Cogito ergo sum, or not, as the case may be

Day 175

I don't know who I am today. This happens sometimes. I have learnt to live with it until I recognise the woman in the glass again.

I look at my feet and wonder who they belong to, for it cannot be me. My feet carry me wherever I want to go, they walk for hours, setting a rhythm then automatically following it, past any muscle pain or weariness. These things on the end of my legs, that make me gasp each time I put weight on them, and leave me weak with tears after only half an hour's walk - these are not my feet.

These are not my hands, either. My hands are deft and precise. Working woman's hands, with hard skin on the tops of the fingers where I play the guitar each night. They are efficient, not beautiful, but I like them and their strong capability. These hands have no strength, they are swollen and clumsy. They make many mistakes and drop things too frequently. These are not hands that I trust.

My body sleeps well and works hard. If I want to do something, then the hour of the day is not important. I paint my walls at two in the morning. I cook at dawn. I am not highly toned or ultra supple, but I can do anything I want without looking foolish. I am enthusiastic rather than skillful at yoga, dancing, badminton, running. I stay the same weight. I look good enough. My clothes fit. I am happy.

This physical space covered in skin that connects these alien feet with those stranger's hands - this body belongs to somebody else, surely. It bloats up five pounds and six waist inches between morning and night. My clothes fit for only two hours. It does not bend - there is no elasticity or stretch anywhere in it, as if the tendons are all made of leather. My back is strong and straight but these shoulders stoop.

It fires random pains at me for no rational reason, through the ankles, down deep in the thumbs, behind the eyes. Dull, constant aches in these thighs or its back come for weeks at a time. It has no strength or stamina - it cannot do anything for more than minutes sometimes, before it is dizzy, or puffed out, or tearful with the strain. Each place I touch on this body usually hurts, so I avoid the touching, there are so many places to feel pain that I never knew could.

Perhaps my real brain is being frequently lent out, like a book from a library. My brain is sharp and positive, quick and curious. I find it hard to be bored, there is so much I want to do. I start too many things that I never finish because my grasshopper mind has moved onto something else. People must be borrowing this brain and leaving me with a poor replacement, one that gets confused and can't make decisions. This other brain doesn't start anything at all, and it is over sensitive and grumpy. This is not a good match for my real brain - why has not anyone noticed?

This person I see in the mirror today tried really hard to be me, but it was never going to work - I cannot be so easily fooled. I went out to the garden to finish the pruning but the first cut left me weak and drained, breathless and exhausted. I don't leave jobs half-finished, I work until they are done, putting on loud pop music and drinking wine as I work, before falling into bed at four in the morning, knowing I will wake to the loveliness of the finished thing. This strange person leaves things poorly started and half-done for days, weeks, even months. This is unfathomable to me. I blot it out.

I search for myself in the dent of my bed, the eyes in the mirror, the sound of this voice. I wonder how to recognise myself again, what it will take, what to do, where to look.

I don't know who I am today. If you have seen me about somewhere, send me home - I am missed.