art by Katie Paterson
Tell us about your strange collections, forgotten report cards, old letters, fire-hazard levels of storage, and ghosts.
I keep my body in the crawl space. Down there, it is dank, and the body stays cool. The spiders can get to it, but I go down every day to perform maintenance.
To start, I dust off my skin with the eyes of strangers. I take their gaze and run it over so I can see myself the way that others might. Taking stock, there is my tummy — do people find it as upsetting as I do? Below that are my legs, which I think are too short; though they’re very good at their job, they have a performance review that points out the flaws of shortness, fatness, and their odd bumpy texture. Above my tummy, I think about my face. True, I do like my eyes, and I love my face. This could just be the mere-exposure effect, but it has gotten nice to look in the mirror and recognize with love what I see staring back at me.
Once the debris is gone, I sit myself up and begin to do my exercises. Oh, this is the worst part. I cannot let my muscles atrophy, but I wonder if the process has already begun. There must be a hidden door in my brain, and when I find the key and unlock it, I will find a room full of motivation to exercise.
Fully warmed up and poseable, now is the time for dress up. Going through my closet and seeing the shirts and pants that are less fabric and more memory. Some of my clothes are stained with tears from lofty ambitions crushed or deep insecurities exposed, and even when they are clean, they still carry those moments. Black flannel I put on when I want to hide from the world, aspirational leggings from the days of aerial training, jeans with rips in the inner thigh from chafing, and skirts I don’t mind wearing out, because if the night is bad, they have seen worse — if the night is good, they could become nice again.
I use the compliments of others to choose my outfit, because dressing is a performance for me. When I put on clothes, I am putting on a costume, no matter the occasion. Each garment tells a story, and when all conditions are right (audience, weather, hair), others' perceptions of me will fall in line with my desire. Do I care too much about these opinions? I don't believe that to be true; these opinions do not form my own self-worth or value, they merely educate me as to what combination of clothing can most efficiently produce the desired effect. Am I the tortured academic, dazed art student, or massive theater kid? I want you to know, based on how you see me.
Ultimately, my body remains the same. Down in the crawlspace, no one sees me, but I am prepared if it ever happens. One day, I will emerge like a moth from a cocoon, spiderwebs of memories falling off in an early morning breeze. But until that day, I will go down to care for my body and build up the strength for re-entry.
The occasional maintenance of my body has taken time to develop. I am more used to having my body taken care of than having to take care of it myself. Once this routine no longer tires me, I believe I will be ready to emerge. Having a body can be exhausting. Some days it is an art piece for strangers to comment on, other days it is a vehicle that will be used for taking me to the places I need to go, it is always the only way I can accomplish any of the things I want to do. This realization breaks down like so:
Inside a classroom, I am sitting and getting more agitated as I talk to my English teacher. This conversation began with my frustration over college applications and has now devolved into me letting off steam. “And I mean, I keep going, no matter how hard it is, because I can't stop. But are you seriously telling me that I have to do all of this? I have to find what it takes to make a fulfilling life, have goals, friends, and become a better person, all while taking care of myself. I don’t know how to do that, all I do is respond to emails and send out new ones — and this just doesn't stop? Why did no one warn the parents that their children would have to become adults too? And while I don't want to die, it just keeps getting harder to live. Ugh, sorry for the rant. It's stupid too, I am so lucky to have all these opportunities.”
She had heard the Stella soliloquy by now and knows what I am looking to hear. “I understand where you are coming from, and it will be hard to do, responding to emails and calling people back,” she responds. “But there are parts of life … that are necessary to live. The worm doesn’t think about eating and pooping out the dirt; it just happens. You don't need to think about the effort it takes to live; you do that every day without trying, but you should reward yourself for working on all that you have. You applied to the colleges you wanted to go to, and that is something that takes effort beyond what you normally do. Have you taken any time to think about what has been happening around you while you focused on college applications? The leaves have changed, and so have you. Take a moment and breathe.” Score! That is what I wanted to hear. Getting the validation can be so helpful in making it to the next step.
All this was said back before my body was transferred to my complete custody. I grew used to being able to go to others for help when I needed an outside perspective or encouragement, but there is no one else down here. The years of being in my body haven’t prepared me as much as I would’ve hoped for owning it. Over time, I am sure a routine will develop, but I am afraid I will never move beyond the constant maintenance towards the part of life where I am truly living. That's why I use the thoughts and comments of others to assist in self-conception. My own judgement has pervaded my life so thoroughly that I forget there are others outside of the crawlspace. Here in the damp darkness, surrounded by unfinished walls with insulation and spiders crawling out, everything else will disappear if I don't leave. How long until this happens? There was no instruction manual sent with the body box, and I have yet to receive a representative to explain the setup of the body.
This leaves me with an incomplete project below, the tell-tale body of shame that I cannot work fast enough, hard enough, or good enough to finish it on my own. If I use people's opinions, then maybe my body will be finished enough to take it out into the world without the skin falling off at the first touch of sun. No. Days will keep passing, and I will remain with myself and my body. As time goes on, I’ll forget what others have said. Slowly but surely, the nags of peers and family will disappear like sugar on the tongue, and one day I will remember only the crawlspace where day after day I rebuilt myself into the person who would emerge. This time, I will remember the lessons learned after months in the crawlspace; there is no true sight, and in darkness, we all look the same.