My life is a Sensory Depravation Tank. Overweight, over-indulged rich British women pay through the nose for those things. I get the same experience for free.

Well, maybe not free; and maybe not the same experience. This is six, nearly seven months of the absence of stimuli. I am worried for my sanity. I am worried that when I rejoin the mob, the throng, the masses of people, when I step back into society, I won’t quite fit again. Perhaps I’ve expanded or shrank or something I can’t quite see from here and when I try I won’t fit. It’s true I never really felt like I fit in the first place but that was an illusion. We all fit just as we should. It’s a trick of the eye, a trick of the heart, that we are on the outside. But still, I fret for my return. I have misgivings. I don’t know what that means, exactly. I always thought it was a curious thing to say. Nobody has givings. Misgivings. Queer word. I like my cell as far as that goes. I like the worn down pile of my carpet the color of old biscuits. I like my couch, for as much as I vacuum and compulsively clean, covered in dog hair. I like my dog. I love my dog. I like everything close to me: my bed, my music, my computer, my fridge, my washroom. But I’m missing things too. I miss contributing. I miss showing up. I don’t remember what it feels like to be late. I don’t remember shopping. I remember I hate grocery stores. I hate everything about them. I hate the shiny floors. I hate the buzzing lights. I hate the sour people, the little old women with their monster-sized carts. I hate the lines.

I miss seduction. I miss attraction. I miss the flirt. Hmm? There is no real replacement for the flirt. I can remember sex for the most part. Self-abuse is like watermelon out of season. It’s close. It’s almost right. And when you’ve just got to have watermelon, it will do. And sometimes, god help me, I want out of season watermelon. But there’s nothing to replace the flirt. There’s nothing to replace first attraction. I want that. A hand too close too long. A laugh too long. A knee too close. I can feel the electricity jump through me. A whisper.

No. Not the same experience at all. And it isn’t free after all. This sensory depravation is costing me a lot.

SS