Here we see how society sexualizes yet shuns the mad, sick, crazy, infirm, hysterical, disbehaving woman. She wants, she wants so much she shakes with it, her eyes roll back in fear and/or ecstasy, she is alive with the want-
to go toward, to get away from, to come, to go, to lose, to find, to bring it all right back to the beginning and drop it off the very end of the world.
Her power lies in her weakness. Her mind is a dual thing, at the very least.
Highly fragmented at the norm.
The fragments pass sharp as shards and rip her, her life, her family, her, her, her, apart. And yet she cannot let go of the glass that cuts so deep. The Sick Woman is everything and nothing. Disparaged, disregarded, disused, disfigured, dysfunctional, delusional.
Losing it.
But in the loss there is finding. When a Sick Woman loses her mind, what finds its way into that now empty room? What do you have when your mind has gone? What happens when you’re the only one who can see? When nobody believes you? When you are crippled, crazy, crying, crashing, carrying too much? What comes out of a mind/body broke open?
Screams, salvation, sex. What else would you expect the Sick Woman to do for you?
What is left behind for her, herself, to hold?
Death.
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