Inside the Little Plastic Castle

Alien spore entered my body when I was young. In my teens, it blossomed, crawled out and sunk its pincers into my shoulders. I've been carrying it ever since. This "alien baby"[1] may be easier to recognize as my atypical bodymind, where the goulash of pain and limitation resides.

For years I pointlessly reached behind me to detach the alien baby. Now it no longer draws blood because I strap it snugly on my back, so it accompanies me everywhere. I tried pretending it wasn't there, pretending it wasn't alien, pretending that I could ignore it. Recently I've been pondering: why is this baby still "alien" after all this time? For too long I've screamed louder than the alien's tantrums, hoping to drown out its requests for attention.

Recently, an effective combination of life skills[2] has opened my language centers: I'm beginning to understand my alien baby's needs. It wants love and warmth! Frequent food is good. Its home planet must be aquatic, since it never complains when I'm in the pool. When it hurts it wants comforting. On confusion, supply reassurance. If overloading, feed apple slices and artisanal clonazepam. When pain is particularly bad, place ice on feet and heat on head.

The wonderful thing I've just understood: it's okay to take care of my alien baby. Disregarding its needs doesn't diminish its presence or its power. I can surf the basic human tendency to sustain the small; baby care is not "self indulgent." I now have the tools, the knowledge, and the capacity to nurture. When the baby starts howling, I must attend carefully. I can provide, and in doing, bring light into my life.