Sometimes in the shower I sit in the tub, letting the water rain down on me. Usually I do this when I’m feeling really horrible, or just exhausted. I did it today. I sit there, in my little cocoon, looking up at the stained ceiling and then at the showerhead, watching the droplets fall. This is my time to think. To contemplate. I am never disturbed, left completely alone. I don’t do it very often. As the water patters down I see my skin turn red. Whether from the heat of the water or the pattering of the drops against my skin, creating pressure, I do not know. I don’t feel good. And my limbs begin to weigh me down. So I tilt my head back and rest my eyes. My chest and neck as well as my face feel bare, and the water on my lower torso seems too cold. I gather my strength and lean forward, turning the nozzle a little hotter. I stay that way for a little while, letting the now-hotter water run over my back as I fold into myself. I have to do this. If I do not let it touch my back as the temperature changes I won’t be able to stand the heat of the water. My back is most sensitive, the skin there is thin and underneath it is filled with muscle. Under my navel is where the cramps start. They hurt; make me want to cry out in anguish. Worse then anything is the fact that I’ve done all I can. I suppose it’s my body making me feel bad for not having a baby. “If you had gotten pregnant, you wouldn’t have these. So go reproduce.” I don’t though. Cry out, that is. I lean back and look down at my flawed body. Sometimes I’m disgusted with myself. I think I’m the ugliest thing in the world, wonder how people can look at me, with this mask on my face and see the façade I’ve put up. But it isn’t really, is it? A façade, that is. It’s a part of me, the part I show to people. I quiet, thinking part is what I keep inside. I look at my hands now. Dainty fingers, dry cuticles and nails that have been coloured with every colour imaginable. I am shaking. I like some parts of me. But not many. I shake, even as I type this, and I do not know why. I look back up at the showerhead and stretch out my legs. The water only hits from my stomach to my knees. The rest of my skin is pale, and covered in cold droplets that landed there while I was still standing up, only a short while ago. The parts of my skin that have been hit, however, are red and sensitized. I poke and prod at my red thigh and let my head fall back again. I contemplate writing this. This narration of my shower, of all things. Of how I’m feeling. Of this part of me. These fragments of my mind that I have decided to share. I wonder why. Why do I feel this way, look this way, think this way? Why do sit here now, on my bathtub floor, feeling horrible with my limbs weighed down and the water pounding around me? I know what I will do when I get out of the shower. I will get up, half-heartedly dry off my legs, arms, chest and stomach. I will walk to my room with the towel loose, uncaring. Turn the light on and slowly walk towards my bed. I know my hair is dripping and I also know my feet are leaving prints. I will lie down, and feel myself pulse. I will turn my head and look at my arm, watch it pulse. Raise my hand, turn it so my thumb is towards me, watch it pulse. I know I will do this, after all, I did it yesterday. Yesterday it was different. Yesterday, I felt exhilarated. Today, I feel burnt out. I sigh, I am doing nothing while I think of this so instead I raise my hand and grasp the shampoo bottle and begin to lather my hair. Afterwards, I rinse my hands off and watch the foam drip down my legs and swirl into the drain. I cup my hands, bring water to my hair and lather further. Then, after a pause, I stand up. My legs shake under my weight, the blood rushing to my calves. I rinse my hair. I know that if I do not put conditioner in it, it will become tangled. So I grab my conditioner as well, as put some in my hair. Then I sigh look down at myself one last time think about what I’ve thought about and turn around. At this point, I know my shower is ending. I hit the nozzle off and swipe at the curtain blocking me from the rest of the bathroom. I raise my eyes, looking into the half fogged mirror. Disgusting. I guess it’s just one of those days. I am still shaking.