Shells (First Step Nonfiction — Body Coverings)

Wilson Sea Shells: Dell A handbook to Australian seashells: Body Coverings by Jennifer Boothroyd Texas seashells: With instructions and directions where to find the finest shells: Hutsell Sea Shells Blastoff! Related tags 2 paperback box library 3 animals 7 art 5 beach 10 biology 4 board book 4 books 4 children's 4 Conchology 3 family 4 field guide 5 field guides 6 Florida 6 homeschool 4 identification 5 juvenile 3 marine 3 marine biology 8 michael-s-books 4 mollusks 5 natural history 8 nature 33 nature guide 3 New Zealand 5 non-fiction 24 ocean 14 photographs 3 photography 6 picture book 5 reference 9 science 21 sea 3 sea life 7 seashells 33 seashore 6 shells 44 summer 3 to-read 7 water 5 zoology 3.

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I buy a burrito bowl. I hardly chew it, which I know to be a problem, but there are so many problems it is hard to know which to pay attention to. Plus there is the relief of having already grasped the primary conflict; I know this meal will steer the rest of my day. The cold table, on which I rest my forearms as I hover over the bowl, reflects my image blurrily. I recognize that my choice of lunch is in large part a way of gaining control over my inevitable separation from myself.

Still, I maintain hope that the food will settle and my stomach will integrate it into me, no questions asked. My abdomen swells not with satisfaction but with air. The air and the food that generated it attempt incessantly to leave me. I am a bad host. Escaping means not only escaping to be alone but escaping the body that makes me want to escape to be alone.

In wanting to escape the body I do escape it, because believing it is separate makes it not-me.

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After I leave my body, I hope it will forgive my interference and simply digest. I imagine that what remains, an elemental physicality, will begin to help me heal. My hope lasts for precisely half an hour after I finish the burrito bowl, at which time it gives way to certainty. I will suffer with this for hours, throughout and in place of the day. Old bananas crystallize in the freezer. I used to blend them into smoothies every morning—one remedy. All three are a remedy. Every morning, I insert remedies into myself.

A week hovers on the brink of good. Then I sit down to a plate of curry to test myself. When I return home the remedies glare at me, as if I have undone them. They work for the exact length of time that I believe they work. Hope is powerful, but not powerful enough. I have reasons for rejecting the gastroenterologist aside from my own stubbornness. When I was sixteen and sick, my doctors insisted I had nothing to do with it. After trying several medications, they put me on a chemotherapy pill originally developed to treat leukemia, the long-term side effects of which include an increased risk of lymphoma, pancreatitis, and liver injury.

I put these trapezoidal pills in my stomach for seven years.

Feathers - Des Plaines Public Library

I moved to St. I moved to Taipei. I left Taipei to travel in Southeast Asia, where I spent fifty-five hours on a bus with no toilet. By the time I reached Auroville, a community of Western idealists in South India, I felt so healthy I could no longer believe that anyone was responsible for my health but me. The idealists I was staying with opposed the sins of the pharmaceutical industry. Inspired by my own robustness, I believed them. I stopped taking the trapezoidal pills. For one year I was myself. I felt unsupported and alive.

Shells (First Step Nonfiction: Body Coverings)

My stomach started to go south the spring after I returned to the United States. It felt like I had returned to the site of my severing, as if my body had been reminded that I was not supposed to be with it here. The remedies work and then they do not work. Sometimes I am sick enough that I am ready to give up hope, but how? I toy with going to the gastroenterologist for months. Then I give up.

She tells me I need a colonoscopy before we can move forward with my treatment. I almost say yes, but I say no.

I return to my apartment, where remedies are still lined up like eyes on the counters and shelves. I am going to have to find something I have not already found. Then, one spring day, a solution arrives.

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An acute pain in my stomach leads me to stop eating for two days. When I return to eating, my stomach is miraculously untroubled. Two weeks later, when I am sick again, I take another day off eating. Again I return to a stomach that suddenly and inexplicably works.

In early summer, a friend describes her strategy: She eats for a period of only four hours each day. The evidence is starting to collect. I begin again to believe there is a remedy, and that the remedy could last.

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On the first morning of fall, I skip breakfast with the intention of never eating breakfast again. I decide to accept hunger, to inhabit it.

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On that morning I am myself. My apartment is cold and my limbs are cold but the hunger does not feel empty.

And when I finally eat, eating does not scare me. For three days, I skip breakfast. When I eat I eat everything, ravenously. I am forced into existence by pangs of hunger. Panic surrounds me like a halo.

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